Bar-Shmae-Dos

I'm on my way to Barbados tomorrow (Amanda and I are re-living our recent weekend in Miami by spending a day or so at my bro's place on the way down) for a wedding. This is also going to be an experimental weekend, as I'm taking the cord for my camera and I'm going to try - or at least think about - blogging on site. The genius that comes from 8 hours of sun and six rum punches cannot be recreated faithfully on the stupid chaise lounge in my apartment when I'm busy checking my tan lines to see if they've fading yet. And yes, I packed 13 sundresses and 5 pairs of shoes for six days, you got a problem with that??

Hawaii 5-No

Back from the islands and all I can say is Aloha, because frankly, that's all I heard all weekend long. It's usually said in a saccharine kind of quietly sarcastic subterfuge, almost as if the person uttering it really wants to say "piss on your mom, tourist". But no, we're in Paradise, and in Paradise, piss on your mom translates to Aloha! Maybe it's the New Yorker in us, but it got to the point where Bub and I would make that choking gesture with our hands whenever we heard the dreaded word.

Now, I don't want to sound down on Hawaii - it's lovely and green and jungle-y and people really do use the "hang ten" gesture in greeting. I landed in San Francisco at midnight and crashed at Bub's, then left Friday morning to fly to Honolulu. Since our flight arrived early (bonus points Hawaii), we hightailed it to the Pearl Harbor Memorial, which was one of Bub's two reason for going to Hawaii, the other being his competition with some friends to plant a foot in all 50 days (yes, he has already checked off Kansas.)

I could write an entire page on Pearl Harbor - a breathtaking moment in our country's history that scarred a generation of soldiers, seamen and survivors and brought the U.S. into war. It's preserved with such dignity and graciousness - one thing I noticed was the near-sense of respect the creators of the memorial, and the servicemen who provided histories, had for the Japanese attackers, almost like an acknowledgement that war is war, nothing personal. The boat ride out to the memorial is silent and as you climb onto the memorial, it's eerie and reverent all at once - the memorial spans the width of the USS Arizona and you stand directly above it. The knowledge that the 1,000+ men who died on board the ship are still there is haunting, all those souls right below. We found out later than men who survived the attack and have since died have had their ashes interred within the ship, and it struck me how this moment affected the rest of their lives - they chose to be buried amongst their shipmates instead of next to their wives and children and the lives they had tried to cobble together since. I tend to think in terms of the now, that terrorism and oil and internecine conflict are the only things that will ever matter, and that 9/11 shapes my worldview even today, and this was a shakeup to the selfishness of thinking our generation is the one that has fear. Every generation has a day that lives in infamy, and to putting myself in the mindset of the Pearl Harbor generation was an eye-opening exercise.

Onto the rest of our trip - the next day we left for Kauai, with alohas aplenty on the airlines and Hawaii's TSA ripping through our luggage like, well, it was their job. My ziploc bag didn't close "comfortably" and Bub's toothpaste was a shade too big, and despite all the noise we made about the regulations being inconsistently applied (Bub has flown 25 times with the same tube), the bottom line was, in Hawaii, the rules apply. And I think that realization answered a lot of questions for me about the obsession amongst peers that Hawaii is the end-all - it looks exotic, so one can fool oneself into thinking it's an adventure, but at the end of the day it's like being in a small town in Iowa with better scenery. Not that I'm attracted to danger (well, okay...) but there was no edge whatsoever. I like shaking myself up when I travel, that slightly uncomfortable feeling of "okay, this looks like a bathroom, but there's no toilet paper, only a hose...?", and then the joy and self-satisfaction of mastering some foreign element, or even better, teaching some other poor tourist ("well, you have to just aim and try not to get your shorts wet...") This of course doesn't detract from the beauty of the islands. But once again, Bub was right, and the three days we spent there really were enough.

The highlight of Kauai was the helicopter tour we took with Blue Hawaiian tours, which is the best way to see the island. We dipped down into canyons and craters, which was terrifying and exhilarating. The EcoStar helicopter we took is the way to go, it's much quieter and gentler than the other helicopters offered, and that is more than worth the slightly higher cost. It's still a little nauseating, but again, a small price to pay for such a view.

P.S. Bub threw down the gauntlet by claiming he is the only individual ever to bring Gravity's Rainbow AND the Companion to the beach in Kauai. He did not, however, bring the Companion's Companion, so if anyone wants to challenge him, this is the way to go.

Aloha!

Traveling with Bub

...Bub and I are hitting the road again, this time bound for Hawaii for...three days. I'm still mystified as to how I agree to travel 28 hours (not counting layovers) to spend 72. In case you're wondering which half of the relationship planned this whirlwind, a clue - one of us is currently parked in the up-and-coming (my hood being more "coming" than "up") 14th St area, the other probably sitting on his balcony in sunny, 5 hours-from-Hawaii, California. As usual for Bub, we have a packed itinerary - I just show up and make sure I look cute for the photos in overpriced Anthropologie sundresses.

The best part about Bub is, whenever he's ready to go, that's it, we're going. I can sympathize - when I want to start moving, in my rush and my excitement I completely dispense with all practicalities. Toothbrush left upstairs? Too late, we're already in the car. Thankfully, neither of us have anything dependent upon us for survival (plants, goldfish, children) - they'd never make it past the first weekend.

Maybe it's because we see ourselves there - in this case, moving through Yosemite with the ease of moving around the coffee table in the living room - as opposed to thinking that journeys begin with a single step or getting there is any part of the fun. The car is for singing along to Bon Jovi, and we do that all the time. Case in point, the conversation prior to departing for Yosemite:

Me, looking down at Bubs' feet: "hey, you got your dress shoes shined. They look nice."

Bub: "Thanks, grab that thing for me over there, would you? We're late."

Me: "Bub, you did actually pack more than a pair of dress shoes to wear in a national park, didn't you?"

Bub: "No, why?"

And he had no idea why he might need more than a pair of dress shoes. I finally got him to at least bring a pair of sneakers (and of course, he complained about how late I made us). And once there, we moved amongst hikers in leggings with camelpacks and those climbing hooks you see on peoples' keychains but these were actually in use - with me in skinny jeans and (cute) red flats and him in Converse.

So I'll get to California and meet him at the airport to head to Hawaii and he'll be in dark jeans, black shoes, and a sweater. I would be very surprised if he has packed a bathing suit - or if he even owns one.

(photos from 14th St Girl's birdseye, Yosemite National Park)