Pedals, Pork and a Pool - Kapaa and Hanalei

I need a pool. But, hey, why not swim in the ocean since it's everywhere? Good question. The difference between a pool and the ocean gets down to salt and swell. I guess I'm too used to swimming a measured distance in fresh water under controlled conditions.

I've brought a few bags on this trip to carry my things and bring groceries home if I need to. I exasperate myself with my indecision about what to bring for the day. It seems I end up with everything. When did my life get this complicated?

First of all, we're going down to Kapaa to rent bicycles. I've heard there's a community pool somewhere nearby, but distances are vague in my mind. I recall that most things are not very far from anything else on this nearly round island.

I give up on deciding what to take, stuff everything into all my bags and declare myself ready. We leave, heading south to a place called Coconut Coasters where we can rent bicycles. It's easy to find. On the way down the coast from Hanalei, we've already seen glimpses of the bike path I read about before our trip. And, no kidding, the pool is right behind it at the Kapaa Community Park. Wow. The pool isn't open yet, though. That's okay because the bike ride is going to be first.

Outfitted with big ol' three-speed cruisers we begin to ride south on the one-mile-long trail section that's right next to the water and find ourselves grinning like fools. There really is no better way to see the countryside than by bicycle, and this wide, easy, flat path is as pleasant as any I could find anywhere. For anyone interested, this trail is interrupted after a mile by a two-mile length of city streets that have no trail. However, once you get on past the two-mile section of town, you are back on a separate trail again. More trails are planned apparently but need funding, of course.

Most of the trail is a wide, flat cement trail that seems more like a wide sidewalk than a "path." We go to the end of that one mile, including a charming little lagoon-like protected area called Baby Beach where a tiny boy and his mother are playing in the sun. We turn around and come back past Coconut Coasters and the park. Then we continue on north taking the next 3.5 miles which is a very scenic and gently undulating trail. This is Sunday, and we hardly see anyone. There is a good headwind, but the air is warm, and our 3-speeds are handling the terrain without any trouble. Every so often, covered picnic tables provide shelter from sun or rain. We pass several beaches that seem virtually deserted but perfectly beautiful. Too many beaches on Kauai - what a problem! On the way back we have a tailwind and zoom along for free, hardly pedaling.

The bicycle fun is over far too soon. Our backsides are squashed by the cruiser seats, but that's the only complaint. The big cruisers are back in the able hands of staff at the Coasters, so we look for lunch. Nearby is a small cluster of food trucks, so we go see what we can see there. One looks well kept and a young woman is outside neatening up. She says her food truck, Al Pastor, offers a special mahi fish taco she recommends ordering medium rare, which I do. We sit, wait, watch kids nearby and then gather our order when it's all ready.

Oh dear, I'm not sure I'll ever have better fish taco again. Pinto beans, rice and lime are served with the taco, which is served inside small corn tortillas. Very few Mexican places make their own beans, but this little truck does, and they are buttery soft and savory. The fish is tender, perfectly done, and they are big healthy hunks of very fresh mahi. We rave, exclaim, savor and slurp. It's messy good food. The young woman comes over to check on us and tells us her husband, the cook, is a native of Oaxaca. Well, he's hired. That's all I can say. Hired.

Not a bad start to our Kauai vacation at all.

The community pool is open now, but I'm too full to eat. I make a mental note about the pool in case I cannot find one closer to our bungalow. Heading back north on the main road, there's a sign for a farmer's market, so we make a quick turn up a sloping, bumpy county road. You pay on the honor system for any fruit you want, and you can try some Hawaiian barbecue pork. I carry away a pineapple, a good bunch of apple bananas (small size, wow flavor), and some limes for papaya back home.

On the road again, we decide to have a look at Princeville, a highly manicured collection of time shares, resort hotels, golf courses and tennis courts. A friend has told me I might be able to find a lap pool here and join for a week. She's right. The Makai Golf Club will let you be a member for a month and use their pool. I'm only here for a week; the price is pretty spendy for only five days of swimming, but it's only five minutes away from our bungalow and I need to keep swimming, so I join. Still stuffed with mahi tacos, I decide to begin my swim regimen tomorrow.

The road takes us to our rustic place, a satisfying contrast to the uber high-end digs at Princeville, which, by the way, is offers eye-popping views of Hanalei and the Kalalau Range. Just so you know I appreciate both ends of the rental market...

It's time to get down and real at the beach. Slippers, suit, towel, and we take a shuffle on down to the huge beach. There is only one thing to contend with:  What part of said beach is more perfect than the rest? We are spoiled, aren't we. Yes, it's tough here. Lifeguard flags signal the biggest rip tide area, so we avoid that. Way over to the right of us is the very picturesque and useful covered pier.  Clouds are low in the area. It looks like rain any second.

On the way to the pier, we see a tall, thin young blonde wearing a glistening sparkly gold rashguard and a red helmet. She's trailed into the water by two young local men who are wearing rashguards with the name of their surfing instruction business. Two guys to teach one girl? I wonder who she is. She looks accustomed to having staff.

The pier was built in the 1930s and stands patiently awaiting some maintenance, upkeep, anything. The sandy bottom of the bay is shallow, easy to learn to play at water sports. In rhythmically surging ocean next to the pier, two stiff and anxious Chinese men are learning to surf from only one instructor who is very patient with them. They seem very unused to the water, unable to figure out how to paddle. They are game to try though. Before you know it, they're hopping up on their feet and catching swells that the surfer pushes them into. Looks fun. I'd try it too if the sun was out and I had my stuff with me.

Rain drizzles down but stops absolutely no one from doing whatever they're doing at the shoreline. Way out at the surf break at the tip of the bay opening, surfers are getting long rides Hanalei is famous for. They must be a mile away.

After watching for quite a while, we walk back home along the beach and access streets to our place. Dinner out at a local tourist restaurant and we're good for the night. Life is very simple this way:  The sun comes up and we're up with it, outdoors most of the day and back in when it's dark. Keeping things sweet and real. That's Kauai for you.

Hanalei: A living lullaby

Rain wakes me up in the middle of the night, a building rush of sound that holds its deepest note for no more than three minutes and then fades into the darkness. I am awakened by the sound, feel a cool breeze on my face from the open window by the bed. There is no other sound at first. Then I hear a low, soft, muffled and distant rhythm: the waves on Hanalei Bay's beach. Then, I drift off to sleep again.

In the morning, something awakens me again from my sleep. Or many things do, all of them the small noises of creatures and life stirring. I have these early morning hours to myself as my husband sleeps. Time to imagine what I'll do in the day ahead, think of what we did the day before, and listen. 

The birds out in the garden are local, not island birds native to Kauai. Like full-blood Hawaiians, native birds are very rare now. Whatever variety they are, the songs and calls color the early hours of the day. 

As a short-term visitor here, I am a bit torn between a wish to just sit peacefully and a need to get out and do things. I imagine friends I talked to before the trip, asking me, "What are you going to DO when you're there?" 

"Well, nothing," was my reply. But I am very curious to go see, to be active and not just be a blob. Blobbishness, I tell myself, will be enjoyed after some kind of exploration is undertaken, by some mode other than car driving. I just have that need to move and feel myself alive in this paradise. There is a sense of excitement and thrill, being in a more exotic environment than my own home. I imagine myself some kind of rugged, fit athlete, able to climb, paddle and surmount physical challenges with aplomb. The truth is, I am some fainter shade of that colorful imaginary self at my age now, but I've got a lot of kick left in me. 

I sigh. We'll come up with a plan for the day, sketched in broad strokes, as we usually do. We've got a few things on a mental list that sound interesting or entertaining: Biking, hiking, swimming, body surfing. Boredom is to be avoided, but so is a frenetic pressured need to see and do all. We'll walk a line between them, I hope. 

I begin cutting up fresh pineapple, papaya and some sweet bread we bought yesterday at a farmer's market in Poipu while we were driving around. Coffee begins to brew and fill the small bungalow with its familiar aroma. It already feels like home here, easy to fall into a rhythm of our own. We sit at the table in the kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the birds in the yard. It's peaceful here. We are escapees from the ugliness and stress of modern life, way far away from anyone we know but also very safe, unchallenged except by any small bit of physicality we chose to throw into our own path. 

It's really a living lullaby in Hanalei for visitors like us. Times like this, I'm not certain at all I ever want to go home again.

Kauai Again

It takes no more than 20 minutes to fly, from liftoff to touchdown, from Honolulu to Lihue, Kauai, but the flight crew of  Hawaiian Airlines manages to hand out small juice cups up and down the aisle before we land. Nice touch.

Lihue airport is situated on the island like the flight deck of an aircraft carrier; it's on a flat shoulder of land that's like a shelf off the island's southwest curve. Kauai is here! Rather, we are here! Kauai has been here longer than any of the other habitable islands, the northernmost in the chain of Hawaiian Islands. It's the prettiest one, in my opinion, and it has the most chickens. Little factoid there, but I'll get to that later, in another post.

We round up our rental car, load up our stuff, drive away to the south shore, opposite direction from our home town for the week, Hanalei. It's too early to check in, so we've decided to explore. Most visitors to this island beeline for the south and stay in Poipu. In the winter, it's drier, warmer, and all the big resorts are here. We are hungry and look up best bets for good local grinds, choose a popular hamburger chain, head for it, find it, and then smell garlic. Hmmmm. I poke around a bit and find a place called Savage Scampi and my mouth waters vigorously. After some, ahem, discussion (he wants a burger), we go to the shrimp place. It seems more authentically good. A few thousand people have turned the walls into a giant yearbook of sorts by writing messages to the owners all over the walls, floor to ceiling.

He orders a fish taco dish, and I order a scampi-and-rice dish that comes piled up with garlic, garlic and more garlic. I have to peel the scampi, but it's good. I'm happy. We eat with fine appetites and then go poke around Koloa, an old sugar mill company town now given over to touristed trinket shops and food places.

The one main reason we drive to and from Koloa is the chance to go along the so-called tunnel of trees. The trees are tall, grand, overhang the highway and border the road on both sides for miles. They were stripped of all leaves and most small branches during Hurricane Iniki in 1992 but have recovered wonderfully and form a living cathedral over much of the roadway. Along the same stretch of road, a dramatic panorama catches my eye, a cattle ranch. Its spread of trees, backdrop of volcanic ridges and hills, as well as the open plain of grasses is rugged and natural in appearance, a testament to the beauty of nature if left mostly alone.

It's time to head up to Hanalei Bay and find our place. We were here two years ago, so the island is looking and feeling immediately familiar. The famous Princeville area with its many condo communities and golf courses sits on the high point above the bay to the northeast. Taro fields, a long curving scythe-shaped beach and spectacular mountains form a stage-backdrop setting for the little village of Hanalei. It's so perfectly tropically pretty and charming from every angle that even ugly is pretty. The dark red iron-rich soil tinges buildings, cars, the tree trunks and fence posts with its ochre red. Corrugated roofs built to withstand upwards of 25 inches of rain a year and hot sun as well are picturesque to me. Lush undergrowth and tall beautiful trees with flowers in their canopies give way at times to reveal craggy and jagged peaks in every view on the mauka side of the road.

Our bungalow is a vacation rental that we have completely to ourselves for the week. There's no maid service. Just us. I find it to be in total contrast to our Waikiki hotel. It's very quiet, simple, old-fashioned in some respects, but our wifi hookup is far better than we had at our last hotel. In defense of better hotels on Oahu, wifi is generally no problem, but it seems like a kind of voodoo security system is evolving there to the point that it's sometimes very hard to find cell-friendly areas with adequate signals for smart phone use. But, I digress.

We take a walk after settling in. The sandy expanse of Hanalei Bay is about a five-minute walk away. The sand is soft, warm brown and easy to walk on. My guess is from one end to the other might be about three miles. We walk around and wade in the warm water when the waves rush up onto the beach. Without suits on, we are just up to our ankles only. We'll begin our exploration tomorrow in earnest. Right now, softening into the rhythm of the place is all that's required. Wow, is it pretty.

Thanksgiving Leftovers in Honolulu

I wake up on Friday morning in Waikiki, hear the noise of the city works, police, transportation and medical rescue workers hard at work and recall that a hike was promised by a friend. This is our last day on Oahu, so we really should make it special. There will be plenty of leftovers later as there was a 22 lb turkey and lots of side dishes for just eight people. Food? No problem.

It's time for coffee. Our hotel room coffee is worse than bad tea. Starbucks is two blocks away; isn't it always these days? As ubiquitous as ABC Stores in Waikiki, they thrive for a reason: You get what you need and the quality is pretty consistent. Besides, wifi is free there and the music selection is actually pretty interesting.

Then, time to dress for a hike. In Hawaii, most if not all trails have exposed roots criss-crossing the path and if there has been rain, there will be sticky mud. I wear hiking sandals, but old running shoes would be good, too. The air is pretty humid in every Hawaiian forest I've been in. I've heard an old saying, "Horses sweat, men perspire and women glow." I sweat. Like a faucet. Which may be too much information, but it's just to say I need to bring along a chamois cloth or bandanna and a water bottle for even a moderate simple hike. All set, off we go, in a good mood, ready for adventure.

We join two young hikers, residents here, and then drive with them up the Pali Hwy, turning to drive on the old beautiful, vine-enshrouded roadway that served as the pali road until the freeway was built. Not far up the road is a trailhead where we stop. We are heading for Ginger Jackass Pond if no other reason than to find out why in the world it got its name. This is not too far up the road from the Queen's Summer Palace, and there are many toney homes in the neighborhood.

We begin the walk on the undulating pretty trail that wends its way through bamboo, Norfolk Island pine and tropical forest growths. There are vines hanging from the towering trees near the trail. The men do their Tarzan moves to varying degrees of success. Soon, we cross an unnamed stream, stepping from boulder to boulder, go up a short climb, loop around through more forest areas, hear a lawnmower and realize civilization is very close at hand. Soon after that, we begin to hear water again. This is a 1.5 mile hike at best and would be considered more a walk, but we are all pleased with it; it's very pretty. The sound of water leads us to a small pond where a man and his two young boys are fishing. The little stream flows down some slick rocks, forming a waterfall into the pond.

The young'uns get into the pond, splash about, declare it chilly but refreshing, and get out. We poke around and rest, but get on our way again. Too soon, the hike is over, and I am drenched in "glow." We consider some options. The Pali Lookout is up the road. We might as well go up there to have a look.

Normally, the lookout is a wall of wind that wrenches jackets, purses and wigs off visitors, but today it is merely a spectacular view overlook with gentle puffs of breeze. (Oddly enough, we would later hear that that very same day had proven to be deadly as a heavy storm squall had hit the north shore and torn the roof off a school building.) There are a smattering of clouds over the distant hills, it's a fine view, and we get a satisfying look at it.

Then, it's time for the girls to go shopping. We are all smiles; this is going to be fun. The menfolk need down time, so it works out nicely. Off we go to the Ala Moana Shopping Center, leaving the males to lie about lazily for the afternoon. Well, the mall has essentially become a giant magnet for the entire population of Hawaii. It is thronged with what seems like half a million people. It's Black Friday after all, and no one is left at home except our men who want nothing to do with it. Probably, it was a wise choice.

We get our minds made up. It's my choice to go to Victoria's Secret and then we'll cruise to some other places. It takes the merest second to see that VS is the destination for what seems like all females who have come to the mall. They're all here right now, examining bras and panties with keen expressions, as if they are TSA inspectors looking for bombs. Photographs of pouting, perfect, 16-year-old models in nearly nothing glow from high on all the walls. The store is lace, pink-on-pink, with "Pink" written on everything, as if you didn't already get it. Techno music thumps. Breasts are big business. As if you didn't already get it...

A young saleswoman says hello, whips out her measuring tape, corners me with a confident gaze, and measures me before God and all present. It would do absolutely no good to protest; she uses her measuring tape as a cowboy uses a lariat to rope his cattle. Shall I moo? I find a few items to try on, and jostle my way to the dressing rooms. There are lines there, but the staff make short work of anyone who is undecided or who needs assistance, rushing away to find more delicates to try on. Their hard work pays off; I buy several items and leave feeling well served if not a little lighter in the pocket book.

Fresh air feels good. It has begun raining, but no one in Hawaii ever takes that as a sign to get under cover. It always seems to stop quickly and never cools off much anyway. (Sometimes it rains with no clouds visible overhead, the rain blown in on the trade winds from makai way where the air is cooler and more turbulent.) Day is now evening. We have shuffled with the crowds past the 200 or more shops in the giant mall and wish we had more time to fondle the clothing in the expensive stores. But the menfolk will rendezvous with us again, phoning and texting frequently as they approach the mall. They are bringing food; where are we meeting; when will we be there; where should they park, etc. The plan is to have a picnic of leftovers at the park across the street. Everyone is glad to eat, recharge batteries and settle down after the crowds and cross-town transportation exasperation. We're better now.

After a some small talk, it's time for a movie at Ward Center. We have to drive a short way from the beach and find a place to park. The theater is monstrous, could hold thousands, all told, has stadium-sized screens and comfortable seats. I buy pineapple chunks to snack on during the movie. It seems right somehow, pineapple at a Hawaiian movie theater, watching a movie set in India. We watch The Life of Pi, a movie I find interesting and visually very beautiful.

Now the day is done, our stay in Waikiki has come to an end. Aloha oi. We say our good-byes, give and receive warm embraces, and then we depart, even though I hate to go for many reasons. Tomorrow, Kauai, the Garden Isle, awaits us.

Waikiki Does Thanksgiving

I am walking on the sand at Waikiki at 9 a.m. To the left is the pale aqua milkiness of the sea. And about a thousand tourists playing, everywhere I look. To my right is the densely packed hotel playground area of the Sheraton. Pools, chaise lounges, fake waterfalls, chairs, snack bars, showers and toys of all kinds are stacked and ready for everyone to have fun, everyone to indulge in tropical water play.

It's Thanksgiving Day today. I am on a morning walk after an açai bowl with good coffee at Honolulu Coffee Roasting Co. Waikiki Beach itself seems happy, screaming, all of it posing for pictures. Girls are signing up for outrigger canoe rides, surf lessons and stand-up paddling. Little kids with floaties on their arms run in and out of lapping wavelets. Japanese ladies, sun phobic, are dressed from head to toe in dark fashionable clothing and carry parasols to shield their pale skin. Business has not slacked off at all for the feast day, probably because a good number of tourists have no idea what Thanksgiving is. Many are from Japan, Korea, China, Germany and Italy.

Waikiki is a big backyard pool, a safe and energetic playground rocked by a gently surging ocean. It is so iconic and so easy, a place to be out in nature without really knowing nature at all. You just go play and have a good time, no matter who you are. It's like you're living in a post card all the time, with "Aloha" written up in the sky in red and gold lettering.

As long as you are at the beach in Waikiki you can ignore the whole world, all its problems and anything that used to be important back home. Refreshingly warm water - not too warm - and puffing trade winds are a balm for the child in your heart. Just play and play and play some more. Live the simple life at the beach. On Thanksgiving, your sense of play is in some way a form of gratitude, I suppose, employing the health and vitality that you were given at birth. It sure beats sitting indoors in the cold, worrying about difficulties and feeling burdened by responsibility all the time.

I walk to the Royal Hawaiian to find quiet peace in the inner gardens, take a look at the fine panama hats in one of the shops on the grounds, consider one for $450 and decide I have become delusional for even considering a hat like that - even though I look fabulous in it, I must say - and walk back to my hotel, watching people along the way. It's still early in the day, and it's possible these out-of-towners will enjoy traditional food later in the afternoon, but nothing I am seeing right now indicates that is even a remote possibility.

My six-block walk takes me past the Apple store where a line of maybe 12 customers is being herded into a very straight queue before the store opens, an employee exerting his line-forming skills in a loud voice that surprises me. I'm glad I'm not in line; it's a different kind of gratitude than I'd been considering just a moment before. So-called Black Friday, an ominous term recently coined, is tomorrow.

Finally back at my hotel, my husband and I gather up our things for the holiday meal, drive over to Kaimuki to our family's house and commence chopping, slicing, stirring, baking and otherwise preparing our fine feast. Friends come over at 4, I meet Noah, age 2 months, and I reacquaint myself with his parents. They are probably going to earn a prize for most loving and alert parents of the year. The meal is delicious, conversation and games are fun, and I am grateful over and over again to be right here, right now, in this least likely version of the pilgrim's first celebration.

Almost Local in Honolulu

I'm living local in Honolulu, but not familiar enough with all parts of town to feel I can make my way around; I still need to make a conscious effort going here and there. Back home, I drive from one area to another and get to a destination almost as if the car drove itself. It's not quite the same in Honolulu, but I feel much more relaxed than I would as a tourist. I'm something in between.

I swim again at Ala Moana, do not see any brides this time but there is a covey of older Japanese-American men playing croquet on the wide expanse of lawn. A homeless man with a large boom box is playing Frank Sinatra and big band tunes while he sits in a folding beach chair in the shade, lost in thought, smoking and smoothing the crease in his polyester slacks, Nike sneakers tied with red laces. Another man in the parking lot is playing his ukelele while he reclines in his beach chair, his feet propped up on the tailgate of his small truck. His little granddaughter is toddling around, rushing toward other parked cars to tag them with her wide-open hands and look back at her singing grandfather. He occasionally calls out to her in a gruff voice, "Hey, no! Don't you do that! Come ovah heah!" The uke music floats out over the milky aqua blue water while people sit in the shallows and talk story with one another and kids play. All sounds are softer, as if cotton batting were wrapped around them. To the west large jets take off from Honolulu airport and rumble up and away into the clouds, load after load of tourists departing for home again. Other jets soar in and bring replacement tourists for the ones who've just left.

My swim is satisfying. I push the pace a bit at intervals in an attempt to preserve my fitness. The water is probably 76 degrees. I'm getting better at keeping the salt water out of my mouth, but I end up stopping to spit it out vigorously every so often. When I finish, I down a bottle full of fresh water with enormous gratitude and pleasure.

Waikiki is a world away. I like this park, the peaceful nature of the place and the views it affords of the city to the east of what is called Magic Island, an area popular for joggers.

I join my husband, and we head over to a light industrial area on Coral Street in Honolulu to find Hank's Haute Dogs for lunch. There is no better place to find a tasty sausage dog. I get a Hawaiian Dog (a Portuguese sausage topped with mango mustard and pineapple relish) and hibiscus lemonade because it sounds exotic and tropical. A steady stream of visitors wait patiently in line, gazing up at the large menu board behind the counter, order and again wait patiently to pick up their food. I am very happy as I wait and even happier as I eat. It's a fine meal.

Later, after a nap back at the hotel, it's time to go to the grocery store to buy provisions for our Thanksgiving feast.

First, we eat outdoors at a take-away BBQ place near the Safeway store on Kapahulu Avenue while a delusional man, probably schizophrenic, walks by telling (us? God? who?) his tales of woe. He talks louder as he gets nearer our table but keeps going, fogged by his delusions. Hawaii has its share of mentally ill, and they are made more visible by its warm environment. I've seen the ruined and wretched often in Waikiki and other parts of Honolulu, just like most of America, a painful aspect of society. The meal we are eating is tasty, and I feel relief that I can provide for myself and have my health.

The truth is living in Hawaii costs a lot, and wages are low. Locals usually extend each other a more favored price than they do to strangers who are usually tourists; the kama'aina discount is a way of helping each other out, extending aloha to one another. Later, knowing that, I am really surprised when Whole Foods in the Kahala Mall (located just off the musically named Kalanianaole Highway) is jammed with shoppers. I am told this is how it is every day in this store. All hours, every day. There are very few sale prices, and most items cost more than at other stores. It seems quality has more appeal than cheap prices. Foodies abound.

Where we had seen MSG-soaked pork sausage guaranteed to taste horrible and fill us up with salt from the products offered at Safeway, Whole Foods presents us with three different pork sausage blends and no MSG. We select one, toss some other goodies into our basket and call it a day. We intend to use the sausage in our stuffing recipe.

It's time to bake pies, talk and spend time with family, prepare for the gathering tomorrow afternoon. Success! The pies do not burn, the cranberries cooperate and the fruit I bought at the stand on the North Shore is holding up well. We'll do the real cooking tomorrow and then give our thanks.

Out of Waikiki, to the North Shore

We are in a mood to get out of the city, flee to rural Oahu today. Even though this is a medium-sized island, there is immense variety in terrain and climate. Wherever the tradewinds blowing across the Pacific for a few thousand miles suddenly slam up against a cliff, there is rain. Tall, dark jagged mountain cliffs block the moisture carried on the wind, sending it upward where it cools and tumbles, then condenses and pours down on the flanks of the mountains and plains further out. In contrast, the southeast side of the island, only a few miles away on the protected side of the pali, appears to look like the high desert of the southwest on the mainland. 

We decide to go to the north shore and circle the island’s perimeter starting with Haleiwa, the historic little town that has evolved from a plantation town to tourist attraction and gateway to surfing's mecca, the North Shore. On the north shore and areas that border it, life is surfing and surfing is life. There is solace, renewal and physical challenge out there in the salt water. It seems as if it is living, that ocean, but it is many forces of nature jostling for dominance, and we ascribe emotion to it. If nothing else, the ocean is intoxicating, I will give you that. 

Simply say, “north shore” to a surfer, and they know you’re talking about Oahu’s legendary surf spots. Lots of surf places can and do offer huge waves or beautiful swells, but this constitutes the beating heart of surfing, the one place where any surfer worth his or her salt will eventually find themselves gazing at the ocean, studying surf reports as they have never studied before. They all dream of paddling out for a spot in a lineup on the north shore, even if they can only handle a flat day like this one. There are many strata of surfers, the lowliest of them wobbling out on boards to try small waves, then paddling back to shore when the swells kick up, knowing full well that their skills don’t allow for head-high or overhead surf conditions. The waves the north shore are infamous for are big, thick 30- to 40-foot monsters that boom like thunder. It’s hard to imagine at the moment, but there are certainly a lot of galleries and stores stocked with images of wiry athletes charging down mountainous and glistening waves to prove that it happens. They seem to defy gravity just as cats do, exactly as lithe and graceful. 

Right across the street from the Haleiwa McDonalds, which looks very quiet, the Haleiwa Cafe is elbow to elbow with mostly large, white, not-a-chance-of-surviving-a-tiny-wave tourists, but a few locals (unruly hair, deep tans, surf shirts and board shorts) sit with friends here, too.  The food is hearty, nourishing and delicious. The women waiting tables are very good at their work. My breakfast burrito has a savory sauce that sets my mouth watering. I am grateful for the simplicity of it; it seems honest for some reason, perhaps because the cafe is very small and has evolved in response to the needs of hungry local athletes over a long period of time and stick with what nourishes instead of following trends and fads. 

I am glad to be away from Waikiki and the loud thrashing din there. We finish our meal and consider our route for the day. It’s possible to shop among many little boutiques and art stores here, but we will drive on further northeast and then south along the windward coast. This being the wet season, the sky is heavy and overcast but still warm. We are very comfortable in shirts and shorts. 

After a few minutes we begin to see roadside fruit stands and cars bellying up to them. The ladies at one stand have bagged fruit. They call out prices for bananas, pineapple, dragon fruit, tomatoes, corn and papaya in sing-song voices. No mangoes. I choose a pineapple, some corn on the cob and a bag of tomatoes. Thanksgiving is in two days. 

At Sunset Beach, the Vans Triple Crown of Surfing is setting up; it will also be held in turn at Pipeline and Waimea Bay. A huge crane is hoisting scaffolding into place to form the observation structure where judges will sit as well as the press photographers and officials. I can imagine the two-lane road we’re driving today will be an incredible crush of cars when the contest is going on. I’ve always hoped to see the waves heave up to massive heights, but the ocean has never cooperated while I’ve been on island. Someday. Certainly today looks like a riffled lake, a disappointment to competitors and fans all over the island.

We stop at one of many public beach parks to photograph and stretch our legs. There are a few other people around, but the moody sky is keeping most away from the shore today. A fresh pineapple snack is refreshing. Little red-topped cardinals as well as the ubiquitous and silly local doves call and flutter, alert for crumbs and morsels. Palm trees rustle in the steady wind, and they look like wild mops to me, upended by a temperamental giant. 

Traffic intensifies later on as we near Kaneohe, Kailua and Waimanalo. These are towns below the vertical pali that block the precipitation blown in on the shoulders of the tradewinds. The scenery is dramatic and tropical, vines climbing everywhere and flowers littering the ground. Driving is fairly easy to handle as most drivers on the island tend to move more slowly than in say, Southern California or Texas (where if you dare to use a turn signal, drivers behind accelerate past you with a devilish and pig-headed desire to obliterate you). Hawaii remains relatively mellow even as the population has increased, one of the reasons I love it. 

Finally reaching the southmost stretch of the island, we see wind-sculpted rocks, sere landscapes and turbulent waves thumping the shore. It’s rugged and beautiful, but seems to snarl with a nasty temper. The scenic overlooks near Sandy Beach give a good view of the dark teal water with its white foaming spray. The blowhole is going full blast, and little girls watching are giggling and screaming with delight. I am mesmerized and want to stand there watching for the rest of the day. 

At last we arrive back in the busy hive of Waikiki to rest and then join our family members later. (We’ve brought home leftovers from Maile’s Thai Bistro, a delicious discovery we bumped into in Hawaii Kai on the south shore.) The images of the day are jumbled, misted by restless waves and currents. So many people on one island, so much rock and such a tremendous ocean, all of it moving and alive, continually. 

A Swim, A Palace: Honolulu

I wade out into the sea, and all the city noise fades away. Waikiki is a loud place, the din obliterating most of the aspects of what I have come here for:  warmth, loveliness, serenity. 

The water is cool at first, impulses of currents moving against my legs and hips, sand under my feet. This is the lagoon at Ala Moana Beach Park. It’s a place where noise disperses and waves are held at bay by a distant manmade reef. Swimmers move away  from the beach and then parallel to the long shoreline, taking steady rhythmic strokes to the distant buoys and flags that serve as guideposts. It’s a relief to be in the water. I dip into the cool liquid up to my shoulders and then begin to swim. It’s very easy swimming, the salt water makes me more buoyant than usual. The trade winds ruffle the surface to a tiny chop, but there are essentially no swells.

I set out, swimming in the general direction of the first buoy. I feel good again, but it takes some warmup time to get my mind focused on the swimming, and I begin a workout of sorts, recalling drill patterns and pace I’ve done many times in my masters swimming workouts. 

Ala Moana is north of Waikiki by a mile or so and offers an oasis that I crave, a respite from the city roar and bustle. It’s good to visit other towns to see what they have to offer, but the sounds get to me. I need this swim, and I’m very grateful to the city planners back in the day who carved out this peaceful gem for its citizens.

Being used to a freshwater swimming pool, I have to adapt to the murky opacity and no line to follow on the bottom. I’m can sight by the buoys to keep from meandering in every direction.  

I reach the last red flag posted far from my starting point. I’ve seen several other swimmers including one who, despite the buoys to guide him, is swimming straight for me. I swim to my right to avoid his course, but he swims to his left even more as if a homing device is beaming him toward me. I stroke pretty hard to keep out of his way, but he keeps on toward me. Eventually, he rushes past my left shoulder about four feet away, and I feel tempted to look around to see if he is going to make another rush toward me again, like a bull heading for a red cape. Odd.

The water has a nice swelling lift to it every so often, just a tiny one, but I feel like I’m cradled in a swaying embrace. I swim on back to the starting point where all the families are playing in the water, children yelling happily. Their voices are muffled by the air and sun and ocean. 

Later, after I’ve showered and dressed, we drive over to the Iolani Palace in the middle of Honolulu, a historical treasure I’ve missed on past trips. As the docents will tell you, it’s the only royal palace in the United States. After the Hawaiian Islands were discovered by yankees, a relatively systematic takeover by Christian missionaries and their descendants began. Eventually - and I am skipping a very long series of events - the queen Iolani was imprisoned for eight months within her own palace, and Hawaii was declared property of the United States.  Read Unfamiliar Fishes by Sarah Vowel, a good read with both humor and pathos underlining the whole story. 

The palace has been carefully restored and can be toured, led by a guide or by taking an audio tour ($14.95). There is an especially beautiful grand staircase that leads from the main hall where you begin the tour, up to the sleeping and living quarters of the king and queen. Many exquisite treasures furnish the rooms. A few unique features exemplify the forward-thinking sensibility of the royals of the day including electrical fixtures, flush toilets and a pleasing overall design of the structure itself. 

The colonial island esthetic always strikes me as harmonious with the islands’ colors and sensations. In early times, buildings were oriented in a direction declared sacred by the kahunas and used the beautiful island woods, especially koa, for doors and framing. Because King Kalakaua had traveled abroad and was well versed in his contemporary sciences and languages, he helped craftsmen design and create features of the palace. The light fixtures are striking in both their simplicity and graceful shapes. There are large brass hinges on all the koa wood doorways, and the staircase itself is koa and walnut with other woods used in the fine details of carving and overall form. 

The palace tour finished, we drove back to Waikiki where we are staying for a few more days. This, like other visits, requires me to go find the quiet Oahu that lies beyond Waikiki. The North Shore still calls, as do hikes, more swimming, and, of course, time with my family. 

Oahu Again

Out of the mists of autumn comes a jagged silhouette, enrobed in green: Oahu. After five hours of flying against the jet stream on a steady course, the islands’ appearance is just as unlikely today as it was the first time I ever flew here, the vastness of a shimmering ocean stretching on and on for untold miles in every direction. It’s an impressive and amazing thing to find a tiny string of beautiful islands in the middle of a big blue nowhere after five hours’ flight at 500 miles an hour. Out here in the Pacific Ocean, the biggest ocean in the universe, I am a speck taking refuge on a collection of old volcanic rock islands. I can’t imagine it even as I am here writing and breathing. I admire the nerve of ocean-going explorers who had a knowledge of navigation using celestial bodies and wave patterns. They had that, but they had no real idea how darned big the ocean really is. 

We land safely, if not with a jarring thump as the tradewinds let the jet down off their shoulders, having borne it willingly and steadily, looping in from the east around Diamond Head, skirting the shore above the city. Bam! It's a jolt that smacks us all into alertness. Nobody applauds the pilot this time, but I feel relieved the bird has landed safely. We disembark, we modern well-fed and pampered travelers, and disperse, embraced by the islands, all in our separate directions. 

The fall and winter here feels like summer on the coast of California, about 65-70 degrees. It's pretty in bits and pieces in Honolulu, but the city roars with traffic and stinks with exhaust, especially in Waikiki. We go through the usual baggage claim/shuttle to rent a car/drive to the hotel and check-in routine and get ourselves untangled from our traveling equipment and orientation to our living space. The soft warm air wraps itself around me; I am delighted at the absence of the damp chill and fog of my home town.  This is the way Hawaii works its charm, claims my heart. It is a gentle persuasion. 

Waikiki envelops me and my husband with the glare of business signs and absence of much that seems local and charming, but in total that is its charm. I haven’t found the water yet. I know the ocean changes everything, defining the island in almost every way, beautiful, dangerous and unimaginably complex. I will spend as much time as possible in it, near it and looking at it. Once I’m back in the water, I’ll really feel I’ve returned to Hawaii once again.  

Incongruity in a Cloud

I am driving up the road north of Gilroy. I muse about going to Hawaii tomorrow, leaving chilly nights and gray surroundings behind. The car is moving, yet inert and lifeless, and I accept it without thinking, detached, only peripherally aware of anything.

I have driven for miles across a dun-colored autumn landscape laced with concrete roadways that serve us with smooth cunning; we are soothed into complacent living this way. I used to ride my bike everywhere and was a more fit human being then. That was years ago, and I have changed, I often say.

Glancing up at the sky, I see slate-gray clouds mounded over the coastal range to the west and the more distant hills to the east. But look there! High over the Santa Clara valley is a rose-colored beehive-shaped cloud formation that's reflecting the setting sun, now out of sight beyond the western hills. It's gloriously incongruent, soft and formless, with shifting vapors that seem turbulently alive, energetic, free and lovely.

I can imagine there are black insects buzzing around it or that it's a whirling fat tornado of pink migratory birds, like the blackbirds that flock in their millions over marshes and tidal flats. What does it mean, I wonder. Would a wizened soothsayer glean information from such a cloud? Imagining myself to be such a crone, I try but fail to see the future, discern new wisdom. Nothing else anywhere is anything but a shade of gray; the cloud fairly shouts its existence to me.

Who else sees it? Who are all these people traveling on the highway as I travel alongside them? I always wonder and never know. In our billions, we hardly know anyone; we are faceless, sometimes even to ourselves. It's the oddest thing, the anonymity of our existence most of the time. What do they notice, those people I cannot see hunched in their cars; what stirs their hearts and sparks their thoughts? That cloud? The evening sky? Or all those headlights and engines?

The evening twilight is dimming away, the air cooling and the pink cloud now far behind me. I drive on into the night, my destination a large hotel and a warm meal. I am plunged back into the rigid world of our human construct. My mind and soul remain abstracted, extracted from the right angles and petroleum products that surround me everywhere.

Incongruity as a cloud above the highway:  The natural world will not be denied. I am better for the reminder of it all, and thank every single lucky star emerging in the night's dark veil.

If: As Chance Would Have It

A meteor crashed and crackled through the atmosphere a couple of days ago. A friend saw the flames and was stunned. He said the fireball seemed to have landed right here in Pacific Grove, and I missed the whole thing, of course. So, I began wondering how many near misses have happened to me, or almost to me. The innocent walk down the street blithely unaware of how close they are to disaster. I get a funny feeling I have had far more close calls than I'll ever know.

Comedians make whole slapstick routines hilarious based on near misses. Remember Tim Allen or the Marx Brothers? They appeared perfectly clueless as whole rooms collapsed around them.

On the other hand, there are really close calls that the whole world watches as they unfold. Michael Phelps's famous 100 Fly finish at the Beijing Olympics in 2008 is one of those. A hundredth of a second - the length of a fingernail - brought him fame and glory, while Cavic was defeated (defeat seems like such an overstatement in a really close race). Dara Torres lost her 50 freestyle by a hundredth of a second at the same Games. Whether it was luck or a true win is hard to figure. If Dara had done just one little thing differently as she swam like mad for 50 meters - and I mean just one thing, she would have won. If - the word sums up the idea of fate or chance in such a nutshell.

Don't you just wonder sometimes how you missed seeing a 20-dollar bill on the floor when someone else spotted it? Or miss the lottery grand prize by just one number? So close! The fun of it's in the retelling and sharing the agony of that realization with friends. Everyone has a few stories about how close they came to some disaster or glory.

That little word: If.

If only the bat had swung a little lower, the batter would have hit the bases-loaded home run. Instead, he whiffs and gets the final out. Tragedy! If only...There are so many ways that possibility can play out - and has been used as a story-telling device in movies and books. If only Cary Grant had realized that Deborah Kerr loved him, had been injured and tried so hard to get back to the Empire State Building in An Affair to Remember, everything could have been so much better for them both.

The thing is that possibility, when viewed as a spur for more focused effort in the future, provides such food for thought and speculation. You see it the other way though, and sit there fearfully avoiding what might happen? The world becomes a bleak and ugly place. I missed the meteor show, but then again, it missed me, my town and roared harmlessly into the ocean (I assume). Whew! And I never even saw it coming - or going.

Looking back at Portland

I am not in Portland, have not been in Portland since Monday. This is Thursday.

The sky here in Monterey has retreated behind its coastal gray blanket of clouds. If I were to stand up on my rooftop, the peak of the rooftop, and look way over east, I might see a lighter version of gray than I see directly outside my window. If I were a bird, I'd head there now to find warmth and bright daylight that changes by the hour as the sun, which would be visibly  bright in the sky, arced across the span of blue from east to west.

No, I am not in Portland, but I have brought home my experiences and impressions, my mind stamped like a paper in a letterpress, a first and lasting collection of images.

Monday took us to the Columbia River Gorge. We only had a few hours to drive around, head off the Interstate to find views of the river, the bluffs, the mountains, and the smoke-haze-veiled trees. A fire was burning somewhere in the distance. It made all the long views of the river appear to be paintings done by traveling artists in the Lewis and Clark expedition. Short of actual leaping salmon in the wide and very grand river, the beauty and riches of the river gorge were splendid.

Of course we went to Multnomah Falls and had a little hike up to see the pretty scenery, doodled around in the gift store, bought a fridge magnet and wondered if we could just go AWOL from both our jobs.

Nope. We had to leave.

I'll go back. I talked to a young woman at breakfast at Besaws Cafe (Do not hesitate; go there. Diners cling to their table, chain themselves to the chair until they have savored every last morsel.) who said she'd grown up in the area, left for a number of years and always found herself coming back again. She gave up and moved back and feels content, satisfied and energized by the city. I understand, not because I am looking up at the fog here, hearing the seagulls' hoarse shrieks and empathetically feeling a kinship with Pacific Grove (I'm not), but because Portland is a fine place, and its people respond to it with a deep resonant love that plays out in a thousand interesting ways. It kind of gets to you. Right in the heart.

Walking Downtown Portland

It's late afternoon, and Portland is squeezing the last juice out of a fine weekend. We are walking on a long street to the heart of town, the muffled rumble of traffic resounding from the freeways in the near distance. I could mistake it for the thumping rumble of surf back home. I can't get my bearings except to heed the order of the street names. We're heading downhill to the river, which, like the Seine does in Paris, bends around Portland's edges. It's no use to use it for a landmark.

What you see in Portland you also see in other pretty American cities: Shade trees, bike lanes, large homes built in the '20s or earlier, now restored or converted to condos or apartments. Benson Bubblers? Only in Portland. Bubblers are curiously unique and generous creations that date back to 1912, kind of a four-bowled drinking fountain that flows with sweet fresh water continuously from early morning to late at night. I see them very randomly while out walking. I've read there are 52 of them around the city. Fresh water is provided for you without request, effort or payment asked. All you do is bend over and take a long cool drink.

The walk is taking us to the Pearl District where I will find REI. I've heard it's big; I need socks. It is big, and the clerks use little devices to ring the sales and email you a receipt if you wish to have one. Seems pretty simple. I want to buy everything in the store, as usual. I end up with no new socks, but two new tops that are on sale. Not sure how that happened, but it did.

Then, onward along more streets, all very easy to walk as they are narrow, pretty flat. The have interesting buildings that line them now that we are in The Pearl District, a more funky and artistically hip area. On we stride until we reach Powell's City of Books, a ridiculously enormous bookstore. Well, it's two bookstores or at least two buildings four stories high. It's the bookstore of my dreams, of any reader's dreams. You need a map to find your way around. How did this happen? Why has it not happened everywhere? Barnes and Noble as well as other bookstores are going ten toes up, dying sad deaths, but Powell's is robust and vigorous.

As the light fades slowly away, hunger rises, and we dither about trying on the ideas of movie or dinner or both. Dinner wins. Jake's Grill is nearby, a place we'd staked out two nights ago when my shoes were blistering my feet (different pair than tonight). The streets are quiet as it's Sunday, and that magic hour of evening light mixed with the day's last glow is upon us. I keep my eyes open for photography possibilities, but we have ducked into the restaurant before I can really get any shots.

Jake's is in a beautiful historic landmark building built in the early 1900's in the arts and crafts style, each bit of it hand made. It was called The Seward Hotel back in its original iteration, was restored in the 1990's and reopened as The Governor Hotel with Jake's established at that time. It's bones are evident in mica lampshades, heavy wooden beams, high painted tin ceiling in the dining room and the pattern of mosaic tiles on the floor. After dinner, we snoop further into the hotel's grand dining rooms and lobby. There is a glowing mural of the early settler's days along the Columbia and deep old leather easy chairs it would be wonderful to sit down into. The fire is crackling nearby. Surely, God lives in a place like this with fine leather chairs and his feet up for the evening.

We must be off to our hotel. We are weary and our eyes are drooping. The moon is hauling up into the night sky. I listen for the creak of winches pulling it up. Portland is a workingman's town historically. I'd think a moon lift must exist here, invented by some enterprising man with a gleam in his eye back in the town's early days. The gleam is still there, and I've seen it in many an eye in the past few days. Good night, Portland.

A Different Portland

Food trucks and breweries are breeding like rabbits in Portland. It becomes much more evident the farther away you go from Nob Hill. There are a few food trucks back in The Groove, where I live, but it's nothing compared to P-town (I'm picking up the names for this city, like pennies off the pavement.)

We are driving now, searching for The Big Egg, a food truck with some notoriety in that devotees write long drooling sentences about the delectable Steak and Egg Sandwich they serve. I just want to see a newer version of Portland, still seek the organic upheaval of creativity that lies behind so many things done so well about town. It's Sunday and brunch must be considered with all due respect.

Mississippi Avenue is straight ahead now, and I'm thinking, here we go, this may be ground zero for creativity, where neutron bombs of inspiration go off. There on the left is a converted parking lot with a shade tent down the middle and the periphery lined with little trailers. The near trailer is bright yolk yellow, the Big Egg we seek. People are milling around, but they look patient and a little sleepy. More interesting hair styles are worn by the young men who also have very thin legs and tall narrow bodies. A young woman walks by wearing Converse high tops and bright orange leg warmers. We're here.

"The wait will be about 55 minutes!" calls a young woman scribbling orders furiously at the counter window of the trailer. We order a PDX and a Steak and Egg Sandwich. I have no idea what I'm in for, but with this many people crowded around willing to wait, I'm good for the hour as long as I have some Stumptown Coffee (Portland's morning nectar).

We set about casing the Avenue and find a row of businesses in a brick-front building. I like the looks of it. A crow sitting on a crowbar, black on gray, is understated and funny. Across the street is a lighting store with what looks like the history of lightbulbs displayed on filament lines in its front windows. A concert venue is closed but looks well kept and on the rise. Gravy, a local cafe, has attracted another patient crowd of mostly twenty-somethings who chat in quiet voices out on the front sidewalk. The inside is jammed. Business is very good.

Back at the food court, we count about 10 trailers, most of which are closed. The Big Egg and a trailer selling biscuits and gravy, grits and bacon sandwiches are taking constant orders and working like the devil to get their orders out. After more than an hour, ours is ready.

Damn! Somehow, they have created a juicy but not soggy grilled sandwich with gourmet flavors including a delicate mustard that counterbalances the melted cheese and ham. It's not massive, but it is a piping hot sandwich with calories leaping off of it straight onto my waistline. I am transported. We thank them as we leave. They grin and glow with pride - a common and very appealing trait among Portlanders.

Mississippi Avenue is emerging - or a cynic could say it may be in a state of arrested decay - from a corner of North Portland where it sits in isolation, like a kid sent to sit in the corner as punishment, separated from the downtown rush and roar by the river, rail yards, industrial steel and graveled lots. It feels resurgent to me. Crummy low-rent old homes with sagging porches on one block have as neighbors some real beauties - Arts and Crafts bungalows, Victorian family homes where care as been given to the yards and structures. It could go either way, but my sense of it is, it's going pretty well.

Something's Missing

I am rested after all the walking in the morning. My legs and feet have ceased their complaints finally. It's time to get out again. My husband rejoins me after being gone on business all day, declares his stomach empty, a need to fill it. I tell him about my walkabout, confident that I can suggest dinner at any number of places nearby. Paley's Place is so close that I can hear the kitchen clattering, and Marrakesh (Moroccan food) is about to float up into the night air on its own cloud of cumin, cardamom and lamb braising with onions.

No, they will not do tonight, he says. We ramble up Northrup to NW 23rd St and turn left toward the cafes I'd seen earlier. There are young people sitting, strolling, texting and chatting everywhere we look. Cars make their way hesitantly up the street, progress interrupted by jaywalkers and couples on the move. Pizza, burgers, pubs, more pizza (including Escape From New York, which would be my choice if you were to ask me, based on the way pizzas were getting slung about by young men with interesting haircuts) and finally Santa Fe Tacqueria. Bingo!

Santa Fe has a barn-like interior with spray-painted murals of heroic Aztecs frowning down on us from all the walls. The food crew are quick as cats. These are cheap eats, in distinct contrast to high-end Higgins the night before. It seems we shall average out our expenses to about mid-range after all. The place, empty when we arrive, quickly fills, the energy rising in the room along with the decibel level. It's a place that could just as easily push back the few middle tables, put on some salsa music and attract a partying crowd. I inhale a ceviche tostada and his carne asada burrito evaporates in mere minutes. We are happy.

Out into the night, we walk along and window shop, talk about the day, compare this place to Berkeley, Santa Cruz, and other college towns. It has all the usual high notes: pizza, coffee joints, pubs, New Age bookstores, high end corporate stores and foodie havens.

We surprise ourselves and begin to plan our breakfast destination. With full stomachs. At the end of the day. Right?

I continue to feel that I have not really discovered anything yet, except that I am interested in finding the heart and soul of Portland. It isn't here. There is a cushion of safety and connectedness here in the Northwest End that is pleasant for a vacation. I feel complacent here in this part of town, pretty as it is. I have found no local art yet and no evidence of anything distinctly different than other college towns with affluent students. Not complaining, mind you, but I am aware I am still hunting for something from the blood, sweat and tears of the place. Is it a reflection of my own inner search? Travel almost always is a parallel journey, the outer reflecting the inner one.