A Man for Off-Season

"You're still here?"

* * *

The Azores are thought by some to be the site of the lost kingdom of Atlantis. After seeing Ponta Delgada in a deluge, I now believe it as well.

With 63,000 of the archipelago's 243,000 residents, it was the only place we'd see a highway, or traffic, or more than a few stoplights. Still, much of the city, with its flowery plazas, centuries-old churches and paucity of souvenir shops (that's a good thing), can be seen on foot.

A walking tour had proved impractical -- or, rather, impossible -- when our map was reduced to pulp in the maelstrom. We sipped $1.50 drafts of Especial, the local brew, and snapped a few pictures of the City Gates, three 18th-century arches. In the courtyard of the Carlos Machado Museum, an engaging catch-all of all things Azorean, a sweetly sensual bronze of Adam and Eve glistened moodily in a puddle. Around town, a few hearty souls hunkered under dripping umbrellas at open-air cafes, but no one seemed too happy about it.

So, no, it wasn't the best day, and the kiosks advertising summertime fun on the water didn't help. A cabbie offered to give us a tour, but even he warned us that we wouldn't see much because of the rain.

With daylight fading and fears mounting that we'd wasted our day in the capital, we approached the side entrance to the Convento de Nossa Senhora da Esperanca (Convent of Hope), where we'd been told we could see the statue of Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, or Christ of Miracles. Every evening, the doors are opened to the chapel containing the life-size figure, the Azores' most revered icon. Locals come to pray for miracles, though everyone is welcome.

A nun greeted us in the convent's garden and led us wordlessly down a tiled corridor into the chapel. A dozen pilgrims were kneeling before the gold-flecked statue, which glimmered in the soft light. One woman wept as her husband gently rubbed her back. Memories of the afternoon's torrent vanished.

Stepping back into the street a few minutes later, I felt a hand brush my shoulder and turned to see that the nun had reappeared in the garden archway. Then the gate swung shut, and she disappeared into the darkness. For the first time all day, the rain stopped.

* * *

Under ordinary circumstances, the view would have been extraordinary. Far below us, cars streamed along the harbor in Horta, Faial's main town, as a fishing boat chugged its way into port. Several miles east across a whitecapped channel, a halo of clouds hugged the tip of Pico's 7,700-foot volcano under otherwise cumulus-free skies.

But we couldn't take our eyes off the horror above: The plastic bag we'd packed our lunch in was dancing around the Virgin Mary's head.