“It’s totally safe,” he reassures me. “Don’t worry; it probably takes hundreds of tourists a day up there. If it was going to crash, I’m sure it would’ve done it by now.”
I wish I could be quite so sure. But the line moves forward, and, before I know it, I’m standing inside a small metal box, which dangles precariously from something that looks a bit like my mum’s washing line, and stretches all the way up to the summit of the volcano.
“Do you want to hold my hand again?” Alex asks, looking pained to be making the offer. “You’re not going to throw up, are you?”
“No, I’m absolutely fine,” I lie, grabbing his arm as the doors close and the carriage lurches suddenly forward. “I’m cool, remember?”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies, deadpan. “You’re the coolest.”
Surprisingly, though, I do manage to remain relatively ‘cool’ as the cable car sails upwards, the ground disappearing beneath us as we glide upwards, much more smoothly than I’d expected.
“You okay?” Alex asks as I press my face against the widow, trying to take in as much of the view as possible.
“Yeah,” I reply, pleased with myself. “Yeah, I really am.”
And it’s true. I, Summer Brookes, am on top of a mountain. And, okay, I didn’tclimbit, exactly, but I’m here, all the same; and as the cable car finally comes to a stop and the doors whoosh open, I feel like if I can do this, I can do anything.
I’ve crossed two items off my list of resolutions already. I’ve gotten onto an airplane, and I’ve climbed — been carried — up a mountain.
Cool girl Summer hasarrived.
Eleven
The view from the top — or almost the top — of the volcano is worth every awkward second of the journey it took to get here.
Seriously.
As Alex predicted, we’re not allowed to climb the final few feet to the summit itself; that’s reserved for the ‘proper’ climbers, who’ve booked their passes in advance, and go striding past us in their Lycra gear, carrying those long white sticks serious hikers always seem to have.
As it turns out, though, it doesn’t matter that we can’t go any further; the cable car disgorges us onto a wide viewing platform, from which a network of rocky paths wind around the volcanic cone, thick piles of snow heaped at each side, so it feels like you’re walking through some strange, otherworldly snow tunnel that smells suspiciously like rotten eggs, thanks to the sulfur in the air.
Strangely enough, although the snow is cold to the touch (As you’d expect, given that it’s, well,snow…) the air temperature is actually pretty warm, and, thanks to Alex’s sweater, I’m comfortable enough asI wander around, taking in the views, along with the occasional photo. (Which I’massumingit’s okay to take, seeing as even JudgyPants Alex is busy snapping away too, albeit on his huge, fancy camera, rather than on a phone with a large crack on the screen, like I am…)
Other than the smattering of clouds we passed through on the way up, it’s a clear day, which means you can see for miles from up here: all the way across the ocean to Gran Canaria, which looks like a magical island, suspended between the cobalt sea and aquamarine sky.
I can’t believe I’m here. In a place where I can wear shorts in the snow, and be on the beach in an hour’s time if I want to.
Right now, home feels much more than 2,000 miles away; and that, I discover is a good thing. When I first embarked on this adventure, I thought I’d regret it. I thought I might be lonely, and homesick, and hopelessly out of my comfort zone, in a way that would make me wish I was safely back at my flat, getting ready to go to work.
But so far, none of that’s happened. I’m not lonely. I’m not homesick. And although I have been taken well and truly out of my comfort zone, it’s fair to say thatnothing— not even Alexander Fox, and his spiky, ever-present attitude — has the power to make me wish I was back in the call center, with its gritty instant coffee and its miles of synthetic carpet, which fills my hair with static and gives me electric shocks when I touch my car door handle at the end of each shift. I’m starting to think I might quite like it here, out of my comfort zone, in fact.
Maybe beingoutof my comfort zone IS my comfort zone, then?
No, wait, that doesn’t make sense, does it?
Maybe I’m more comfortable with discomfort than I thought I was, is what I mean. Maybe all this time I’ve been thinking I was good ol’ sensible Summer, I was actually someone else? Someone fun, and adventurous, and—
CLICK!
The sound of a camera shutter going off close by interrupts my muddled chain of thought, and I turn around to see Alex standing a few feet away, camera in hand, looking like a paparazzi photographer with that huge lens pointing right at me.
“Did you just take a photo of me?” I ask, convinced I must be wrong.
“No,” he says quickly, lowering the camera. “I took a photo of the view. You just happened to be standing in front of it.”
“Let me see.”
I hold out my hand for the camera, which Alex immediately hides childishly behind his back, like a toddler who’s been caught stealing sweets.
