Pantone: Lanzarote
There’s a place in the middle of the Atlantic I’m so grateful to call home. A set of volcanic islands where the Alisio blows, and the blues of the sky and ocean contrast with the earthy shades of lava landscapes. Let me show you what Lanzarote feels like, or at least, what it feels like through my lens.
I remember a walk with “Double A” somewhere near Tinajo. We were heading deeper into the island, the dirt path surrounded by malpaís, and the sky, covered in grey clouds, created a kind of Mordor-like atmosphere.
Silence kept us company; at the time, I was just starting to befriend it, though now and then it would be broken by an observation or an unfinished conversation.
As we walked through that range of greys, in a place that once burned and was covered in ash, we observed and listened to the nothingness. Just the wind and the lava. Life there unfolded as yellow moss, lizards, and the occasional birds.
That day, I didn’t bring my camera. The next day, the sun came out, and the colors appeared. We spent the following days exploring, and I feel like I captured the colors of the northernmost islands on those rolls of film.
Along with the wine and the swims, watching how the island changes color with the sunlight is what I love most about this place in the middle of the ocean.
I lied to you; it’s not the northernmost island. A little further north, there’s a place ruled by a palette of blues and ochres, where the streets are made of sand, and you can only get there by sea.
It’s the kind of place where you feel like a child again, off to explore on your bike. And yet, we explored the island, took a somewhat risky swim, sweated and pedaled, and more than once, I had to brake with my feet because—how beautiful is this island?
