O’ahu, Hawaii: Not Quite Home
I arrived in Hawaii on a Wednesday, and took the shuttle to the Beachside Hostel. I dragged my suitcase inside. By this time, I had dragged both a backpack and giant suitcase through four different airports, up and down too many stairs to count, and had emptied them in the middle of the Wellington airport to throw away half their contents. I knew by then that on my next trip I would return to my minimalist roots.
“Hi, I made a reservation here. At least I hope it’s here.”
“You hope?” The desk attendant looked at me, eyebrow raised. “What’s your name again?”
Turned out my hopes would not be fulfilled today. This was the Beachside Hostel; I had wanted the Seaside Hostel. I didn’t feel like lugging my crap, which at this point is what it was to me, to the next place, so I settled into the room that to my disappointment was of the mildly roach infested genre and had a bunk bed that rocked and squeaked like a ship in a storm. But you try not to think about these things too much.
The first order of business was to do the laundry that for two weeks had been neglected. All of the clothes I currently had clinging to my body had been worn and sweat in a bare minimum of once before without a wash. The only exception was my underwear which I had given a quick scrub in the bathroom sink in Bangkok. On top of this, I already possessed a disgust of my hygiene derived from an accumulation of grunge after 48 hours of travel with only four hours of sleep all on planes and airport benches. Basically, I was dying to be clean.
The next day I caught the #8 bus to Ala Moana where I took a transfer out to Manoa Falls. Manoa Falls is a waterfall reached by trail. The woman who had informed me of this hike had said, when I asked how far the falls were, “I don’t know, no one I know has ever made it all the way to the falls.” So I set off expecting a good two hours bare minimum walking time.
I got off the bus at the end of the line, and realized I only had $1.60, 40 cents short of the bus fare back. So I did what I absolutely hate doing, and asked the only other people around if I could borrow the change. They gave me 50 cents, which felt tiny after spending so long in countries whose smallest coin is the size of our now outdated half-dollar.
The walk in followed a creek. The path was muddy and slick, but aside from some short uphills was easy going. About twenty minutes into the hike, upon turning a bend, I was disappointed to find a stream running down a mossy cliff about thirty feet high, and fenced off for safety reasons. This was it; this was that great hike to that great waterfall? Milford Sound had surely spoiled me.
“Were you expecting a long hike, too?” a woman sitting on a bench asked me.
“Yeah. That was nothing. I was all ready for a work out.” I said as I started to feel some sweat form under my humid clothes.
I gave the falls about three minutes of my time before I headed back down the trail again, passing the couple who had lent me money.
Upon arriving at the bus stop, and feeling gypped by the falls, and guilty for asking for money, I decided to see if I could walk back to my hostel. I knew it would take several hours at least, and I would get the exploratory walk I had been longing for. Taking to the sidewalk, I headed down the street, doing my best to retrace the way the bus had come. I passed a number of middle class houses with fenced yards and small dogs running back and forth, yipping like I was some big deal.
I was a bit surprised by the size of the houses. I remember being shocked upon arriving in New Zealand five months before by the comparatively miniature houses the New Zealanders called their homes. My recollection of American homes and American everything was, BIG. “You’re house is very nice, in fact I love it! But I think you’re missing part of it.” I can’t say I was complaining, in fact I like smaller houses, it was just a curiosity thing. But what shocked me just as much was the fact that the homes in Hawaii were just barely any bigger than those in New Zealand. My memory had been distorted. Then again, any of these Hawaiian houses would seem small compared to the mammoths they’ve been building in the suburbs of Washington, DC.
Anyway, my point was these houses were just the right size, and I was walking by them. As I made this point to myself, a gentle rain began to fall, and it soon grew heavier. I amused myself with a rhythmic flipping of my water bottle, and walked on, quite literally soaking up the rain.
I walked past the University of Hawaii into Honolulu, becoming confused about how to cross the river, and ending up doubling back on a path by a high school. I passed a middle school aged Polynesian rowing team that was in the middle of being yelled at for not listening to the coach. I found a bridge, and walked on as far as the Hilton before my feet had grown thoroughly tired, my unprotected face had reached the brink of burning, and the sun was on its way to bed. There I caught the bus to Waikiki.
That night, my new bunkmate Laura, an 18 year old hailing from Maine, and I met a 24 year old French Canadian flight attendant wearing a pink button-down shirt whose name has left me completely. Maybe, it was Michael, but I can’t be sure. He had heard of some college party out at the University of Hawaii that he desperately wanted to go to. Unfortunately for him, however, the buses had stopped running. We did our best to find a place that all three of us would be allowed to enter, and were just barely successful. One club, by the name of Scruples or something to that effect was allowing under 21’s in for a $20 cover charge. This was only under strict conditions not to remove or conceal the bright orange wrist-band that would prevent bartenders selling us drinks, the consequences being the confiscation of our driver’s licenses which they had taken as a deposit.
Being a Thursday night, the club was having a bikini contest in which four of the baristas were each paraded around in bikinis they might as well have not been wearing. During the show, we met an intoxicated Kiwi and an Aussie who later got into a fight over Laura. The French Canadian in the meantime had left, and as the two boys from the Southern Hemisphere were battling it out, I had retreated to the other side of the room. I was entertaining myself by texting friends back home, and was in the middle of responding to a text informing me of the death of a friend’s grandfather when I heard a male voice ask in an American accent, “would you like to dance?”
I looked up quickly, “yeah, just one second.”
“If you don’t want to dance, that’s fine.”
“No, no, wait a second, really.”
“Really it’s fine if you don’t.” He began to turn away.
“No, wait. Alright!” He turned back around, satisfied to have my full attention. He introduced himself (again, I don’t remember his name, maybe it was Daniel). As he shook my hand, his orange wrist-band was unmistakable. I explained to him that I was in the middle of trying to console a friend. He sat down near me, and gave me a few seconds to finish the job before we launched into conversation. We established that I was at the club with the girl across the dance floor, who was at that moment in a full tongue-in-mouth make out session with the Aussie who apparently must have won the fight. This American guy, Daniel we’ll continue to call him, was, at the age of 19, in Hawaii on business believe it or not, his business being painting Hollister Co. stores. He informed me that his boss was the drunk one hitting on the waitresses.
The two of us talked fluidly about a variety of topics. It was the sort of conversation two friends would have. It was only interrupted when Laura and her Aussie named Darryl came over to sit in the booth behind ours. Laura discretely pleaded with me not to leave her behind. After being reassured I wouldn’t, she went back to her business at hand. My American companion quietly bet me $10 she would be going home with the Aussie that night. I took that bet, though as a joke.
All four of us were interrupted around three or four in the morning when the lights went on and everyone remaining was asked to leave. As we were leaving, another guy, an American, was incoherently arguing with the bartender who was carrying him over his shoulder out onto the curb. The four of us, Laura, Daniel, the Aussie and myself, decided we’d hit the beach, and there we staid until daybreak, Daniel and I laughing and talking, and Laura and her Aussie kissing at the top of a lifeguard’s post.
The next day, my third day in Hawaii, I headed for the beach to relax and work on the tan I hadn’t had for 2 years. It was pleasant lying on the beach with a tickle of good hormones washing over my skin as it felt the sun for the first time in a long time. But my head was not in it. I couldn’t help thinking, I’m in Hawaii. I’m living out a life-long dream, and all I want to do is get myself home.
That evening I watched the sunset, squished my toes in the sand, watched a free Polynesian dance show at the beach, and felt extremely happy. Here is what I wrote on the subject of my thoughts, “I have to say I am one of the luckiest people on earth right now. Nothing is really wrong with my life; I have nothing to complain about even if I am somewhat homesick. I have great friends, great family, the means to travel, and the desire and willpower to do what I love to do. What more could I ask? All I know is that I will NOT be the person who forty years from now says, ‘man, I wish I’d done that,’ and this is the way I want it.”
The following day, I went down to the beach again after sleeping for fourteen and a half hours, something I hadn’t done in a long time. I didn’t feel too great for some odd reason; my head was a bit under pressure, and my stomach a bit on the rocks. Maybe the sun was too much, but I set out my towel anyway, and as I sat rubbing sunscreen into my shoulders, a girl called my attention. She asked me to fill out a survey, the incentive being a free keychain. How could I object to that?
Many of the questions resembled something along these lines, “Why did you come to Hawaii? So you would be able to say you have been to Hawaii, so you can be admired for it,” etc. Other questions asked if I stayed in an expensive hotel and if I did so to impress people. Well now, let’s see, I’m not staying in an expensive hotel, money doesn’t impress me, and contrary to what people might think when I call them excitedly to share the news, “I’M IN HAWAII!” admiration is not at the top of the list of motivations. I shout my present location in your ear not because I’m trying to brag about my great success, or impress you with my geographical experience, I am simply doing what I love to do, fulfilling a dream, and wanting to share my excitement with you and hopefully give you something to be excited about too.
This subject is now going to bring me to a digression, and I am going to skip forward in time a bit. After heading out for a run in the blazing afternoon heat with my 18 year old bunkmate, Laura, we got into a discussion. Hailing from Maine, and being about as enthusiastic about travel as I am, we had a lot to talk about. I could greatly relate to one observation she made, which was this: sometimes when people ask you “how was your trip?” the only appropriate response is “good.” Anything further on the topic makes them uncomfortable. If you start talking about what a great beach they have in Waikiki, you will be met with silence. I had to add that sometimes I am reminded of how jealous I make people of my travels. My stories are occasionally misunderstood by those who have never left their own back yards or are taken as a means to brag, to show off where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, who I’ve met or what I’ve done. The truth is that this is entirely false. Sure, I am expecting some amount of acknowledgement of having done something with my life, a smile if the story is funny would be appreciated, or an “oh, man!” if it’s about something shocking, but to impress people is far from my main motivation. I travel because I love to travel; it gives me some of the greatest satisfaction I have ever felt in my life. I share my travel stories because I want to share with you what I love, nothing more!
Laura and I were also able to relate just how much travel can teach a person. I know for me, the five months I spent abroad did wonders for my self-esteem, confidence, self-reliance, mental health, physical health, etc. While traveling I learned several keys of life. My knowledge of them have so far worked out to my benefit. One, no one really has the answer, so your best bet is to answer the question yourself. Two, if the adventure isn’t fun, isn’t something you want to be doing, then the destination isn’t worth it. Three, nothing really matters in the grand scheme. By this I mean, you may never reach your destination, you may get lost, and things will inevitably not go as planned, but all you need is a little optimism, ingenuity, and flexibility and you may find yourself redirected someplace greater than you ever expected. So just relax and enjoy the scenery.
Anyway, before I digressed I was sitting on a beach filling out a very capitalistic survey. When I was done, the girl let me choose my free keychain. I picked a colorful one in the shape of a turtle with “Hawaii” written across it. I headed back to the hostel to change into running clothes, and Laura was there. Having allegedly run an entire marathon, which I don’t doubt, Laura was happy to come along. The two of us set off at a snails pace to jog about one and a half miles in the heat. At the end of our run, Laura stripped down to the bikini she had intelligently worn, and hopped into the calm ocean. I wanted desperately to do the same, so having not had the foresight to wear my togs (as the Kiwis call them) I jumped in, running shorts and all. The cool water was beautiful on my muscles, the sun low enough not to burn, and the waves calm enough that even I felt comfortable in them.
We returned to the hostel where I took an unfairly long shower. When I finally stepped out, Laura had grown tired of waiting her turn and was fully dressed and ready to head out for dinner. At dinner I had the first taste of decent Mexican food in five months, and man, was it good! After dinner, Laura and I got into our conversation, earlier described, about people misunderstanding our travel excitement.
That night was also Laura’s last night, and she wanted to get out, go dancing, and meet people. Little did she know she would be doing exactly that. We did our best to find a club that would allow us under-aged folk in. After spending so long in places where at 18 I was truly considered an adult, this was quite a shock. We spent about ten minutes surfing the web, and found a club called Zanzibar that allowed under 21’s. We decided we’d try it. But as it turned out they only let under 21’s in on certain nights, and this was not one of them. As we stood on the corner, watching through the windows of a gay bar, wondering if we should try our luck there, two of the creepiest looking men I have ever seen roaming the streets decided we’d be good to talk to.
“Hi. You know, no women will talk to us tonight. Is there something about us?” the short one with the baseball cap asked in the most abrasive drunk accent I have ever heard.
“Um.”
“No, really, are we no good to talk to? Is there something wrong with us?” the tall, buzz-cut blonde, pinkish thing asked.
We stood, arms folded, in disbelief.
“Where are you girls from?” The short one swayed as he talked.
“We’re from Bakersfield, California.”
“So what are you girls doing standing here?”
“You don’t want to go to that club,” he pointed to Zanzibar. “We’re the ‘wrong color’ if you know what I mean.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, and you don’t want to go to that one,” he pointed to the gay bar. “They like boys there. We found out the hard way the other night. Ha ha ha.”
“So why are you just standing here?”
“Where are you staying?”
“In a hotel.”
“In a hotel?”
“Yeah.”
“So why are you just standing here? Oh, I get it, you’re under-aged!” He seemed pleased with himself for having figured it out.
“Yeah.”
“How old do you think we are?”
“Thirty five.”
“Whew! I’m thirty five. He’s not,” he pointed to the pink thing.
“How old do you think I am?”
“Thirty.”
“Wow!” The pink thing swayed towards me and I backed away.
“He’s twenty-four. Ok, so what are you going to do now? You can’t get into any bars. Why don’t… we buy alcohol, go back to our hotel room, and play twister. Wait, I don’t have a twister board.”
Upon hearing that last bit from this man who unknowingly spat through his teeth as he talked, my stomach tried with all its might to end its life by jumping up through my esophagus. I looked over at Laura who looked equally disgusted.
Luckily, shortly after this, these two men realized that we were yet more women who would not talk to them, and so gave up. This gave Laura and me the first chance for escape without the risk of being followed. She and I made a quick getaway as the short one dropped to his knees, put his hands together and began to beg.
We had gotten away unscathed, well aside from a newly developed disgust for America. Laura didn’t want to end the night on that note, so she talked me into returning to Scruples, the bar we hadn’t quite liked, on the grounds that she’d pay my cover fee. As we crossed the street, a guy called to us to ask us an unintelligible question. He tried to explain himself. He and his friend, who showed up immediately thereafter had come up with a scheme to attract girls, and so far it wasn’t working for them.
“The idea that the fat one, me, would stop a girl to ask a question, and she’d have to stop out of pity. Then the good looking one, my friend here, would come up and yeah, it didn’t work, did it?”
We proceeded to have an awkward conversation during which, “the fat one,” as he’d called himself cracked jokes, and the “good looking one” tried to carry on a conversation. But they didn’t last long, and we parted ways, on much better terms than the last.
We entered Scruples and before long were approached by two awkward guys who quickly established that they were Marines, and just as quickly lost our interest. I won’t even bother sharing that conversation because it was so highly uninteresting, though I will mention that one of them, upon seeing the ring on my finger, out of the blue, asked in a tone that hinted fear as well as surprise, “Is that a wedding ring?!” Other than that, the discussion involved how the Japanese in Okinawa, where they were normally based, were not fans of Americans, how they already had and were planning to get more tattoos, and finally that one of them who never seemed to express any kind of emotion would soon be going to Afghanistan.
Laura and I escaped yet again. We left Scruples as fast as we could, Laura apologizing all the way for dragging me there in the first place, and me unable to control the rolling laughter that had started as a defense against the absurdity of the evening.
I suggested we stop in at Denny’s, that classic American place I can’t remember ever eating at, to get some breakfast. And again, I won’t bore you with the details because the inclusion of them here will only make you and me both, further disgusted with America. But basically, in the matter of an hour, I got stepped on, watched the sobering up of a large number of people, witnessed the drama of about three separate pimps with their prostitute harems, and listened to a woman talking about the underrated-ness of the vagina, or was it the overrated-ness? Anyway, I could not stop laughing for the rest of the evening, in complete and open disbelief. I decided then and there, that despite the fact that this could occur in any country in the world, and the vast majority of Americans are entirely different from these people I had encountered, I would be leaving the sweet old United States of America first chance I got.
Luckily the following day was quiet, and I passed it away quietly on the beach. It was my last day in Hawaii. In twenty four hours, I would be home! I would see my dogs for the first time in five months, my mother, my family and friends! The highways would have ten and twelve lanes, and the nearest grocery store would be a ten minute drive! Houses would be on quarter-acre lots, with fenced yards! Everyone would be running hither-thither, franticly trying to make money! But in all seriousness, I was excited beyond belief!
I picked myself up off the beach for the last time, and as I tied my towel around my hips, a man, naturally dark, but darkened further by the sun, a local asked me, “Are you from Holland?”
“No.” I couldn’t help laughing a little.
“You remind me of someone I know. Where are you from? The US obviously, but which part?”
“I’m from New York.”
“Which part of New York?”
“Manhattan.” Sometimes I find it’s easier to say that’s where I’m from even though only a year of my life has been spent here.
“Oh! You seem too cool to be from New York. Most New Yorkers are uptight.”
“Well I haven’t been back in five months.”
“That’ll do it. Most New Yorkers need to get away for a long time to chill out. That or smoke something.”
And with that, I went home.
(believe it or not this photograph is not black and white)
Tags: 7. USA, 7B. Hawaii, Photos
Drea
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