In 1996, Ally and I flew to Mozambique for a romantic getaway on the legendary Paradise Island. The hotel had been the height of opulence in the 1960s, but decades of civil war had left it in a state of beautiful decay. It was in the early stages of a renovation and, in the meantime, was offering a "rustic experience" at a price we couldn't resist.
The island was every bit the postcard: leaning coconut trees, brilliant azure water, and sand the color of gold. The hotel was equally atmospheric. When we arrived in our room, we found an assortment of candles left on the table by the friendly staff. We embraced the mood immediately, spending our evenings in the soft, flickering amber light, feeling like castaways in a more elegant era.
We spent an idyllic week lazing on the beach and chilling out by candlelight. We didn't even miss the hum of a bar fridge; the primitive, unplugged island life was exactly what we needed.
On our final morning, as we were lugging our bags toward the door to catch our flight, I happened to shoulder-nudge the old, peeled-away plastic switch on the wall.
Voila! The room was suddenly flooded with electric light.
We stood there, blinking like owls in the unexpected light, and burst into laughter. The modern world had been standing right there in the corner the entire time, waiting patiently for a single flick of a finger. We had spent the entire holiday in a 19th-century fantasy purely by accident. We didn't mind—the candles had provided a romance the local power grid never could have matched—but it was a hilarious reminder of how easily we inhabit the "reality" we think we've been given.
