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The long afternoon drifted toward evening, time stretching out in no hurry to get anywhere, even as the wind blew across the narrow island from the south to herald, perhaps, the next unseasonable storm.

We retreated to the bungalow, a stilt-legged house with a front porch view of the tradewinds. The afternoon plane had taken the couple from the beach away, and now we slid into their nest. As the squall passed through the building shook with furious blasts, rain pelted the windows, the air was electrically charged. We made love like the shadow of honeymooners 20 years our junior, glistening with humidity in the blue twilight.

Come the dinner hour, we headed across the manicured grounds toward the tiki lamps. Palm trees bent in the warm but powerful zephyr, hibiscus and gardenias scented the agitated air, the last light of sunset glowed on the cleansed, razor-sharp horizon. At the Dirty Old Bob Bar, a rustic circular open-air hut beneath the ironwoods, we accepted a welcome drink of fruit juice and rum, and settled in for the evening with an affable crowd of castaways — Italians, Tahitians, and even a few French. We had finally made it to paradise.

Then, crackling through the storm from Moorea 30 miles away, it came on the radio.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air . . .
I heard the mission bell
I was thinking to myself,
'This could be Heaven or this could be Hell'

But I didn't mind. Hotel California seemed, at last, half a world away.

Tahiti, July 2000

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