A Brief Pause Before Onions

There's a light breeze ruffling the color-drained air. It's twilight and the bay is restless with wind.

I am thinking of onions and time to make dinner. My thoughts are too long and my writing too short, all over again.

I have not forgotten you. The onions cannot wait and call me to them pungently.

Eastward to Hana

We left Kahului yesterday, pointed our car east and began to drive. First stop was in Pa'ia for breakfast at a place recommended by our trusty guide book "Maui Revealed." Charley's, it said, is one of two places for a hearty breakfast good enough to begin any day. It's a pretty large restaurant and bar where a stage provides performance space on occasion. Once, three years ago, Willie Nelson played there for free. A huge oversized guitar stands against one wall, a ten-foot version of an acoustic instrument that looked tempting to strum.

It took a very long time for a waitress to arrive, even longer for our order to reach us, and it was just okay. The apology for slowness was nice, so we tried to be forgiving and actually succeeded. It's Hawaii, it's Maui, and the place was understaffed. We took our deep vacation breaths and just gave in to it. You can't rush things here. The whole point of coming here is to leave your old ways behind and discover that there are other, perhaps better, styles of living. Patience is key.

The fabled road to Hana was described to me once as "the Big Sur coast on steroids." Looking back on it now, I don't want to compare the two coast drives. They are so different that the only thing in common is that you are on a roadway built on a  winding coast with cliffs.

I dreamed last night that a man was rushing to get from Hana back to Kahului and was more and more frustrated because the road deliberately slowed him down; it had a mind of its own and would not allow him to move quickly. The drive itself from Pa'ia to Hana town is about 37 miles and it takes hours. It skirts the corrugated profile of the vertical terrain as if it were a maze that you follow, the yellow line the trail you follow as evidence that the road does go somewhere eventually. The road is overhung with immense growths of tropical plants growing between, on and around other plants and trees. Ravines are hung with waterfalls and steeply flowing streams. Far in the distance are stretches of ocean whose mist rises up to the road and mountains above. It is mesmerizing to weave and turn, rise and fall as the road does. There are many one-lane bridges and yield signs to heed. You are driving at 25 miles an hour at best with an infinite number of distractions and unimagined lush beauty abounding. We could have stopped more, hiked more, explored more. There are myriad side trails off the highway to see and more waterfalls than you can ever hope to see. We saw beauty and were satisfied, as if drinking a long cool sip of refreshing water. We had just enough.

By the time we actually reached Hana, we were in a bit of a drunken fog of amazement. The memory of the individual features had become a blur, but one stop was memorable along the way: Wai'anapanapa State Park. There, we saw a black sand beach awash with white foaming waves, a lava tube, a blow hole or two and dashing storm-tossed ocean currents that looked as wild and exciting as any ocean I've ever seen. The park is free to the public and provides ample parking, so we got out of our car and walked, gazed, and admired the scenes as if we'd never seen a seascape before. It was far too easy to be thrashed to death in the churning cauldron of water we saw from the black lava shore cliffs, so we kept our distance. Apparently, there are calm days in the dry season when the underwater views are beautiful. It was the Hawaii that has existed for all time and will never be tamed. The elements are always something you are aware of in this remote area of this little island. I feel small and happy again, in nature and far from any city.

We have a convertible so that we can appreciate the overhead views of nature as we explore Maui, but about half our drive along the coast required the top to be up. We stopped two or three times at on-your-honor fruit stands and bought some mango bread so fresh we could hardly touch it. It had literally just come out of the oven. Locals sell fruit and goodies for reasonable prices. Delicious bananas, avocados, mangos and papayas are all available.

The dream about driving wildly has faded now. No need to rush anywhere. We feel off the grid here, even though we are in a very fine resort area with full amenities. The wide night sky is adrift with clouds and the constant rush of trade winds blowing in from the east across the wide blue Pacific, the only thing that rushes anywhere in Hana.

Wow, we landed. Aloha Maui!

I am writing from a Starbucks in central Maui, and this is the beginning of a new experience in the Hawaiian Islands. I've never been to Maui before, but it seems like everyone else has.

We took off from the San Jose Airport yesterday morning after a stay overnight at the Raddison near the airport. We like to stay overnight there on the night prior to a vacation trip as it begins the unwind from daily concerns and work a little earlier. We keep our car, sleep and get shuttled to and from the airport, all for the price of a room. By the time we set foot on the jet, we are already slowing down. Do you hear me sighing? I am.

The flight was smooth as glass. Fran and Fred Farkle sat in front of us, each with a heavy thud. They spread themselves out with wide smiles, perfumed the air with the aroma of last night's dinner, pushed their seats all the way back into our faces and fell asleep until breakfast burritos were served. We countered by reaching between their seats when they were away and putting their seats more forward. When they came back, they never knew and we were happy. The children were all happy, another big plus.

Everyone clapped when the pilot landed at the Kahului Airport, all of them delighted to begin their fun, island style. We grinned and felt it was a good sign.

Kahului is the center of Maui where business is taken care of. People bustle and move, get their chores done and go away to their smaller towns. It's not where the island's magic resides, we've found, but it's a starting point.

We've rented a car, stayed overnight at the Maui Beach Hotel (my rating: 2 stars for being a basic utilitarian hotel with a pool you can almost swim laps - 15 yards long). It's safe, clean, good enough, and the staff at the desk got us taken care of in a jiffy.

We drove south to the coast, turned the corner and saw whales in the distance, flukes sparkling in the sunlight. Catamarans moved on the glittering ocean, and their passengers jumped overboard to snorkel in the quiet lee of tall cliffs. We found a petroglyph site maintained by a local nonprofit group, a site that is one of the few available to see on Maui, we read. Small as it was, the spiritual connection to the ancient Hawaiians is unmistakable.

This morning we are heading east to the other end of the island, lining up with the one or two thousand cars that rumble along the famous Hana coast highway. We got a taste of it last night when we went to Pa'ia for the Friday Night Celebration. Four small towns in this region of the island all have a Friday night when they stay open late, play music along the streets, and welcome visitors and locals alike. Pa'ia was fun, noisy and jammed with cars. Buskers on the sidewalks played everything from Hare Krishna chants to Irish traditional to New Orleans jazz. The sidewalks were buzzing with conversation and cafes stuffed with revelers. After a walk up and down the streets, we found Mana Foods, bought delicious deli salads to go and went back to our hotel where we pretty much did face plants and slept until morning.

Tension is wiped away, the sun is rising over Haleakala in the east and we are bound for Hana.

Seeing It's Not Ordinary

If I learned anything today, it's that there is complex beauty in the ordinary things around me. It sure is easy to overlook them, though, if I take the same route, walk at the same pace and believe that other places far away are more interesting.

On my walk today, I paused and looked at a little scuff of blue paint on the weathered wood, a wrinkle in the glass of the old house on the corner that reflects light in such a curious way. I had to ask:  What am I really seeing? The more persistent question became:  What have I been overlooking?

I had to walk backwards, bend over, crouch down, squint my eyes. I looked from different angles than I usually do. I found it created a sort of visual warp through which I could enter, a way to exist differently, if only through my eyes.

It's funny I think that leaves are green or that flowers are soft and delicate, that glass is flat or that the the sky is blue. Seems like the natural world has all kinds of ways of showing me that it's anything but ordinary.

Seattle: Darkness and Light

This is Sunday, I am in a hotel room somewhere in the United States. Where am I? I ask myself, disoriented and uncertain. I've lost my bearings, veered away from something. I've gone elsewhere, beyond the boundary lines, but of what? of Monterey County that I am so used to and know like the back of my hand? I am so familiar with my own routine, it seems, that I don't even remember what I'm about, what's important, where the ground is, so to speak. I am drifting spiritually, unmoored, not too unhappy, but I am vaguely dissatisfied with the unmooring and know I need to do something about it.

After I sit up and take stock of the hotel room, my mind clearly recalls that I am in Seattle. Ah, good. A new city, a fresh start.

There are a few breaths left in the month of October; it's not gone yet. Shivering maples and poplars line the avenue outside our hotel entrance. Leaves spin and dance when gusts of cold air pull them, stem from twig, in urgent rushes. In a ballet of spinning color, the spiraling colors drift quietly to the dark streets.

Uphill from the hotel on First Avenue is Pikes Place Market, one of the most famous of all American marketplaces. Seattle is hilly, not as severely as is San Francisco, but it does pose a few challenges on certain streets. There is a steep downslope from our street to the waterline further west, indicating that this was a bluff or cliff top in the past. Every hill we see near and far is encrusted with houses, businesses and industry. Ferries and cargo ships move silently across the open bay. Humanity is moving busily, and even though there is a roar from the engines, it seems silent and remote somehow. I have not yet found a connection to it other than the simple fact that it is a city.

Creosote, fish and yeasted breads are pungent in the air as we round the corner and find ourselves face to face with the market street. Cobbles and bricks, neon and painted signs point to the interior of the buildings before us. It's The Market, the gathering point of produce, meat, fish, and prepared goods. Come in, sample, try me out, it all says, I am here before you in my weatherbeaten glory, with stories to tell.

Once inside the market, the energy and exuberance of a real place, one that has heart and soul, simmers and moves. It is labyrinthine and carnival in nature, but it is nothing if not alive. So, we begin to explore. Above my head and eyes, arrows outlined in neon point left or right. I am a sucker for color, see each one and turn to look. In this dark autumn morning, the shouting fishmongers, vivid neon and fragrant food booths tackle my senses and lead me astray. I am handed slices of d'anjou pear, dabs of marionberry jelly, drops of blueberry vinegar and a spoonful of cranberry chutney. It's dazzling, a confusion, a riot of distractions. It roots me to the ground and sends my mind in a spiral.  Why cannot all of life be like this festival? Has it always been so and I've missed it? I try to discern the ebb and flow of energy around me and pull out into quiet corners once in a while, watch the movement and listen to the sounds, the pulse at the heart of it all.

The men and women who work here seem carnie-like, remind me of the midway at the county fair. They are jaded by the shuffling mobs of tourists they see every day, need to hustle hard to make a dollar, compete with each other for the attention of the bewildered hordes.

Just when we reach overload and feel our eyes glazing over, we eject ourselves into the bright daylight outside on the cobbled street of Pike Place and stand blinking, inhaling deep breaths of air, gripping our purchases. I feel like I've just left a stream of energy, the flow too much for me to cope with. I've eddied out.

We walk north along the sidewalk and shoulder past the entrances of small artisanal bakeries, a cheese factory, indoor malls containing aromas from India, China, and Thailand. The enticements seem to be unlimited. We're well past our usual breakfast time, so the hunt begins for a suitable place to rest our feet and eat something. We have no idea. One French bistro-like restaurant up an incline from our street is jammed; no room today. We continue north on Pike Place and find Etta's. What great luck.

It is not great luck; it is fantastic luck. The food is unusually wonderful, and the place fills quickly after we arrive until there is no room left at all. I choose a corned beef hash that bears almost no resemblance to the Hormel's product I've chewed on in leaner times. It is savory and hearty, and I believe I have been cured of what ails me. But, then again, maybe I'm just not hungry anymore.

We leave the heaven of Etta's and are drawn back to the market, enter there, turn and bend along the courses of its interior. There are many pathways in the market building, many levels, lots of doorways, alleyways, stairs and doorways. It's a blood stream, a river, a crazy place with twists and turns, dead ends and long straightaways. It pulses and flows with the buying and selling all through its innards. I had no idea. It spits me out again. I take more deep drafts of air and calm down little by little.

Uphill we walk until we reach a plaza where an indoor shopping mall faces us. We dive into it and find a more modern and planned mall environment. It is nothing in comparison to the wail and call of Pike Place Market. We are heading for the monorail ride to the space needle, which was built in 1962. The ride is approximately a mile long and feels like a Disneyland jaunt in Futureland. It costs $4 roundtrip.

Frank Geary designed the building that folds and undulates around the Electronic Music Project (EMP). The monorail's track curves through the middle of two of the sections of the building, stops, and we step off the train through doors that glide open soundlessly. A park surrounds the area, which is pleasant and quiet today. There is a building called Seattle Center where we snack and rest. Suddenly, we see a sign for La Dia De Los Muertos, a Mexican tradition honoring deceased relatives and friends. Elaborate altars, rejuvenation of grave sites and special celebrations are held in remembrance of loved ones lost. I remember my own as look at the decorations and celebrants. It is tender and loving, honest and simple, handmade, real.

The EMP is a place celebrating electronic music. Jimi Hendrix had hoped for a church of sorts where people could come together to appreciate the power of amplified sound, he said, and its ability to transport the mind and spirit to a different place. They have built a Sky Church within the space that is impressively automated. It strives to surround one with music and visual spectacle. For me, it seems complicated, one-dimensional, hollow and meaningless. I find no love in it at all. No tenderness of memories gained one precious moment at at time over years and years. It is all lost on me and leaves me cold. Odd. I love music. But I love love a lot more. What is represented in a few handmade altars and in the faces of the relatives framed on them speaks to me much more clearly.

The darkness of a soulless place, even though it is filled with strobed and pulsing extravaganzas, cannot provide nearly the uplift and depth of emotion a few silent moments in front of a dozen flickering candles give me.

Seattle is a roaring modern city within which I found a pulsing heart in its marketplace. In one day, I have recalled faces and words when I saw a few flickering candle flames. Did I need to come to a darker, colder place to provide counterpoint to the eternal warmth of love?