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.