There is a Rose in Spanish Harlem

The man appeared in the air ... about a metre above the statue of Dr Johnson, at the rear of St Clement Danes church. I stopped immediately I saw him. A rather frail-looking man of Mediterranean appearance, hair brushed back en brosse and wearing a Burberry trench coat, bumped into me, held his hands out open palms towards me in a gesture of apology, and said, 'Pardon Monsieur. Totalement ma faute. J'étais loin.'
The man in the air seemed to be around my own age which was twenty-eight. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, and his whole expression calm and serene. He was surrounded by a very brilliant light, more brilliant than the sun, but it did not hurt my eyes. He did not say anything.
I was on my way up to the Youth Hostel Association shop in Southampton Street to buy a small backpack. It was now the end of March and the full breath of a new springtime was definitely here. During the past week I had felt I could breathe that change in the air in the tangy breezes that came up from the Thames at Victoria Embankment as I made my way to work in the mornings. In that first true intimation of springtime each year I had always experienced strange, unsought feelings of anticipation and exhilaration. And I always felt a restlessness and a need to change things. This coming weekend—Sunday was April Fool day—I had planned to go on a cycling trip; perhaps down through the green and calm of Sussex.
I stood by the kerb-side and looked and looked. Some passers-by began to notice me and, despite the undoubted vision I was seeing, I became embarrassed. Suddenly the vision was gone …

So begins a journey. A strange and extraordinary journey.