Hawaiian music makes me think of Elvis, conga drums, or that whiny background music in the two-hour Brady Bunch Goes to Hawaii special that aired, oh, around 1970-something.
Not so.
I'm not even remotely schooled-up enough to start describing Hawaiian music, not even the instruments or style. But I so want to learn. I feel like I'm at an extravagant wedding feast, and I've sampled a lovely bit of sweet bread -- but I'm about to plunge into so much more. I hear it between local stories on the public radio station, but when the announcer slurs out a name, it sounds something like Jeff Hona'catcher'oo or Monica Oo'oo'lani. Not helpful for looking up names on Amazon.
A couple of Saturdays ago, Matt and I were all set to do chores around the house. We were lingering over breakfast on the back patio, me doodling around on my phone, him immersed in the Star Advertiser, Oahu's only newspaper. Suddenly, he said, "How soon can you be ready?" He'd found a local music event called the Gabby Pahinui Festival over in Waimanalo Beach.
I said something helpful like, "But we have honey-dos to do." And he looked at me like, "Are you kidding?
Two hours later, I was slung down in my little camp chair, my back to the eastern shore of the island, my face soaking up the mist as it rolled down off the Koolau Mountains. In true Hawaiian fashion, locals from all over the island were setting up awnings and taking mountains of food out of their coolers: huge containers of chunked fruit, macaroni salad, and fish in fried, grilled, baked, and raw varieties. Big, pink boxes of pastries were handed round.
Local vendors were in on the action, too, selling coffee, homemade soap, and flipflops.
And, oh, the music. It lulled us straight to paradise. There were six-string guitars, soft drums ... and other stuff. I honestly don't know how to describe it, other than to say I wanted to listen to it forever. The voices -- sometimes one, sometimes, two, sometimes many -- lifted and fell and chanted and clapped. The best were the dancers, though, telling some ancient story in the gentle curve of their hands.
After a couple of hours, Matt said, "Gosh, we should get going. We have chores to do." And I looked at him like, "Are you kidding?"
I stalled as long as possible, bribing him with banana ice cream (unsuccessful) and lunch at a fresh fish truck (very successful). We dragged our feet in the sand and bugged a life guard about jelly fish reports we'd been hearing.
And rolled down our windows when we reluctantly drove away.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Friends
As we get settled, we're making friends. Here is a shout-out to a few ...
Dan is Matt's swim coach. He's 22, but he looks 12. I'm sure he's yet to shave. But what a sweetheart of a young man. Since Matt can't very well monitor my goings-on what with all the water streaming out of his face, he asked Dan to keep an eagle eye on me. When I finish my run and limp out onto the deck to stretch, Dan waves at me like I'm his kindergarten teacher. I suspect that after my surgery, Dan will park me next to whatever platform he's coaching from and wink at me every few minutes. I'm cool with that.
We walk to Aulani three times a day: once in the morning as Matt heads into the office, once after our lunch, and, as long as dinner isn't complicated, I head over around 5:30 with a book in hand to curl up in a lounge chair and wait for my guy to shed his work day. On all these walks, we pass landscapers, security guards, and mostly, streams of Japanese tourists (with the occasional Aussie passerby). Some of these regulars are smiling buddies. They gape at us, eyebrows and hand raised in a wave, with a look that says, "Still here?"
One of the security guys who guards the Aulani service entrance is Matt's favorite. His name is Rod. Every day, Matt asks Rod what's for lunch. Every day, Rod says, "Fried rice." Then they make that funky hang-ten hand signal.
Carol is Matt's surfing buddy. She rents him a board for 20 bucks a day. I think Carol is about 50, but she thinks she's 22 (maybe Carol and Dan should hook up). With her blond braid and skin-tight wet suit, she runs on the beach after her surf lessons are done. I like how she bosses Matt around as though he's her newest groupie. "Mind grabbing that board? Can you just drag that over here?"
I called Carol last weekend to make sure she'd be at Chun's Reef the next day. She said, "You're who???" Oh, Carol.
Millie, Dr. Nakashizuka's assistant, is surely the funniest. She probably weighs 90 pounds wet and is, I swear, the doctor's only employee. She bills, schedules, takes vitals, charts, and wears a phone head set all the while, taking calls non-stop. I have never heard Millie use an article when she speaks, so she says things like, "I have to check with doctor" and "What day should I make appointment?" Everyone in the medical community knows her. No matter what facility I walk into, all has been thoroughly prearranged. I never need to show orders, ID, or insurance. I'm pretty sure everyone is terrified of her, including Dr. Nakashizuka.
Last week, she scheduled enough time between two appointments, so I could grab breakfast. As she took another phone call, she gave Matt a severe stare and said, "You take her to Sizzler."
Recently, Millie explained a process to me involving contrast and prep. I replied, "Got it." She snorted, and said, "I like you. I only have to explain once."
I should take Millie to Sizzler. I wonder if she'd wear her headset.
Dan is Matt's swim coach. He's 22, but he looks 12. I'm sure he's yet to shave. But what a sweetheart of a young man. Since Matt can't very well monitor my goings-on what with all the water streaming out of his face, he asked Dan to keep an eagle eye on me. When I finish my run and limp out onto the deck to stretch, Dan waves at me like I'm his kindergarten teacher. I suspect that after my surgery, Dan will park me next to whatever platform he's coaching from and wink at me every few minutes. I'm cool with that.
We walk to Aulani three times a day: once in the morning as Matt heads into the office, once after our lunch, and, as long as dinner isn't complicated, I head over around 5:30 with a book in hand to curl up in a lounge chair and wait for my guy to shed his work day. On all these walks, we pass landscapers, security guards, and mostly, streams of Japanese tourists (with the occasional Aussie passerby). Some of these regulars are smiling buddies. They gape at us, eyebrows and hand raised in a wave, with a look that says, "Still here?"
One of the security guys who guards the Aulani service entrance is Matt's favorite. His name is Rod. Every day, Matt asks Rod what's for lunch. Every day, Rod says, "Fried rice." Then they make that funky hang-ten hand signal.
Carol is Matt's surfing buddy. She rents him a board for 20 bucks a day. I think Carol is about 50, but she thinks she's 22 (maybe Carol and Dan should hook up). With her blond braid and skin-tight wet suit, she runs on the beach after her surf lessons are done. I like how she bosses Matt around as though he's her newest groupie. "Mind grabbing that board? Can you just drag that over here?"
I called Carol last weekend to make sure she'd be at Chun's Reef the next day. She said, "You're who???" Oh, Carol.
Millie, Dr. Nakashizuka's assistant, is surely the funniest. She probably weighs 90 pounds wet and is, I swear, the doctor's only employee. She bills, schedules, takes vitals, charts, and wears a phone head set all the while, taking calls non-stop. I have never heard Millie use an article when she speaks, so she says things like, "I have to check with doctor" and "What day should I make appointment?" Everyone in the medical community knows her. No matter what facility I walk into, all has been thoroughly prearranged. I never need to show orders, ID, or insurance. I'm pretty sure everyone is terrified of her, including Dr. Nakashizuka.
Last week, she scheduled enough time between two appointments, so I could grab breakfast. As she took another phone call, she gave Matt a severe stare and said, "You take her to Sizzler."
Recently, Millie explained a process to me involving contrast and prep. I replied, "Got it." She snorted, and said, "I like you. I only have to explain once."
I should take Millie to Sizzler. I wonder if she'd wear her headset.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Magic
There is something magical about Hawaii, most especially how anyone ever found it. When I look at the back side of a globe, and I find our little speckle of dots, I'm amazed how very tiny and very far away we are.
We just spent a year in Los Angeles. Hawaii must surely be the very opposite of Los Angeles in every conceivable way. The humidity here is off the charts; I have to hang bags of Damp-Rid in the closet to keep our clothes from molding. Folks talk slowly. Perfect strangers smile at me (but not in a way that makes me wonder if I'm about to be mugged). I get tan in the shade.
Los Angeles was a gift. Teaching those incredible students, locking arms with the most dedicated on-mission teachers on the planet, having to share Matt with exactly no one -- a precious, precious year I will forever cherish (and would be grateful if I got the chance to repeat). But, lawd-a-mercy, the noise and the crowds and the concrete and the dust and the hurry-up-do-it-now pace wrung this old lady out.
Hawaii does not wear me out, except like that delightful exhaustion from spending a whole day at the beach. Hawaii wears me out in the way that a nap feels like exactly the right thing to do, the half finished novel sliding to the floor. Hawaii wakes me up in the middle of the night, coconut palms clapping in the breeze. Hawaii dances with flowers on head, hands, neck, and feet. Hawaii delights vowels and apostrophes. Hawaii breathes.
Hawaii, too, is a gift, and like Los Angeles, exactly what we need at this time.
Yesterday, I spent a few minutes on Face Time, asking my niece's daughters if they would like to come visit us in October. Olivia, whose age is far south of two digits, clasped her hands over her heart and passionately exclaimed, "Oh! I've dreamed of going to Hawaii my whole life."
Friends, come. Let this place work its magic on you.
We just spent a year in Los Angeles. Hawaii must surely be the very opposite of Los Angeles in every conceivable way. The humidity here is off the charts; I have to hang bags of Damp-Rid in the closet to keep our clothes from molding. Folks talk slowly. Perfect strangers smile at me (but not in a way that makes me wonder if I'm about to be mugged). I get tan in the shade.
Los Angeles was a gift. Teaching those incredible students, locking arms with the most dedicated on-mission teachers on the planet, having to share Matt with exactly no one -- a precious, precious year I will forever cherish (and would be grateful if I got the chance to repeat). But, lawd-a-mercy, the noise and the crowds and the concrete and the dust and the hurry-up-do-it-now pace wrung this old lady out.
Hawaii does not wear me out, except like that delightful exhaustion from spending a whole day at the beach. Hawaii wears me out in the way that a nap feels like exactly the right thing to do, the half finished novel sliding to the floor. Hawaii wakes me up in the middle of the night, coconut palms clapping in the breeze. Hawaii dances with flowers on head, hands, neck, and feet. Hawaii delights vowels and apostrophes. Hawaii breathes.
Hawaii, too, is a gift, and like Los Angeles, exactly what we need at this time.
Yesterday, I spent a few minutes on Face Time, asking my niece's daughters if they would like to come visit us in October. Olivia, whose age is far south of two digits, clasped her hands over her heart and passionately exclaimed, "Oh! I've dreamed of going to Hawaii my whole life."
Friends, come. Let this place work its magic on you.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles
Okay, I promise not to blog about animals all the time, but it's just that there's so much to see! I kid you not ... Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles, as big as coffee tables! At a beach just below Chun's Reef, these guys come into the shallow water and up onto the narrow strip of sand to sun themselves for the afternoon. They are HUGE and stunning and ... and ... and ... oh, my goodness.
This Florida girl has seen a lot of neat stuff, mostly thanks to SeaWorld and Disney. But to stand just a few feet away from these ancient monsters took my breath (and speech) away.
After a few minutes of gaping, I noticed an Asian woman about my age, patiently calling out, "Sea turtle! Stand back from sea turtle!" Her face was hidden in inches of sun screen, and she wore a long-sleeved rash guard (a bathing suit shirt). I loved her wedge haircut and bright red swim shorts. I asked her if yelling at people all day gets old. She admitted that it does.
Tourists can be a bit silly. Folks stand or swim too close to the turtles to get their picture taken, sometimes in the way of a turtle's approach to the beach. Since turtles don't really smile like porpoises or manatees, it's impossible to tell if they like all the attention or not.
A group of volunteers suit up for hours at a time to walk up and down the beach and ask tourists to step back from these astounding creatures, with their pancake-sized flippers and saw-toothed jaws. I said to the Asian lady, "Thank you for what you do. It matters so much." She was stunned. Her mouth hung open, and then she started to stutter. We asked her many questions about the turtles, and keeping one eye on a gaggle of teenaged girls in masks and goggles, she educated us about Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles.
We didn't stay for long. Matt was distressed at the tourists' lack of regard for the turtles, and my eyebrows were turning white from equatorial exposure. But before we left, the volunteer tapped my elbow.
"Thank you," she said.
Imagine that. She gives up her precious weekends to speak up for critters who can't speak up for themselves. And she thanked me.
Such a fine world we live in.
This Florida girl has seen a lot of neat stuff, mostly thanks to SeaWorld and Disney. But to stand just a few feet away from these ancient monsters took my breath (and speech) away.
After a few minutes of gaping, I noticed an Asian woman about my age, patiently calling out, "Sea turtle! Stand back from sea turtle!" Her face was hidden in inches of sun screen, and she wore a long-sleeved rash guard (a bathing suit shirt). I loved her wedge haircut and bright red swim shorts. I asked her if yelling at people all day gets old. She admitted that it does.
Tourists can be a bit silly. Folks stand or swim too close to the turtles to get their picture taken, sometimes in the way of a turtle's approach to the beach. Since turtles don't really smile like porpoises or manatees, it's impossible to tell if they like all the attention or not.
A group of volunteers suit up for hours at a time to walk up and down the beach and ask tourists to step back from these astounding creatures, with their pancake-sized flippers and saw-toothed jaws. I said to the Asian lady, "Thank you for what you do. It matters so much." She was stunned. Her mouth hung open, and then she started to stutter. We asked her many questions about the turtles, and keeping one eye on a gaggle of teenaged girls in masks and goggles, she educated us about Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles.
We didn't stay for long. Matt was distressed at the tourists' lack of regard for the turtles, and my eyebrows were turning white from equatorial exposure. But before we left, the volunteer tapped my elbow.
"Thank you," she said.
Imagine that. She gives up her precious weekends to speak up for critters who can't speak up for themselves. And she thanked me.
Such a fine world we live in.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Puffy and Company
I hadn't been a resident of Hawaii for five minutes when I began noticing the birds. They do not resemble Florida birds, which, honestly I've paid little attention to, other than the wild parakeets in Clearwater and the peaceful coo-cooing of the mourning doves in Audubon Park. Hawaii birds look and sound ... well, exotic. I bought a not-very-good bird book at Target, and I've been cataloguing the fluffers in my journal.
Yes, I am spoiled rotten. I embrace my spoiled rottenness.
Let me start with my friends, the zebra doves, the little sweet peas. Picture a smallish pigeon with a soft blue head and, of course, faint zebra stripes down its sides. These quiet neighbors peck about in groups of two or three. Every day, after lunch, Larry, Mo, and Curly descend on our patio to do the cleaning up. Evidently, Matt's a messier eater than I am.
In the afternoon, the zebra doves puff out all their feathers and sit down for a nap. Or a poop. I can't tell which, for sure, but based on the appearance of our driveway, where daily puffy conventions take place, I'd guess the latter.
Next up? The spotted dove. These ladies ("ladies" because they remind me of Mrs. Potts) are much more shy than the zebras. They stay 20 or 30 feet away and get a little alarmed if there's any commotion. Although these gals are bigger than the zebras, they are nowhere near as lard-ass-like as their Los Angeles cousins. And, of course, they wear a stole of spots in their feathers, draped gently around their necks.
Matt calls the mynas suicide birds. They do not move for bikes, cars, screaming toddlers, or a tall man madly waving his arms as he runs toward them. They look like they dipped their feet and beak into a vat of yield-sign-yellow paint; the rest of their bodies are dark brown, so the contrast is handsome. I adore their run, which is exactly how young children play horsey, in a skippy-gallopy way, and their chirp sounds something like, "Look at me! Look at me!"
The show stoppers are the cardinals. We've got the northern variety that is common to the mainland, with their gorgeous, Talbot's red feathers, beak to claw. The red-crested cardinal has the same striking red on its hood, but the rest of his body is steel-wool gray. Very, very studly fellows, but they often argue with their brown-headed wives over who saw the doomed worm first. I do not think this is very gentlemanly.
Matt spotted the bulbuls first, and I'm so glad he did. Imagine a body like a cardinal, including the lovely crest on its head, but all feathers are black and gray except for a splash of red in the tail (red-vented bulbuls) or collar (red-whiskered bulbuls). They love to hang out in the rain trees near the entrance to Ko'Olina, our neighborhood. I haven't caught them singing or chirping, so they seem rather serious to me. As I pass them, I say, "Hey, bulbul, what's up? Got any news?" They look at me. They seem so unflapable, that if I stuck out my finger, they'd consider alighting on it, but then decide against because it wouldn't be seemly.
Most surprising for me, I think, are the abundance of red junglefowl cocks. My bird book says I can find them in rural areas of the island, which I have, but the biggest assembly of the cock-a-doodle-doers show up on my run every morning, right at (yes) sunrise.
House finches abound, in comforting sweet streaky browns. While I sit and read during the last leg of Matt's swim, one inevitably tip-toes around my feet, a bit shy, but mostly just curious. These wee ones might be my favorite. I can see why the Victorians put them in cages and fed them by hand; they must have loved their timid friendship. I sure do.
Yes, I am spoiled rotten. I embrace my spoiled rottenness.
Let me start with my friends, the zebra doves, the little sweet peas. Picture a smallish pigeon with a soft blue head and, of course, faint zebra stripes down its sides. These quiet neighbors peck about in groups of two or three. Every day, after lunch, Larry, Mo, and Curly descend on our patio to do the cleaning up. Evidently, Matt's a messier eater than I am.
In the afternoon, the zebra doves puff out all their feathers and sit down for a nap. Or a poop. I can't tell which, for sure, but based on the appearance of our driveway, where daily puffy conventions take place, I'd guess the latter.
Next up? The spotted dove. These ladies ("ladies" because they remind me of Mrs. Potts) are much more shy than the zebras. They stay 20 or 30 feet away and get a little alarmed if there's any commotion. Although these gals are bigger than the zebras, they are nowhere near as lard-ass-like as their Los Angeles cousins. And, of course, they wear a stole of spots in their feathers, draped gently around their necks.
Matt calls the mynas suicide birds. They do not move for bikes, cars, screaming toddlers, or a tall man madly waving his arms as he runs toward them. They look like they dipped their feet and beak into a vat of yield-sign-yellow paint; the rest of their bodies are dark brown, so the contrast is handsome. I adore their run, which is exactly how young children play horsey, in a skippy-gallopy way, and their chirp sounds something like, "Look at me! Look at me!"
The show stoppers are the cardinals. We've got the northern variety that is common to the mainland, with their gorgeous, Talbot's red feathers, beak to claw. The red-crested cardinal has the same striking red on its hood, but the rest of his body is steel-wool gray. Very, very studly fellows, but they often argue with their brown-headed wives over who saw the doomed worm first. I do not think this is very gentlemanly.
Matt spotted the bulbuls first, and I'm so glad he did. Imagine a body like a cardinal, including the lovely crest on its head, but all feathers are black and gray except for a splash of red in the tail (red-vented bulbuls) or collar (red-whiskered bulbuls). They love to hang out in the rain trees near the entrance to Ko'Olina, our neighborhood. I haven't caught them singing or chirping, so they seem rather serious to me. As I pass them, I say, "Hey, bulbul, what's up? Got any news?" They look at me. They seem so unflapable, that if I stuck out my finger, they'd consider alighting on it, but then decide against because it wouldn't be seemly.
Most surprising for me, I think, are the abundance of red junglefowl cocks. My bird book says I can find them in rural areas of the island, which I have, but the biggest assembly of the cock-a-doodle-doers show up on my run every morning, right at (yes) sunrise.
House finches abound, in comforting sweet streaky browns. While I sit and read during the last leg of Matt's swim, one inevitably tip-toes around my feet, a bit shy, but mostly just curious. These wee ones might be my favorite. I can see why the Victorians put them in cages and fed them by hand; they must have loved their timid friendship. I sure do.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Buttons, the Surfing Legend
For many, many moons, Matt has wanted to surf. In Florida and California, though, the opportunities never seemed to present themselves. Here? Surfing schools and used boards are as plentiful as the plumeria.
When we got lost in North Shore last weekend, we were in search of Buttons Surfing School. Matt had been asking around plus doing a good bit of online research and decided that Buttons Kaluhiokalani, a surfing legend from the '70s and '80s, was the instructor for him. After scouring North Shore beaches for a couple of hours and finding the Garmin about as helpful as an appendix, we finally turned it off and headed home.
We'd just rounded yet another bend when Matt yelled, "Buttons! I see Buttons!" I pulled over, we dashed across the street -- and voila, Buttons indeed. We watched the class he had in session and promptly made a reservation for yesterday, 9:00 a.m. sharp (although "sharp" is a pretty loose term around here).
Well, damn it all, we spent another two hours (two!) combing the North Shore yesterday morning looking for Buttons. We were certain that the Buttons beach was below Sunset but above the turtle lagoon, so we parked and walked. And walked and walked and walked. When our mouths turned pasty from dehydration, we headed back to the truck, fully acknowledging we were in the running for Stupidest Tourists Ever.
Matt slumped behind the wheel and headed back down the coast. In about as low a voice as I've ever heard him use, he said, "Let's just go home."
Sure enough, about five miles of beach later, he yelled, "Buttons! I see Buttons!"
Suffice it to say, we had a glorious day at Chun's Reef. I yelled and clapped and took pictures and cheered and waved and nearly bawled in pure joy. I made friends on the beach with Sarah and her three children, and a tile dude who says he's remodeling President Obama's bathroom.
Matt? Oh, my goodness, Matt. He's fearless. For three hours, he paddled, crouched, stood, and fell -- over and over again. A couple of times, he got about 10 seconds of standing time, only to lose his balance and tip off the side again. But he loved every minute of it. At one point, he said he laid down on the board in exhaustion and watched sea turtles swim under him. When he finally loped up the beach to his sleeping wife, the first thing he said was, "NSP, 10'6", 31/32, 3 1/2 to 4." I wrote that down as fast as I could and then smiled in realization.
Dimensions for a surf board.
Last night, I rubbed aloe into his crispy fried calves and Aveeno on the rash on his belly. This morning, he's walking like he's 90. But, oh my goodness, was it worth it.
Matt Forbes went surfing in North Shore Hawaii. Life just doesn't get any better than that.
When we got lost in North Shore last weekend, we were in search of Buttons Surfing School. Matt had been asking around plus doing a good bit of online research and decided that Buttons Kaluhiokalani, a surfing legend from the '70s and '80s, was the instructor for him. After scouring North Shore beaches for a couple of hours and finding the Garmin about as helpful as an appendix, we finally turned it off and headed home.
We'd just rounded yet another bend when Matt yelled, "Buttons! I see Buttons!" I pulled over, we dashed across the street -- and voila, Buttons indeed. We watched the class he had in session and promptly made a reservation for yesterday, 9:00 a.m. sharp (although "sharp" is a pretty loose term around here).
Well, damn it all, we spent another two hours (two!) combing the North Shore yesterday morning looking for Buttons. We were certain that the Buttons beach was below Sunset but above the turtle lagoon, so we parked and walked. And walked and walked and walked. When our mouths turned pasty from dehydration, we headed back to the truck, fully acknowledging we were in the running for Stupidest Tourists Ever.
Matt slumped behind the wheel and headed back down the coast. In about as low a voice as I've ever heard him use, he said, "Let's just go home."
Sure enough, about five miles of beach later, he yelled, "Buttons! I see Buttons!"
Suffice it to say, we had a glorious day at Chun's Reef. I yelled and clapped and took pictures and cheered and waved and nearly bawled in pure joy. I made friends on the beach with Sarah and her three children, and a tile dude who says he's remodeling President Obama's bathroom.
Matt? Oh, my goodness, Matt. He's fearless. For three hours, he paddled, crouched, stood, and fell -- over and over again. A couple of times, he got about 10 seconds of standing time, only to lose his balance and tip off the side again. But he loved every minute of it. At one point, he said he laid down on the board in exhaustion and watched sea turtles swim under him. When he finally loped up the beach to his sleeping wife, the first thing he said was, "NSP, 10'6", 31/32, 3 1/2 to 4." I wrote that down as fast as I could and then smiled in realization.
Dimensions for a surf board.
Last night, I rubbed aloe into his crispy fried calves and Aveeno on the rash on his belly. This morning, he's walking like he's 90. But, oh my goodness, was it worth it.
Matt Forbes went surfing in North Shore Hawaii. Life just doesn't get any better than that.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Kahumana Cafe
Friday nights are date night. Like our back-and-forthing with movie selections, I told Matt I wanted to pick our first Oahu date night locale, and he could choose the second one.
I get these nice little Yelp updates once a week, and last week's held the answer: a cafe on an organic farm up in Waianae. "Matt!" I yelped. "This is the place!"
Waianae isn't an area recommended in the guidebooks. To get to Kahumana Cafe, we drove through neighborhoods with lots of mangy dogs and barefoot kids running in the street. Matt looked at me dubiously and told me that one of his co-workers took her daughter to this place, but, on arrival, decided it looked so sketchy, they didn't even get out of the car.
To our right, mountains. To our left, miles of narrow beaches where the plan for the night seemed to be pitch a tent and fire up the grill.
"Charming!" I insisted. "Local color!"
After a couple of missed attempts (aka, "Surely this cannot be a restaurant ..."), we located a cook-ish looking person in a kitchen-ish looking room of a house-ish sort of place and asked if they were open for a dinner. Yes, indeed, we were promptly shown to one of three tables on a screened porch overlooking a small-ish sort of farm.
Matt got quiet. I'm not sure if he was more alarmed by the overturned cement mixer or the breeze wafting up the scent of cow manure.
"Five stars!" I fiercely whispered. "Five!" The other two tables were occupied with diners happily chowing, and more guests trickled into a hall-ish looking room, bringing bottles of wine and animated conversation with them.
In defense of funky little restaurants the world over, the food was superb. We sipped a pale pink concoction that tasted something like a ginger-jasmine-lemon-water. Since all was organic, I had some sort of white fish (ono? obo?) in a curry sauce on a bed of greens and rice. I don't remember what Matt ate, other than, between mouthfuls, he grinned. And for dessert, we shared a tiny square of tart cheesecake that was ... I'm not exaggerating ... the best I've ever had.
We scooted back to the car, slapping the mosquitos off our thighs. I could tell next week's date night would involve air conditioning and standard light fixtures.
When company's coming? Oh, we're going to Kahumana Cafe. And I will not be sharing my cheesecake.
Even her favorite toys
I walk around Ko'Olina a lot. I walk with Matt to work. After lunch, I walk him back again to his office. There's a cute little market around the corner I scoot over to if I need essentials like bananas or chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
Mostly, I see birds and tourists. And I think they're a lot alike: dressed brightly, chattering their own language, and on the constant look-out for snacks.
A few days ago, I passed a little blond girl and her grandmother. The child was decked out in all things sparkly, plus a lei that looked as though she had worn it for a week, even in bed. Although they were dressed for the beach and headed in that direction, they were completely immersed in conversation.
Here's the bit that caught my attention. Little granddaughter said to her grandmother, "Even her favorite toys?" And grandmother replied, so gently, "Yes, even her favorite toys."
Clearly, this is a child committed to her stuff. Between the lei whose flowers were brown as her legs and the deep concern for another child's toys, I could easily picture her saying a special hello to each and every one of her dollies and games every time she opens her bedroom door.
Dear child. She's been on my mind, especially as I hoot for joy with every box I open and unpack. I love my stuff. I got so tickled when I unwrapped our coffee cups that I laughed out loud and cradled them like they were newborn babes. After I put on a favorite blouse I haven't seen for two months, I made Matt take my picture.
Here's what I think: it's okay, even lovely, to be attached to my precious books and pictures and earrings, as long as my grip is loose and my heart is full. And this, too:
I long to be the kind of grandmother who answers questions gently.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
No road signs
North, south, east, and west are not terms Hawaiians use to offer directions. Instead you get a lot of, "It's on the Ewa side of the bay" or "Go to the other side of the mountains and then ..."
When I reply something like, "Oh, east of downtown?" I get looks like there's a pineapple growing out of my head.
So we should have not been surprised to get lost along the North Shore. It's a clump of beaches that lines up from about 9:00 to noon if you think of the island as the face of a clock. How tough could that be?
Tough.
No matter that we live in the twenty-first century. Along the North Shore, there are no road signs and incredibly few parking lots. You'd think with these beaches hosting the most famous surfing competitions in the world, you could get a little "Velzyland" or "Waimea" sign to point the way. Nope.
Hot, exasperated, and desperate for a bathroom for this middle aged woman, we finally chugged into Turtle Bay Resort where Matt, bless his soul, determined to have a conversation with the concierge. It went something like this:
Matt: Can you show me on this map where Sunset Beach is?
Nice Hawaiian lady: Yes. (frown) Well, it's across from the elementary school.
Melissa: Oh, I saw the school! But I don't quite remember ...
Matt: Hmmm. Okay. Well, how about Pipeline?
Nice Hawaiian lady: Sure! It's just before you get to the ranch.
Me: Oh, I saw the ranch! It was just after the place where everyone had pulled off the road to see the turtles.
Matt to Nice Hawaiian lady: Could you show me, on the map, where that is?
Nice Hawaiian lady: (points in the general direction of the shoreline) There. And you'll also see a waterfall, too, when you park. Turn towards the mountains ...
I put Matt back in the car, on the passenger side. With him navigating and me doing what I was told, we found three or four of the places we'd marked on our map. Later in the week, I found a book called Oahu's Beaches that now occupies a prominent place on our coffee table. During Olympics coverage, when NBC went to commercial breaks or men's gymnastics, Matt studied the North Shore beaches section like it contained the recipe for the elixir of life.
Tomorrow morning, at 9:00 a.m. sharp, we'll be on a beach that is a bit north from a sharp bend in the road where the mountains get perilously close to the shoreline. He'll be suited up to surf. I'll be suited up to take pictures.
How very like our lives this island is -- the only way to find our way is to stop often and ask for directions.
When I reply something like, "Oh, east of downtown?" I get looks like there's a pineapple growing out of my head.
So we should have not been surprised to get lost along the North Shore. It's a clump of beaches that lines up from about 9:00 to noon if you think of the island as the face of a clock. How tough could that be?
Tough.
No matter that we live in the twenty-first century. Along the North Shore, there are no road signs and incredibly few parking lots. You'd think with these beaches hosting the most famous surfing competitions in the world, you could get a little "Velzyland" or "Waimea" sign to point the way. Nope.
Hot, exasperated, and desperate for a bathroom for this middle aged woman, we finally chugged into Turtle Bay Resort where Matt, bless his soul, determined to have a conversation with the concierge. It went something like this:
Matt: Can you show me on this map where Sunset Beach is?
Nice Hawaiian lady: Yes. (frown) Well, it's across from the elementary school.
Melissa: Oh, I saw the school! But I don't quite remember ...
Matt: Hmmm. Okay. Well, how about Pipeline?
Nice Hawaiian lady: Sure! It's just before you get to the ranch.
Me: Oh, I saw the ranch! It was just after the place where everyone had pulled off the road to see the turtles.
Matt to Nice Hawaiian lady: Could you show me, on the map, where that is?
Nice Hawaiian lady: (points in the general direction of the shoreline) There. And you'll also see a waterfall, too, when you park. Turn towards the mountains ...
I put Matt back in the car, on the passenger side. With him navigating and me doing what I was told, we found three or four of the places we'd marked on our map. Later in the week, I found a book called Oahu's Beaches that now occupies a prominent place on our coffee table. During Olympics coverage, when NBC went to commercial breaks or men's gymnastics, Matt studied the North Shore beaches section like it contained the recipe for the elixir of life.
Tomorrow morning, at 9:00 a.m. sharp, we'll be on a beach that is a bit north from a sharp bend in the road where the mountains get perilously close to the shoreline. He'll be suited up to surf. I'll be suited up to take pictures.
How very like our lives this island is -- the only way to find our way is to stop often and ask for directions.
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