Hawaii - Day One

The day started with a nice 4:20am alarm (no significance of the time we chose to woke up). Pretty standard go-to-airport stuff, and soon we're on our way to Honolulu...well, Dallas, for now. In a world of small airline seats, American Airline manages to make other people's seats seem large. My 6'5" freak-joints were hurting after a while. And I experienced the Seinfeldian bashing-of-extremities-by-the-beverage-cart during since my limbs had nowhere to go but into the isle.

I believe Elaine banged her elbow in that episode. but hell, she can't be more than 5'3". She doesn't know what it's like.

Arrive in Dallas, where the local time is 9:30am, and I'm hurtin' for some pulled pork. Breakfast of champions.

Maggie opts with a more conventional, but still disgusting, bacon egg and cheese from McDonald's. We finish, and head for the plane, but not before I get a coffee from Starbuck's. Sleeping on a plane is like being in limbo. Sure, you sleep, but you don't get any of the benefits of sleep, so it's completely pointless. And incredibly uncomfortable. Make that a Large coffee.

Since we were smart and had loaded up on books and magazines the day before, we were sailing smoothly into this 8 hour flight. They had two in-flight movies (Bandslam, which looked horrible even with the sound off), and Legally Blonde, which, by the time it came on, I was getting a teeny bit antsy, so I popped in the headphones to see what little Elle Woods had to say about the legal system.

Hey, at least it cured my fidgety-ness.

Maggie got felt up by the sweet, old, Nebraska University loving woman in front of her. She said she was grabbing for the "recline" button on the seat...likely story you Midwestern-pervert-granny.

Other than the sexual harassment, the flight went smoothly. Disembark (or whatever you do when you get off planes), and we weren't greeted by any beautiful, coconut-bikini clad women placing leis around our neck. A little disappointing, but I guess I should've expected to be lied to by Saved by the Bell (that Hawaiian special, you know the one. with the chick who's married to fatman Kevin James in King of Queens).

On to the rental car facility. I must say, our first encounter with real-life hawaiians was a bit of a let down. Could've been because the people at Enterprise that helped us weren't exactly native Hawaiians. There was Fidel Reyes (no lie), and a blonde-haired, blue-eyed chick, who was definitely trying to pull off the whole "I'm just like Mila Kunis in Forgetting Sarah Marshall". Not sure if she was copying Mila, or Mila was copying her.

Still, we were pretty excited as we pulled out of the lot in our sweet, brand new, jet black...Hyundai.

Some quick driving to the hotel, and we were ready to check in. And finally, at the valet stand, we met a true Hawaiian. Man, they're the type of pleasant and laid back that makes you think that they're double-crossing you somehow. No, wait. They're the type of pleasant and laid back that makes you know for certain that they're double-crossing you. Only they're not. They're just that cool. But you can't help being a little paranoid...especially coming from a place where drivers are sweetly known as Massholes.

Up to the check-in desk. Oh, you say it's not in the lobby? It's on the 2nd floor? In a random room to the right of the elevators? Well, okay Mr. Supremely Laid Back Hawaiian, I'll take your word for it.

Walk into the check-in "room", and some more super nice, laid back people (I'm willing to look past the fact that our check-in guy was named Gary...Maybe it's been Anglicized from Garii). He gives us the rundown, and we're up to our room to clean up...Come on, you think we were going to wake up at 4:10 am to get a shower in?

Back down to the check-in room to chat with the Concierge (what's the feminine form of Concierge? Concierga? Isn't the end of the word silent anyway? Con-see-yay, if you wanted to be a stuck-up Frenchy)

She gives us some pointers, and tells us something that instantly makes both of us realize why the check-in room is a 2nd floor room and not the lobby...That's right, we've stumbled into the TimeShare Zone. Thanks a bunch Hotels.com. Of course, we're simply renting, so we're not on the hook, that I know of. And it's in Maggie's name anyway, so I'm pretty sure I'm golden. 5 to 1 odds she gets weekly mailings from this place.

Our Concierge kindly tells that if we sit in on an "information session", she can get us some good discounts on local attractions. "How long is the session?", I ask. "90 minutes to 2 hours, depending on your interest". Interpretation: "We're going to feed you shit for 90 minutes, and then pester you for 30 more minutes until you give in and fork over cash for a time-share you never really wanted in the first place. Oh, but wait, she needs to make sure we qualify. Combined household income of $55k. Wait, a family only needs to make $55k combined to "afford" a time share? I don't think so. That means that little Billy doesn't get any of the toys or clothes or video games or food that he wants, just because the Time Share folks are so damn persistent and greedy. I guess the bright side is that they choose not to screw with families that make less than $55k a year.

As our Concierge is giving us various tips about the island, I begin to have a realization. Hawaiians and Minnesotans sound eerily similar. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something in the "yea", and the end of the sentence that makes the Hawaiian way-of-speaking sound a little too much like Minnesota-speak. Maybe I'm just tired.

Now for a nice cool evening jaunt down the beach to see if there's a beachside grill we can pop into for din-din.

"This one looks good". "yea, not too fancy. I like it". So we sit at the bar, waiting for our table. I grab a local beer from the Kona Brewing Company...Fire Rock Pale Ale.

Maggie grabs a drink with 17 different fruits in it, and a piece of pineapple so large that calling it a "garnish" is a punishable offense.



Wait, what does it say on that cup over there? "Hil Ton". hmm. must be Hawaiin for something cool. No wait. "Hilton". Shit. We just got duped by the Hilton mega-franchise. What we thought was a nice little restaurant was just the Hilton estbalishment.


To be fair, Waikiki isn't exactly authentic Hawaii, and we weren't really looking for anything special. We were just so tired and the first place that served food looked like heaven-on-earth. Mind you, it's about midnight Eastern Time, and we were up at 4:20am.



In any case, the food was damn good. A nice raw Poke Appetizer hit the spot, and some more fishy goodness for our main courses, and we were ready for bed. wait, we need to get some groceries so that not every meal we eat is an ass beating. Oh right, even groceries cost more on the islands. Damn. Oh well. When in Rome (that doesn't make any sense. but it feels like it fits, right?)



Okay, now it's bed time. 2:30am EST. yea. bed time. Nah, I think I'll look at the Island maps a couple more times and try to finalize what we're going to do tomorrow.

Hawaii - Day Two

Rise and shine. 6am. Well, 11am EST, so at least we got a full 8 hrs. Let's go check out the view from the Penthouse Restaurant. Wow, not too bad. Interesting. The entire floor is unlocked. We could've stolen silverware, napkins and those giant novelty-looking wine bottles (it's an Italian restaurant...I don't know why), and no one would've known.

Gotta run to the convenience store to get some things we forgot at the supermarket. While there, an old man comes up to me (because I look like a typical resident of Hawaii, being 6'5" and paler than sugar), and shows me an old (at least 10 yrs old) Personal Video Recorder cassette tape, and asks me, "Do you know where I can get some more of this film?". Nope. Sorry, Guy. Maybe roaming around a convenience store asking goofily tall white guys isn't the best strategy.

Shower and pack, and we're off to the Buddhist Temple. What's this? A farmer's market in the parking lot of an elementary school? Deal. We chat it up with another native-Hawaiian (wait, he's got the Minnesota thing going to. what's going on here?). He seems like he's swindling us, but he's just selling us some Suman, and some candied Coconut.

We passed on the Chili Water though (which was some water in a mason jar with pieces of pepper floating around in it. I'll need to investigate to see if that's legitimate Hawaiian, or if he and some buddies just pissed in a jar and call it Chili Water)

Enough chit chat. Finally arrive at our first tourist Destination. The Byodo-In.

A replica Buddhist Temple, complete with giant gong,

even gianter Koi, and an even gianter Buddha.

These Buddhists like to live large. This place is tranquil, complete silence all around you.

Except for the car alarm that just started going off. All in all, though, a very nice place to visit (complete with taking off of the shoes when entering the Temple).

Time to drive and find some of that famous blue water everyone's always talking about. Well, not before checking out a Plantation and Gardens...Senator Fong's Plantation and Gardens, to be exact. Well, count this as the first time I felt my life may have been in danger. As we pull into this place (which is 10 minutes up a winding, desolate road), we see that there are no other cars around. Fair enough, it's still kind of early. Let's pull into that far parking lot. Oh, look. A bunch of guys standing next to their old, rusted pick up truck, and going through the dumpster that's right next to it. "I don't think this place is open today", I say to Maggie. And with that, we're off to our next adventure. So long dumpster men.

"Ooh. A garage sale!". Well, actually a "G Sale" to quote the sign. I figured it'd be a good chance to meet some locals, and myabe buy something truly authentic. Something that had been in these people's homes for years and years. After rooting through some bottle openers, an Encyclopedia Set (Funk and Wagnall's to be sure), some sort of shotgun, an old-school elliptical machine (I mean olllld school), and a Mermaid Print ($4), we figured this wasn't exactly the best G sale, and decided to call it a bust.

Getting kinda hungry, let's get something to eat. "How about Haleiwa Joe's. I think I've seen some good reviews". "Okay". Pull into the parking lot, and it is packed. I'm now a little wary. It seems like we might have been duped again. Could this be another Hilton-like restaurant, lacking any and all Hawaiian authenticity? "Let's go check it out". As we walk in, a fairly large built man comes walking out. He's wearing an Oklahoma University shirt. Strike 1. He's also got one of those NASCAR hats on with just the number "8". Strike 2. We ask the hostess to see a menu. She tells us it's brunch and it's "all-you-can-eat". Strikes 3, 4, 5, and 6. We may have stumbled into the mother-ship of all touristy restaurants. "Abort! Abort!" is what our minds were both saying when she uttered that terrible, terrible 4-word phrase. Disheartened, we took off for Kailua, in search of something better.

Luckily, we stumbled onto one of those infamous blue shrimp trucks. Basically, it's a roach coach. A gut truck. A grease truck. Call it what you will, but in Hawaii, they're somehow exotic.

And they serve some damn good spicy garlic shrimp. We grabbed two orders to go, and went down to the Kailua Beach. We perched on a little ledge where the grass from the park met the sand from the beach. It was this sort of miniature cliff. And the perch itself was a few feet from a larger drop-off to the beach area.

What a perfect beach.

No need to explain it. It's exactly what you think of when you think of a Hawaii beach. Blue skies dotted with clouds. The sand is that classic sand color. Not too bleached, but not too brown. And it's got that classic sand texture. Only way I can describe it is that it doesn't give you that tingle up your spine when you walk on it. It doesn't burn your feet, and in a miracle of Physics, it somehow doesn't get into everything. It gracefully stays out of your bag, and more importantly, out of your butt-crack. The water is that perfect mixture of blue in green. Except in the spots where the sun pokes through. In those spots it's an even more perfect shade. Even Miles Davis would be jealous. And then there were the islands poking up through the water. One was Flat Island. It's an appropriate name. People were kayaking, swimming, and paddleboarding over to it.

This beach was so perfect, it even came with a token speedo-wearing European (complete with random patch of hair on his chest).

As we ate, we had some entertainment. Well, they didn't know they were our entertainment. 4 Japanese girls were sitting below us on the beach, and one had a makeshift hula skirt and lei. She was doing some basic hula moves while her friend videotaped her (an asian with a high tech camera...can you believe it?). She seemed to have a basic idea of what she was doing, but the grin on her face showed that she was totally just screwing around, and felt a little bit like an idiot doing this silly dance for the camera in front of her friends (and the two tall white people who couldn't help but stare).

We both went in for a dip. This is the sort of water that begs to be swam in. I kept hearing that line from O Brothe Where Art Thou (and I'm sure countless other films, shows, places), "Come on in boys; the water's fine". In "O Brother", the water was used to baptize those foolhardy characters. And while this water may not have baptized us, it's hard not to believe that something so serene and beautiful was made by God.

After the dippy-do, it was off to do a lighthouse hike on the Northeast corner of the island. But not before getting lost in Lanakai for a little bit. And not before seeing what seemed like a hundred packs of motorcycle riders on the roads of northeast Oahu. I think it might be bike week here. The hike was pretty normal. Paved walkway shows the way. Just gotta put one foot in front of the other. Easy enough. It tooks us to some pretty spectacular views, allowing us to see volcano craters, Kailua Beach, and about 455 miles out into the Pacific.

Oh, and some girl with butt shorts that said "Vegas Baby" on her ass. Halfway up we saw a helicopter, which I think came straight over from the 70's, land above us on a landing. I don't think I've ever seen a helicopter from the 70's, but I am certain that's when this helicopter was made; or at least painted. Browns and off-whites, and just a weird shape. 70's. I'm sure of it.

The one thing that killed me about this hike: There were a bunch of those flat cactii (green and round and look almost like a beaver tail in plant form. A bunch of people decided to carve cute little things into these cacti (say, "Johnny loves Becky"). 100% nature around you, and you feel the need to pull out your knife and destroy a little piece of it. well played. This isn't a bar in rural Pennsylvania where you carve your name into the table, people.

Back down the trail and on the road to Hanauma Bay. More bikers. By the time we get there it's almost 4pm, and Hanauma Bay closes at 6pm (and is $18 just to get in). Let's save that for another day. "Let's do a hike". So we drive full circle and come back around to the Waikiki area (more inland this time), and head to the starting point for the Manoa Falls hike.

We pull in to the parking lot, which doubles as a parking lot for a restaurant called Paradise Park. "Private Parking. Cars will be towed at owner's expense" signs are everywhere, but they don't seem to compute in my head. We see some other people park and head into the restaurant (a couple of Polynesian women in classic Polynesian garb head in). We head over to the trailhead. And then I realize that we weren't supposed to park in the restaurant lot. "It'll be fine", Maggie assures me, as we head up the trail.

The trail is pretty narrow, and ends up being about a mile long. The ground is a little wet, and has a complexion like that of a clay tennis court. Brownish Bronze.

It must've recently rained, because the ground is pretty slick, and we slip a couple of places. The trees that line the path are enormous, and have thousands of vines hanging down from their branches, creating what seems like makeshift prisons all around the trees.

Weaving through all of them would be damn near impossible. As the trail goes on, it gets more and more humid. People coming down the trail are dripping and have shirts that are 100% soaked. I can feel the sweat starting to increase.

We make it to the Falls, and snap a few pictures.

We ask a girl to take our picture. "Oh yea, sure. No problem." Snap. "yea, yea, is that a good picture? Do you want me to take another one, yea? I can take another one, yea." After insisting that the one she took was fine, we head back down. And again, the whole Minnesota thing. There it was again. I was expecting a "Dontcha know" or a "You betcha" from the girl.

As we head down, I'm getting antsy. I haven't run in two days, and I'm feeling the need to get rid of some energy. I tell Maggie that I want to trail-run the rest of the way down. So I take off. You know how running can be boring? Well, trailrunning takes the "boring" out of running. Twists and turns, and uneven footing, and cool scenery. You really need to exaggerate every step and pay close attention to where you're placing your foot. I make it down to the trailhead, and turn around to meet up with Maggie.

"They towed our car." "What?!?" "Yea, it's not there anymore."

Just kidding. I wanted to have a little fun. We hopped in the car and headed back to the hotel. On the way, we heard a little Aaron Neville ("I don't know much"), who I think has simultaneously the funniest and greatest singing voice. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Time to relax and catch the sunset. This is Hawaii after all.

We head to the beach bar, and grab a beer and a Mai Tai. You know, for being a classic tropical drink, Mai Tais don't really taste like I expected them to taste. A little too much booze. Not enough foo-foo ingredients, which is really what you want when you want a tropical drink. The sun sets gloriously, and I snap a few photos.

For dinner, we decide to hit up the Pat's and Geno's of Hawaii. The Rainbow Drive-In.

One of the oldest drive-ins on the island. It's not one of those drive-ins where the waitress rollerskates over to your car. You still have to park and walk up to the ordering window, crouch down to see the items at the top of the menu, which is inside above the heads of the workers. Not easily readable for those with the gift of lankiness. We both order a Mix Plate, which is grease, grease and grease served on a bed of grease. It was a little greasy. It was thin slice of beef (maybe a Prime Rib-type cut that they use at Pat's), a fried chicken cutlet, and a fried cutlet of Mahi. Served on rice, with a side of macaroni salad, and some cole-slaw-like substance buried in there.

So maybe it's less like a Pat's Cheesesteak, and more like a Garbage Plate (from the great city of Rochester...or is it Buffalo? In which case, I take back the "great city" part). I hound the whole thing down in a minute, from being so starved. Maggie, however, is a little turned off at the inhumane amount of grease that a single plate contains. She eats about 1/3, but can't stomach much more.

On the way back to the hotel, we drive down the "Rodeo Drive" of Waikiki. Not much new with this. Super expensive designers in outlandish buildings. On top of it though, the hotel chains (Westin, Marriott, etc.) have one-upped the Ferragamo's and Tiffany's and have made their hotels into majestic, mansion-like buildings...well the exteriors, at least. I'm sure that the rooms are still a tad under-sized, and covered with fluids that are only visible under black light.

As we wandered around Waikiki, we came across some other gems that weren't exactly in the same strata as the Gauthier's and Ferraris. There was the Evergreen lounge, which looks like it might be the greatest dive/karaoke bar in the history of the world. We're going to try to actually walk into the place later in the week. Then there was The Happiness Lounge, which was not a strip club. It was yet another karaoke bar. Again, I can only imagine the amazing karaoke that goes in inside those doors.

We did drive through the red light district, and passed La Femme Nu, which was subtitled in American, in smaller neon letters, for those that aren't Francophiles. It means "The Naked Lady". Why is it that when you name something in another language, it sounds exotic, even if it sounds like the stupidest name in English? Sort of like the game "One!" (Uno!) or eating at Tomato (Pomodoro). Or naming your gas station "Hello"...yes, the gas stations here are named "Aloha". See what I mean? Pretty dumb.

And that's all she wrote for Day Two.