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penfieldPART II: KAUAI
[Click here for Part I]
Day Five
A largely wasted day. We had just enough time in the morning for an unhurried breakfast buffet and our by-now very familiar packing ritual before the shuttle came to deliver us to the airport. Our schedule called for us to leave the Hyatt at 11 a.m., arrive at the airport at noon, take a 2 p.m. jet to Honolulu, arrive in Honolulu at 2:45, run to catch a 3 p.m. jet out of Honolulu, land at Kauai's Lihue Airport at 4 p.m., catch a shuttle to our hotel and arrive at the St. Regis Princeville Resort and Spa at 5 p.m.
The good news is that there were no delays, detours or disasters and our itinerary was executed with military precision.[24] The bad news is that even this best-case scenario represented an unwelcome departure from the euphoric illusion that our honeymoon would be an uninterrupted state of recreation and relaxation. Instead we spent six hours right smack-dab in the middle of our vacation going through foot-stank security lines, eating preposterously overpriced fast food in terminal snack bars and sharing recycled, pressurized air with 200 middle-American game-show winners.
But rolling into the St. Regis restored the blush to our cheeks. The St. Regis chain of hotels, founded by New York City's famed Astor family and named after the patron saint of people who want to be millionaires, represents the apex of luxury; the sheer extravagance of the property itself is surpassed only by the lavishness of the proprietor's own imagination.[25]
The Princeville Resort comes close to meeting those astronomical standards. Fresh flowers, meticulously arranged, graced every corner of the resort; brass and marble accented every seam; mahogany and soft leather upholstery filled the bar and lounge; bright, plush murals and tapestries lined the walls, illuminated by glass bead chandeliers.[26] Just walking in there, in shorts and a tee shirt, I felt like a war refugee.[27]
Upon stepping into the St. Regis lobby, the first thing anyone sees is the giant wall of tinted glass, framing a panoramic view of Hanalei Bay and the rainforest-covered Kalalau valley mountain ridge.
I assume that the glass is there to prevent overexcited guests from running through the lobby,
off the balcony and into the ocean.
We checked in and took the elevator down to the seventh floor; the whole building is carved into the side of a bluff on the dry side of Hanalei Bay, such that all guests must descend from the lobby to their rooms. Should I ever become a genius supervillain, I am totally commandeering the St. Regis as my evil lair.
We opened the door to Room 706 and we were instantly dumbstruck by the spectacular oceanfront view. Between shimmering sapphire and a watercolor sky was a lush mountain landscape dressed in a thousand deep shades of green, delicately lit by the setting sun.
Beyond the tastefully appointed room itself -- note the abundance of pillows and the complimentary bucket of champagne on the desk -- was a window to the most beautiful view I've ever seen:
Get a little closer ...
... Oh yeah.
We just stood there and drooled for a while[28] before we realized we were hungry. J. was excited to explore the neighborhood, so she suggested we take a jaunt down to Hanalei Town, the closest thing to a "main drag" for 20 miles. As we had not rented a car, I called to the front desk to see if there was a shuttle or anything.
FRONT DESK: "A what, sir?"
ME: "A shuttle. Down to Hanalei Town? Kuhio Highway?"
FRONT DESK: "Oh, a shuttle." [She said the word "shuttle" with a half-laugh, like it was the most bourgeois thing she had ever heard, as if I had asked her if the restaurant served macaroni 'n' cheese.] "No sir, but we have a house car if you wish to reserve a pick-up."
ME: [Not at all understanding what that means.] "Excellent. We'd like to leave at about 6 p.m., please."
FRONT DESK: "You can just check in with the bell desk, sir. They'll help you make your arrangements."
ME: "Okay, thanks."
As it turns out, "house car" means "brand-new Mercedes sport utility wagon with private chauffeur for complimentary drop-offs and pick-ups around town." Stepping into the vehicle, I felt like Cinderella climbing into a pumpkin.
The 2010 Regismobile comes standard with limited powertrain warranty, 24/7 roadside assistance, buttery Corinthian leather, wish fulfillment package and soothing ukulele accompaniment.
Upon the suggestion of our driver, we elected to dine at the Hanalei Dolphin Restaurant and Fish Market, purported to have the best sushi on the island, with fish so fresh that you want to slap it with a sexual harassment lawsuit. We started with a zesty ceviche of Ono and Shrimp marinated in lime juice and followed that with a handful of maki rolls, but the grand prize went to the rainbow poke' martini, premium cuts of ahi tuna, salmon, whitefish and avocado served atop sushi rice in a martini glass.
J. enthusiastically goes to work on her martini, knowing full well
that she doesn't need to worry about driving home.
Sated by this mountainous feast, J. and I thought to take a stroll down the 100 or so yards of the Kuhio Highway that comprised the Hanalei business district. There was some sort of festival on the town square that evening, with several dozen families camped out on the public lawn watching surfing movies on a big screen.[29]
The Hanalei mall. TOP LEVEL: physical therapy clinic, yoga studio, massage parlor.
BOTTOM LEVEL: Mexican/Brazilian Restaurant, beachwear boutique, tchotchke shop.
Note the conspicuous absence of Auntie Anne's Pretzels.
With the sun sinking below the horizon and the night quickly fading to starry black, we summoned our wheels to bring us back home. Okay, so, the day might have been a waste. But the evening was a revelation: Kauai was a nice, soft place to land.
Day Six
It was at this point that the trip slowed down considerably in terms of mental and physical activity, which was pretty much what I had in mind to begin with.[30] And it makes sense that it worked out this way because -- as mellow as Maui may be -- Kauai establishes a new standard for relaxation. Compared to Washington D.C., southern California is laid-back, Maui is fully reclined and Kauai is resting in a persistent vegetative state. For two neurotic, uptight, materialistic, workaholic, hypersensitive midwestern overachievers-turned-East Coast drones like us, setting up camp in Kauai was like receiving an intravenous drip of Chilloutasec and Forgetitol.
We decided to begin the day by exploring the surrounding resort complex with a walk to the "nearby" Princeville shopping plaza. This basically meant winding our way past numerous quaint summer cottages, expertly manicured golf courses and myriad tropical gardens decorated with discarded Golden Globe awards.
We came across the Hanalei fire station on our walk to the Princeville shops. It was so hot,
I thought maybe if I loitered aggressively next to their sign they might hose me down.
After 20 minutes, the 90 degree heat and dubious pedestrian path had me wondering if the trip was worth it. Especially when we finally came upon the shopping plaza, the entirety of which was about the size of a Borders bookstore. Among the shops, however, was Lappert's Hawaii, the islands' preeminent local ice cream parlor.[31] Although my small dish of "Mauna Kea's Secret" (white chocolate ice cream swirled with raspberry sorbet, chocolate chips and chocolate brownies) really hit the spot, it was difficult to relish the rich, creamy flavor when the punishing midday sun is intent on turning it into soup.
Upon our return to the hotel, we stopped by the concierge desk to see if we could reserve a private dining cabana for that evening. A cherubic woman named Leilani apologized and informed us that a large party had reserved all the cabanas and we were out of luck. (Future romantic vacationgoers: reserve this kind of thing early. Ideally right now.) We also wanted to get her advice about the sunset dinner cruise we had scheduled with Ray at the Hyatt in Maui.
Ray had informed us that the boat left from a nearby port and it would be no problem to get there without a car. Leilani let us know that Ray was an idiot and the marina was nearly two hours away, too far even for the Regismobile. Not wanting to rent another car -- or drive back after the cruise in the middle of the night, for that matter -- we had to bag that plan. It was frustrating, but it did give allow us the time and money to book a helicopter tour for later in the week.[32]
Business complete, we hustled down to the recreation deck. At the uppermost level is a 5,000 square foot infinity pool, which -- if you look at it just right -- seamlessly empties into the ocean. Between the waters are several levels of cool, plush grass and a modest stretch of sugary sand.[33]
The pool and beach area look even more serene without any people in it.
Tools of repose encircle the grounds: private cabanas with futons, seemingly designed specifically for seaside nookie; three separate hot tubs (one with bubbles, one without, and one for families); and the Nalu Kai Restaurant and Bar, featuring the island's very best $28 hamburger. Highly specialized masseuses, each trained in the release of tension from certain individual body parts, stand at the ready. Beefy valets, deeply tanned and possessed of a hypnotic calm, patrol the area offering fresh towels and sunscreen. Professional waiter-dudes and waiter-babes, exuding a sort of casual brah-ness, proudly escort frosty drinks in bright hues up and down the aisles like Mardi Gras parade participants. An oversized hammock, strung between two recumbent palm trees, swings invitingly in the corner of your eye.
The view of the hotel from the beach. The red circle (upper left) denotes the location of our room. The green private cabana (lower left) denotes the location of two mature ladies quite possibly getting it on.
J. and I claimed a pair of seats under one of the hotel's bright green umbrellas on the eastern rim of the grass. The weather was still undisputably warm, as the sun was still burning in its afternoon rage. But the pillowy clouds, collecting as they often do on the leeward side of the mountains, offered occasional shade as the trade winds steadily whispered cooler thoughts.
The view of the beach from my chaise lounge chair on little plot of grass.
Taking this photo was the closest I came to doing a sit-up during the whole trip.
For three solid hours we lay there, wallowing in masterful, premium-quality sloth, watching the best seconds of our lives pass satisfyingly by. And yet time seemed to stand still, becoming meaningless, as if we were in a place without time, without location and without life -- not heaven, but a state of beatific limbo, warm, wet and fuzzy, like the moment between your first and second kiss.
Yeah, it was hot. Luckily we had cold drinks to keep us hydrated, or at least well lubricated. J. ordered a Mai Tai, the traditional Polynesian cocktail composed of rum, orange curaçao, sweet syrup and lime juice, served on the rocks with a pineapple spear. I had something called an Orange Crush'd Cooler,[34] the contents of which are unknown, although I think it was mostly schnapps and Starbursts.
Even by lax island resort standards, and next to J's Mai Tai (left), the Orange Crush'd Cooler (right)
is the sissiest drink I have ever ordered for myself. I'm pretty sure it came with a matching purse.
These drinks, as festively colored as they were, were no match for the oil painting sunset that bade us inside for dinner:
All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.
- from A Sunset by Victor Hugo -
For dinner, we opted to try the Makana Terrace, the slightly less ritzy of the hotel's two major in-house restaurants, in that reservations merely prerequire a credit score rather than the full credit report. The food was excellent while the setting was sublime, in an unsettlingly gothic sort of way. We were seated on a porch facing the ocean, but with the thick cloud cover and the near-total absence of artificial light, we appeared to be surrounded by an atmosphere of blackness, like we were dining on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.
Another lovely day thus ended, we went to sleep almost nervous, wondering how our dreams could possibly improve on that.
Day Seven
An unconscionably lazy day in Kauai. Embodied practically criminal levels of sloth, along with the other six deadly sins: gluttony, avarice, sexiness, loitering, worshipping false idols and horseplay in the pool area.
POP QUIZ:
What is J. doing in this picture?
A. Applying sunscreen to her hands.
B. Rubbing her hands together excitedly in feverish anticipation of beach activities.
C. Applauding the gorgeous weather.
D. Enthusiastically executing a mosquito.
ANSWER: Trick question. She is actually praying for us to be stranded in Kauai for an extra week.
We woke up early -- still aided somewhat by our bodies' persistent allegiance to East Coast Time -- so that we could reserve the hotel's limited supply of complimentary snorkel equipment. Princeville cove itself is circumscribed by the Anini reef, which makes for calm waters and a cozy environment for marine life (as well as your more well-behaved Marines).
We were also keen to stake out some prime beachside real estate by getting a jump on the masses, but we found ourselves lucky to get the last pair of lounges between the beach and the pool;[35] J. had to hold off would-be interlopers with only her fists and an ornery disposition, while I briefly considered marking our territory organically.
I can only guess that some of those people must have camped out the night before -- waiting to claim the coveted area triangulated between the bar, the beach and the hammock -- which is usually the sort of obsessive-compulsive behavior usually reserved for Star Wars fanatics, Duke University basketball fans and the Homeless. And of course I was jealous that I hadn't thought of it first.
In addition to the snorkel gear we carried with us a large canvas bag of provisions for a full day of leisurely abandon: sunscreen (one container Neutrogena Ultra-Sheer Dry-Touch SPF 55 lotion and one container Neutrogena Fresh Cooling SPF 70 Body Mist Spray), breakfast (deli sliders from the coffee bar), books (for me, David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men; for J., Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love[36]), music (my 4 GB Sansa Clip, loaded with music old and new, including OK Go's Of the Blue Colour of the Sky, a major disappointment) and Travel Scrabble.
The results of a round of Scoreless Scrabble, which is played without attention to points. This way,
there is no pressure and no hard feelings, because everybody wins. Especially me, who hit a bingo
with BESEIGED (lower right hand corner) and didn't get stuck holding the Q and the Z.
Our repose was mildly interrupted by some sort of contrived work-play event being held in honor of the Shire Pharmaceuticals "President's Club," which I can only guess is an honor roll for the corporation's most successful, productive and obnoxious sales representatives. Not only did the organizers erect a giant hospitality tent on the grassy knoll, commandeer all of the private dining cabanas [aha! the culprits] and pollute the area with generic reggae music, they overserved their beneficiaries free drinks and then unleashed them on the pool deck.
I amused myself by imagining that this said "hospital" instead of "hospitality," then
imagining sending multiple "President's Club" members there with snorkel-shaped bruises.
It took a measure of concentration to tune out these overstuffed, overblown, middle-aged middle-management apes and their spouses with their half-drunken carousing, and their shop talk, and their baleful chirping about how their iPads were running slow.
We escaped the cacophony for an hour or so when we paddled out toward the edge of the reef to scope out Natural Aquatic Beauty, for real this time. And we did see some fish. At least two, possibly even more, although it would be impossible to say whether we were just chasing the same yellow fish and the same silver fish all over the place. We did also see a black crab, some bleached coral and dozens of pulsating, tubular filter feeder things that looked disquietingly like breathing sea turds. It was certainly Aquatic, but frankly it was way too much Natural, not nearly enough Majesty.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of naps, only occasionally punctuated by reading, snacking and swimming. As body and brain sank into a pleasant atrophy, my only halfway intellectual exercise was the eyeball projection of the sun's arc across the sky and the calculated placement of our giant green umbrella so as to maintain maximum shade coverage at all times, thereby obviating additional sunscreen application.
As evening ascended, another magnificent sunset gradually ushered us from one dreamland to another.
If you think about it, a sunset is really nothing more than an illusion, created by the earth's rotation, that the sun is "disappearing," and the acute refraction of ultraviolet rays upon the earth's surface and atmosphere, bending visible light into a chromatograph of different colors. But, as illusions go, they're pretty great. Much better even than such pleasant illusions as "free lunch" or "friends with benefits."
Totally exhausted from momentarily glancing upward, and in the mood for a more romantic, intimate evening, we elected to eschew restaurants and simply order dinner from room service.[37] My Kobe beef hamburger was excellent, but the kitchen somehow managed to screw up J.'s mango salad twice. To their credit, they not only apologized profusely and removed the entire meal charge from our bill, they also sent up a complimentary dessert and a fresh fruit platter with enough surplus mango to dress a whole goat in chutney.
Thoroughly sunned and stuffed, we slept peacefully, despite the conspicuous lack of actual physical exertion.
Day Eight
Bright the next morning, we hitched a ride on the Regismobile to the nearby Princeville Airport, where we were to check in with Sunshine Helicopters for our scheduled bird's-eye view of Natural Majesty.
We would be riding in an EC 130 B4 WhisperSTAR chopper, with capacity for six passengers (plus the pilot) and a Plexiglas cockpit designed to accommodate 180-degree views. Touted as "the most advanced technological sightseeing helicopter ever," in the event of emergency it will automatically play Gospel music on the in-flight DVD player. Though this was the first helicopter ride for either of us, we weren't scared or anything, at least not before the harrowing 20-minute safety lecture and our first up-close confrontation with the great metal beast.
The word "helicopter" comes from the Greek words helikos, meaning "spiral"
or "spinning," and pteron, meaning "blades of death."
It was at least refreshing to be able to board an aircraft without having to take off my shoes and walk through a metal detector. Each seat was equipped with headphones (so as to drown out the noise and receive communications from the pilot), a four-point harness and a barf bag. J. and I had both dropped some Dramamine on the way over but I remained and remain wary of any large, unnatural and dramatic movements.[38]
Our takeoff was delayed only minimally by a fellow passenger, sitting next to me, who began to suffer an anxiety attack and had to be let off the helicopter, without a refund. It's difficult to describe the actual takeoff process: it wasn't just straight-up into the air; it was like being lifted off the ground slightly then whipped forward along a runway at an acute angle until we hovered, like Wile E. Coyote, over the steep gorge below.
First we climbed to the apex of the Kalalau valley mountain range and the summit of dormant Mount Waialeale. There, in one of the wettest places on earth,[39] the altitude and the low-lying clouds produce a constant rainfall that feeds the dense green foliage and fuels the enormous waterfalls that stretch up to thousands of feet long.
Our pilot cavalierly disregarded the moral and ethical guidance of T.L.C., who famously
urged prospective explorers not to go chasing waterfalls and suggested that they instead
focus exclusively on the rivers and lakes to which the explorer is most accustomed.
From there we proceeded along the mountain ridge toward Waimea Canyon, the so-called "Grand Canyon of the Pacific." Measuring 10 miles long and nearly 3,500 feet deep, it is equivalent to an acne scar on the face of the actual Grand Canyon, which is 25 times longer and twice as deep. What it lacks in size, however, it compensates with a sharply contrasting colors, a thoroughly unique ecosystem and a really nice personality.
Waimea Canyon was created by the partial collapse of Kauai's surface four million years ago and
shaped by millennia of lava and water flow, making it the world's oldest and largest hot tub.
Moving through the canyon, over Kokee National Park and its 4,345 acres worth of hiking trails, we made a U-turn over the southwest corner of the island and hugged the shoreline on up to the Na Pali Coast, a series of awesome cliffs that once formed the shoulder of a prehistoric volcano and now comprises the island's northwest wall. The vertical ridges, caused by rivulets of lava that carved through the rock and then quickly cooled, are referred to as "the Cathedrals" and represent Hawaii's Official Guidebook Cover Photo Subject.
This photo, while probably our best of the Na Pali Coast, fails to capture its Holy Natural Frickin' Majesty, possibly because J. and I were frantically snapping pictures without worrying about focus
or glare or framing, while also trying to soak it all in on a real-time and panoramic basis, and
oh yeah, attempting to ward off the creeping sense of vertigo and motion sickness, which would have really put a damper on the whole trip, not to mention my shoes. (This picture is pretty good, though.)
After a quick sweep over Hanalei Bay, we returned to the airport, where I had to restrain J. from hijacking the helicopter and absconding to Bora Bora.
An aerial view of all Princeville (permanent population: ~1,600), with the St. Regis Hotel
descending front-and-center. The town is named for Prince Albert Kamehameha,
who was noted for his enjoyment of golf, surfing and womanservants.
Boarding our trusty Regismobile, we returned to the hotel and the beach for a few more hours of sun. Unfortunately, a leaden band of clouds had collected over the cove and parked there for most of the afternoon, lending the whole day a patina of silver.
J. was recognizably disappointed, as her dreams of frolicking in sun-dappled waters vanished, but I thought it was kind of nice. It wasn't quite as blisteringly hot outside without all the solar exposure, plus I didn't have to worry about coating myself head-to-toe with sunscreen every ten minutes. And anyway, it was kind of beautiful.
If there is a God, this is what I imagine He might look like.
We enjoyed a light lunch on the beach, sampling a broad and creative assortment of cocktails[40] and reading our books as the trade winds gently sprayed us with a salty mist. And, wouldn't you know it, as soon as it was time for us to pack up and head to dinner, the sky broke open and a rainbow poured out.
FUN FACT: The University of Hawaii, based primarily in Honolulu, is the home of
the Rainbow Warriors, named for civilization's earliest gay-friendly fighting force.
For dinner, we chose Bar Acuda, a popular tapas and wine bar located in Hanalei, just down the street from the Dolphin. We had the Regismobile drop us off early so we could explore the town, which boasts its own sizable beach and fewer than 500 permanent residents, most of them surfers or surf-widows.
While the clouds had largely dissipated over Princeville, great gray altostratus continued to drift near the mountains that shadow Hanalei.[41] As we walked past the through the neighborhoods off the main drag, we found ourselves caught in a light rain shower, which was not at all the kind of splashing that J. had in mind. Soon enough, she was sloshing at the restaurant, where our alluringly detached waitress suggested that we order five or six dishes per person, or basically everything on the menu.
J. tries an unexpectedly zesty glass of Malbec. Whenever she made a face like this …
… I only had to glance slightly upward and over her left shoulder.
Tempting as that was, we settled on about six dishes total, all of which were delectable, especially the seared sea scallop. I even tried to save room for dessert -- a banana-coconut milkshake at Bubba Burgers or some shaved ice at Shaved Ice Paradise -- but the sweet corn pizzeta did me in.
Hanalei Town's Dessert District.
And so another day of shameless self-indulgence gave way to our last night on Kauai, and dreams of excessive, extraordinary wealth, youthfully acquired without so much skill or effort as scratching a lottery ticket.
Day Nine
We held out as long as we could, but eventually we had to leave. Our final day in Hawaii made for a very long and awkward goodbye: We had to check out of our room by noon, but our shuttle wasn't scheduled to pick us up from the airport until 7:00 p.m. for a 10:00 p.m. flight. Efforts to obtain a late checkout were, unlike just about everything else at the hotel, fruitless.
If we had really thought about this in advance, we could have arranged for an earlier shuttle down to the south side of the island and spent the day there. Or we could have booked our helicopter ride or some other such excursion for that afternoon. Or we could have just paid for another night's stay, because, hey, screw it. Vacation.
But instead we tried to wring every last memory out of the place by spending the rest of the day on the beach, even though we couldn't really go in the water (lest we risk personal dampness for the next 18 hours) or bake in the sun (lest we reek of sunscreen and sauteed flesh for the next 18 hours). If I may use the kissing metaphor again, the day was like a kiss that goes on for way too long, so long that you start sweating and chafing and cramping up, and you don't even care anymore whether things move forward or stop altogether, you just want to do something else.
We found that it's a lot harder to relax when there's a timer counting down in your head, threatening to blow your vacation to smithereens. It was like trying to sleep through seven consecutive episodes of 24. Somehow, with the help of numerous tropical beverages and strategic avoidance of the sun's direct rays, we managed to lame-duck through the afternoon. We completed our stay, tearfully, at the poolside Nalu Kai Restaurant and Bar where we charged one final meal to our room.
Our Kauai footprint.
And then there was the hour ride to the airport, and two hours waiting at the airport, and the five hours to Phoenix, and the six hours to D.C., and the six hours that just plain vanished, and by the time J. and I returned home and were able to take another shower, it felt like August 2014.[42] The idea of going back to work -- where there wasn't even so much as complimentary pineapple spears -- seemed incongruous and wrong.
But the nine days of honeymoon and the steady falling action of the final 18 hours put me to thinking about what a honeymoon really means.
Obviously, and most urgently, it is a reward to the new couple for surviving the wedding, which is its own special obstacle course and marital training ground with lessons in high-stakes negotiation, family diplomacy, financial management and color coordination. And we probably call it a "honeymoon" because it's the dessert at the end of a long and expensive meal.
More cynically, the honeymoon may be the last and perhaps only opportunity for the husband and wife to escape the relentless, punishing, tiresome responsibilities of adulthood. And it's called a "honeymoon" because you might as well try and enjoy the sweet taste while you can, before it permanently hardens and you're totally stuck.
But I've begun to think of the honeymoon as a kind of slack tub, where hot metal is quenched and hardened into steel, strengthening it for its ultimate purpose. True love, like steel, burns brightly at first: different elements slam together chemically; it is stoked in heat, awesome and dangerous; and then it is intently shaped into something meaningful. Eventually, it cools and becomes unbreakable, eternal.
I like to think of our honeymoon and our Hawaii -- with its fires and fire dancers, oceans and waterfalls, flora and fauna, mountains and valleys, sunshine and rain -- as this kind of consecration. As for what the word "honeymoon" really signifies, I'm still not quite sure. But I know that honey and true love are the two things that never spoil.
Blue skies ahead.
[Click here for Part I]
Day Five
A largely wasted day. We had just enough time in the morning for an unhurried breakfast buffet and our by-now very familiar packing ritual before the shuttle came to deliver us to the airport. Our schedule called for us to leave the Hyatt at 11 a.m., arrive at the airport at noon, take a 2 p.m. jet to Honolulu, arrive in Honolulu at 2:45, run to catch a 3 p.m. jet out of Honolulu, land at Kauai's Lihue Airport at 4 p.m., catch a shuttle to our hotel and arrive at the St. Regis Princeville Resort and Spa at 5 p.m.
The good news is that there were no delays, detours or disasters and our itinerary was executed with military precision.[24] The bad news is that even this best-case scenario represented an unwelcome departure from the euphoric illusion that our honeymoon would be an uninterrupted state of recreation and relaxation. Instead we spent six hours right smack-dab in the middle of our vacation going through foot-stank security lines, eating preposterously overpriced fast food in terminal snack bars and sharing recycled, pressurized air with 200 middle-American game-show winners.
But rolling into the St. Regis restored the blush to our cheeks. The St. Regis chain of hotels, founded by New York City's famed Astor family and named after the patron saint of people who want to be millionaires, represents the apex of luxury; the sheer extravagance of the property itself is surpassed only by the lavishness of the proprietor's own imagination.[25]
The Princeville Resort comes close to meeting those astronomical standards. Fresh flowers, meticulously arranged, graced every corner of the resort; brass and marble accented every seam; mahogany and soft leather upholstery filled the bar and lounge; bright, plush murals and tapestries lined the walls, illuminated by glass bead chandeliers.[26] Just walking in there, in shorts and a tee shirt, I felt like a war refugee.[27]
Upon stepping into the St. Regis lobby, the first thing anyone sees is the giant wall of tinted glass, framing a panoramic view of Hanalei Bay and the rainforest-covered Kalalau valley mountain ridge.
I assume that the glass is there to prevent overexcited guests from running through the lobby,
off the balcony and into the ocean.
We checked in and took the elevator down to the seventh floor; the whole building is carved into the side of a bluff on the dry side of Hanalei Bay, such that all guests must descend from the lobby to their rooms. Should I ever become a genius supervillain, I am totally commandeering the St. Regis as my evil lair.
We opened the door to Room 706 and we were instantly dumbstruck by the spectacular oceanfront view. Between shimmering sapphire and a watercolor sky was a lush mountain landscape dressed in a thousand deep shades of green, delicately lit by the setting sun.
Beyond the tastefully appointed room itself -- note the abundance of pillows and the complimentary bucket of champagne on the desk -- was a window to the most beautiful view I've ever seen:
Get a little closer ...
... Oh yeah.
We just stood there and drooled for a while[28] before we realized we were hungry. J. was excited to explore the neighborhood, so she suggested we take a jaunt down to Hanalei Town, the closest thing to a "main drag" for 20 miles. As we had not rented a car, I called to the front desk to see if there was a shuttle or anything.
FRONT DESK: "A what, sir?"
ME: "A shuttle. Down to Hanalei Town? Kuhio Highway?"
FRONT DESK: "Oh, a shuttle." [She said the word "shuttle" with a half-laugh, like it was the most bourgeois thing she had ever heard, as if I had asked her if the restaurant served macaroni 'n' cheese.] "No sir, but we have a house car if you wish to reserve a pick-up."
ME: [Not at all understanding what that means.] "Excellent. We'd like to leave at about 6 p.m., please."
FRONT DESK: "You can just check in with the bell desk, sir. They'll help you make your arrangements."
ME: "Okay, thanks."
As it turns out, "house car" means "brand-new Mercedes sport utility wagon with private chauffeur for complimentary drop-offs and pick-ups around town." Stepping into the vehicle, I felt like Cinderella climbing into a pumpkin.
The 2010 Regismobile comes standard with limited powertrain warranty, 24/7 roadside assistance, buttery Corinthian leather, wish fulfillment package and soothing ukulele accompaniment.
Upon the suggestion of our driver, we elected to dine at the Hanalei Dolphin Restaurant and Fish Market, purported to have the best sushi on the island, with fish so fresh that you want to slap it with a sexual harassment lawsuit. We started with a zesty ceviche of Ono and Shrimp marinated in lime juice and followed that with a handful of maki rolls, but the grand prize went to the rainbow poke' martini, premium cuts of ahi tuna, salmon, whitefish and avocado served atop sushi rice in a martini glass.
J. enthusiastically goes to work on her martini, knowing full well
that she doesn't need to worry about driving home.
Sated by this mountainous feast, J. and I thought to take a stroll down the 100 or so yards of the Kuhio Highway that comprised the Hanalei business district. There was some sort of festival on the town square that evening, with several dozen families camped out on the public lawn watching surfing movies on a big screen.[29]
The Hanalei mall. TOP LEVEL: physical therapy clinic, yoga studio, massage parlor.
BOTTOM LEVEL: Mexican/Brazilian Restaurant, beachwear boutique, tchotchke shop.
Note the conspicuous absence of Auntie Anne's Pretzels.
With the sun sinking below the horizon and the night quickly fading to starry black, we summoned our wheels to bring us back home. Okay, so, the day might have been a waste. But the evening was a revelation: Kauai was a nice, soft place to land.
Day Six
It was at this point that the trip slowed down considerably in terms of mental and physical activity, which was pretty much what I had in mind to begin with.[30] And it makes sense that it worked out this way because -- as mellow as Maui may be -- Kauai establishes a new standard for relaxation. Compared to Washington D.C., southern California is laid-back, Maui is fully reclined and Kauai is resting in a persistent vegetative state. For two neurotic, uptight, materialistic, workaholic, hypersensitive midwestern overachievers-turned-East Coast drones like us, setting up camp in Kauai was like receiving an intravenous drip of Chilloutasec and Forgetitol.
We decided to begin the day by exploring the surrounding resort complex with a walk to the "nearby" Princeville shopping plaza. This basically meant winding our way past numerous quaint summer cottages, expertly manicured golf courses and myriad tropical gardens decorated with discarded Golden Globe awards.
We came across the Hanalei fire station on our walk to the Princeville shops. It was so hot,
I thought maybe if I loitered aggressively next to their sign they might hose me down.
After 20 minutes, the 90 degree heat and dubious pedestrian path had me wondering if the trip was worth it. Especially when we finally came upon the shopping plaza, the entirety of which was about the size of a Borders bookstore. Among the shops, however, was Lappert's Hawaii, the islands' preeminent local ice cream parlor.[31] Although my small dish of "Mauna Kea's Secret" (white chocolate ice cream swirled with raspberry sorbet, chocolate chips and chocolate brownies) really hit the spot, it was difficult to relish the rich, creamy flavor when the punishing midday sun is intent on turning it into soup.
Upon our return to the hotel, we stopped by the concierge desk to see if we could reserve a private dining cabana for that evening. A cherubic woman named Leilani apologized and informed us that a large party had reserved all the cabanas and we were out of luck. (Future romantic vacationgoers: reserve this kind of thing early. Ideally right now.) We also wanted to get her advice about the sunset dinner cruise we had scheduled with Ray at the Hyatt in Maui.
Ray had informed us that the boat left from a nearby port and it would be no problem to get there without a car. Leilani let us know that Ray was an idiot and the marina was nearly two hours away, too far even for the Regismobile. Not wanting to rent another car -- or drive back after the cruise in the middle of the night, for that matter -- we had to bag that plan. It was frustrating, but it did give allow us the time and money to book a helicopter tour for later in the week.[32]
Business complete, we hustled down to the recreation deck. At the uppermost level is a 5,000 square foot infinity pool, which -- if you look at it just right -- seamlessly empties into the ocean. Between the waters are several levels of cool, plush grass and a modest stretch of sugary sand.[33]
The pool and beach area look even more serene without any people in it.
Tools of repose encircle the grounds: private cabanas with futons, seemingly designed specifically for seaside nookie; three separate hot tubs (one with bubbles, one without, and one for families); and the Nalu Kai Restaurant and Bar, featuring the island's very best $28 hamburger. Highly specialized masseuses, each trained in the release of tension from certain individual body parts, stand at the ready. Beefy valets, deeply tanned and possessed of a hypnotic calm, patrol the area offering fresh towels and sunscreen. Professional waiter-dudes and waiter-babes, exuding a sort of casual brah-ness, proudly escort frosty drinks in bright hues up and down the aisles like Mardi Gras parade participants. An oversized hammock, strung between two recumbent palm trees, swings invitingly in the corner of your eye.
The view of the hotel from the beach. The red circle (upper left) denotes the location of our room. The green private cabana (lower left) denotes the location of two mature ladies quite possibly getting it on.
J. and I claimed a pair of seats under one of the hotel's bright green umbrellas on the eastern rim of the grass. The weather was still undisputably warm, as the sun was still burning in its afternoon rage. But the pillowy clouds, collecting as they often do on the leeward side of the mountains, offered occasional shade as the trade winds steadily whispered cooler thoughts.
The view of the beach from my chaise lounge chair on little plot of grass.
Taking this photo was the closest I came to doing a sit-up during the whole trip.
For three solid hours we lay there, wallowing in masterful, premium-quality sloth, watching the best seconds of our lives pass satisfyingly by. And yet time seemed to stand still, becoming meaningless, as if we were in a place without time, without location and without life -- not heaven, but a state of beatific limbo, warm, wet and fuzzy, like the moment between your first and second kiss.
Yeah, it was hot. Luckily we had cold drinks to keep us hydrated, or at least well lubricated. J. ordered a Mai Tai, the traditional Polynesian cocktail composed of rum, orange curaçao, sweet syrup and lime juice, served on the rocks with a pineapple spear. I had something called an Orange Crush'd Cooler,[34] the contents of which are unknown, although I think it was mostly schnapps and Starbursts.
Even by lax island resort standards, and next to J's Mai Tai (left), the Orange Crush'd Cooler (right)
is the sissiest drink I have ever ordered for myself. I'm pretty sure it came with a matching purse.
These drinks, as festively colored as they were, were no match for the oil painting sunset that bade us inside for dinner:
All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.
- from A Sunset by Victor Hugo -
For dinner, we opted to try the Makana Terrace, the slightly less ritzy of the hotel's two major in-house restaurants, in that reservations merely prerequire a credit score rather than the full credit report. The food was excellent while the setting was sublime, in an unsettlingly gothic sort of way. We were seated on a porch facing the ocean, but with the thick cloud cover and the near-total absence of artificial light, we appeared to be surrounded by an atmosphere of blackness, like we were dining on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.
Another lovely day thus ended, we went to sleep almost nervous, wondering how our dreams could possibly improve on that.
Day Seven
An unconscionably lazy day in Kauai. Embodied practically criminal levels of sloth, along with the other six deadly sins: gluttony, avarice, sexiness, loitering, worshipping false idols and horseplay in the pool area.
POP QUIZ:
What is J. doing in this picture?
A. Applying sunscreen to her hands.
B. Rubbing her hands together excitedly in feverish anticipation of beach activities.
C. Applauding the gorgeous weather.
D. Enthusiastically executing a mosquito.
ANSWER: Trick question. She is actually praying for us to be stranded in Kauai for an extra week.
We woke up early -- still aided somewhat by our bodies' persistent allegiance to East Coast Time -- so that we could reserve the hotel's limited supply of complimentary snorkel equipment. Princeville cove itself is circumscribed by the Anini reef, which makes for calm waters and a cozy environment for marine life (as well as your more well-behaved Marines).
We were also keen to stake out some prime beachside real estate by getting a jump on the masses, but we found ourselves lucky to get the last pair of lounges between the beach and the pool;[35] J. had to hold off would-be interlopers with only her fists and an ornery disposition, while I briefly considered marking our territory organically.
I can only guess that some of those people must have camped out the night before -- waiting to claim the coveted area triangulated between the bar, the beach and the hammock -- which is usually the sort of obsessive-compulsive behavior usually reserved for Star Wars fanatics, Duke University basketball fans and the Homeless. And of course I was jealous that I hadn't thought of it first.
In addition to the snorkel gear we carried with us a large canvas bag of provisions for a full day of leisurely abandon: sunscreen (one container Neutrogena Ultra-Sheer Dry-Touch SPF 55 lotion and one container Neutrogena Fresh Cooling SPF 70 Body Mist Spray), breakfast (deli sliders from the coffee bar), books (for me, David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men; for J., Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love[36]), music (my 4 GB Sansa Clip, loaded with music old and new, including OK Go's Of the Blue Colour of the Sky, a major disappointment) and Travel Scrabble.
The results of a round of Scoreless Scrabble, which is played without attention to points. This way,
there is no pressure and no hard feelings, because everybody wins. Especially me, who hit a bingo
with BESEIGED (lower right hand corner) and didn't get stuck holding the Q and the Z.
Our repose was mildly interrupted by some sort of contrived work-play event being held in honor of the Shire Pharmaceuticals "President's Club," which I can only guess is an honor roll for the corporation's most successful, productive and obnoxious sales representatives. Not only did the organizers erect a giant hospitality tent on the grassy knoll, commandeer all of the private dining cabanas [aha! the culprits] and pollute the area with generic reggae music, they overserved their beneficiaries free drinks and then unleashed them on the pool deck.
I amused myself by imagining that this said "hospital" instead of "hospitality," then
imagining sending multiple "President's Club" members there with snorkel-shaped bruises.
It took a measure of concentration to tune out these overstuffed, overblown, middle-aged middle-management apes and their spouses with their half-drunken carousing, and their shop talk, and their baleful chirping about how their iPads were running slow.
We escaped the cacophony for an hour or so when we paddled out toward the edge of the reef to scope out Natural Aquatic Beauty, for real this time. And we did see some fish. At least two, possibly even more, although it would be impossible to say whether we were just chasing the same yellow fish and the same silver fish all over the place. We did also see a black crab, some bleached coral and dozens of pulsating, tubular filter feeder things that looked disquietingly like breathing sea turds. It was certainly Aquatic, but frankly it was way too much Natural, not nearly enough Majesty.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of naps, only occasionally punctuated by reading, snacking and swimming. As body and brain sank into a pleasant atrophy, my only halfway intellectual exercise was the eyeball projection of the sun's arc across the sky and the calculated placement of our giant green umbrella so as to maintain maximum shade coverage at all times, thereby obviating additional sunscreen application.
As evening ascended, another magnificent sunset gradually ushered us from one dreamland to another.
If you think about it, a sunset is really nothing more than an illusion, created by the earth's rotation, that the sun is "disappearing," and the acute refraction of ultraviolet rays upon the earth's surface and atmosphere, bending visible light into a chromatograph of different colors. But, as illusions go, they're pretty great. Much better even than such pleasant illusions as "free lunch" or "friends with benefits."
Totally exhausted from momentarily glancing upward, and in the mood for a more romantic, intimate evening, we elected to eschew restaurants and simply order dinner from room service.[37] My Kobe beef hamburger was excellent, but the kitchen somehow managed to screw up J.'s mango salad twice. To their credit, they not only apologized profusely and removed the entire meal charge from our bill, they also sent up a complimentary dessert and a fresh fruit platter with enough surplus mango to dress a whole goat in chutney.
Thoroughly sunned and stuffed, we slept peacefully, despite the conspicuous lack of actual physical exertion.
Day Eight
Bright the next morning, we hitched a ride on the Regismobile to the nearby Princeville Airport, where we were to check in with Sunshine Helicopters for our scheduled bird's-eye view of Natural Majesty.
We would be riding in an EC 130 B4 WhisperSTAR chopper, with capacity for six passengers (plus the pilot) and a Plexiglas cockpit designed to accommodate 180-degree views. Touted as "the most advanced technological sightseeing helicopter ever," in the event of emergency it will automatically play Gospel music on the in-flight DVD player. Though this was the first helicopter ride for either of us, we weren't scared or anything, at least not before the harrowing 20-minute safety lecture and our first up-close confrontation with the great metal beast.
The word "helicopter" comes from the Greek words helikos, meaning "spiral"
or "spinning," and pteron, meaning "blades of death."
It was at least refreshing to be able to board an aircraft without having to take off my shoes and walk through a metal detector. Each seat was equipped with headphones (so as to drown out the noise and receive communications from the pilot), a four-point harness and a barf bag. J. and I had both dropped some Dramamine on the way over but I remained and remain wary of any large, unnatural and dramatic movements.[38]
Our takeoff was delayed only minimally by a fellow passenger, sitting next to me, who began to suffer an anxiety attack and had to be let off the helicopter, without a refund. It's difficult to describe the actual takeoff process: it wasn't just straight-up into the air; it was like being lifted off the ground slightly then whipped forward along a runway at an acute angle until we hovered, like Wile E. Coyote, over the steep gorge below.
First we climbed to the apex of the Kalalau valley mountain range and the summit of dormant Mount Waialeale. There, in one of the wettest places on earth,[39] the altitude and the low-lying clouds produce a constant rainfall that feeds the dense green foliage and fuels the enormous waterfalls that stretch up to thousands of feet long.
Our pilot cavalierly disregarded the moral and ethical guidance of T.L.C., who famously
urged prospective explorers not to go chasing waterfalls and suggested that they instead
focus exclusively on the rivers and lakes to which the explorer is most accustomed.
From there we proceeded along the mountain ridge toward Waimea Canyon, the so-called "Grand Canyon of the Pacific." Measuring 10 miles long and nearly 3,500 feet deep, it is equivalent to an acne scar on the face of the actual Grand Canyon, which is 25 times longer and twice as deep. What it lacks in size, however, it compensates with a sharply contrasting colors, a thoroughly unique ecosystem and a really nice personality.
Waimea Canyon was created by the partial collapse of Kauai's surface four million years ago and
shaped by millennia of lava and water flow, making it the world's oldest and largest hot tub.
Moving through the canyon, over Kokee National Park and its 4,345 acres worth of hiking trails, we made a U-turn over the southwest corner of the island and hugged the shoreline on up to the Na Pali Coast, a series of awesome cliffs that once formed the shoulder of a prehistoric volcano and now comprises the island's northwest wall. The vertical ridges, caused by rivulets of lava that carved through the rock and then quickly cooled, are referred to as "the Cathedrals" and represent Hawaii's Official Guidebook Cover Photo Subject.
This photo, while probably our best of the Na Pali Coast, fails to capture its Holy Natural Frickin' Majesty, possibly because J. and I were frantically snapping pictures without worrying about focus
or glare or framing, while also trying to soak it all in on a real-time and panoramic basis, and
oh yeah, attempting to ward off the creeping sense of vertigo and motion sickness, which would have really put a damper on the whole trip, not to mention my shoes. (This picture is pretty good, though.)
After a quick sweep over Hanalei Bay, we returned to the airport, where I had to restrain J. from hijacking the helicopter and absconding to Bora Bora.
An aerial view of all Princeville (permanent population: ~1,600), with the St. Regis Hotel
descending front-and-center. The town is named for Prince Albert Kamehameha,
who was noted for his enjoyment of golf, surfing and womanservants.
Boarding our trusty Regismobile, we returned to the hotel and the beach for a few more hours of sun. Unfortunately, a leaden band of clouds had collected over the cove and parked there for most of the afternoon, lending the whole day a patina of silver.
J. was recognizably disappointed, as her dreams of frolicking in sun-dappled waters vanished, but I thought it was kind of nice. It wasn't quite as blisteringly hot outside without all the solar exposure, plus I didn't have to worry about coating myself head-to-toe with sunscreen every ten minutes. And anyway, it was kind of beautiful.
If there is a God, this is what I imagine He might look like.
We enjoyed a light lunch on the beach, sampling a broad and creative assortment of cocktails[40] and reading our books as the trade winds gently sprayed us with a salty mist. And, wouldn't you know it, as soon as it was time for us to pack up and head to dinner, the sky broke open and a rainbow poured out.
FUN FACT: The University of Hawaii, based primarily in Honolulu, is the home of
the Rainbow Warriors, named for civilization's earliest gay-friendly fighting force.
For dinner, we chose Bar Acuda, a popular tapas and wine bar located in Hanalei, just down the street from the Dolphin. We had the Regismobile drop us off early so we could explore the town, which boasts its own sizable beach and fewer than 500 permanent residents, most of them surfers or surf-widows.
While the clouds had largely dissipated over Princeville, great gray altostratus continued to drift near the mountains that shadow Hanalei.[41] As we walked past the through the neighborhoods off the main drag, we found ourselves caught in a light rain shower, which was not at all the kind of splashing that J. had in mind. Soon enough, she was sloshing at the restaurant, where our alluringly detached waitress suggested that we order five or six dishes per person, or basically everything on the menu.
J. tries an unexpectedly zesty glass of Malbec. Whenever she made a face like this …
… I only had to glance slightly upward and over her left shoulder.
Tempting as that was, we settled on about six dishes total, all of which were delectable, especially the seared sea scallop. I even tried to save room for dessert -- a banana-coconut milkshake at Bubba Burgers or some shaved ice at Shaved Ice Paradise -- but the sweet corn pizzeta did me in.
Hanalei Town's Dessert District.
And so another day of shameless self-indulgence gave way to our last night on Kauai, and dreams of excessive, extraordinary wealth, youthfully acquired without so much skill or effort as scratching a lottery ticket.
Day Nine
We held out as long as we could, but eventually we had to leave. Our final day in Hawaii made for a very long and awkward goodbye: We had to check out of our room by noon, but our shuttle wasn't scheduled to pick us up from the airport until 7:00 p.m. for a 10:00 p.m. flight. Efforts to obtain a late checkout were, unlike just about everything else at the hotel, fruitless.
If we had really thought about this in advance, we could have arranged for an earlier shuttle down to the south side of the island and spent the day there. Or we could have booked our helicopter ride or some other such excursion for that afternoon. Or we could have just paid for another night's stay, because, hey, screw it. Vacation.
But instead we tried to wring every last memory out of the place by spending the rest of the day on the beach, even though we couldn't really go in the water (lest we risk personal dampness for the next 18 hours) or bake in the sun (lest we reek of sunscreen and sauteed flesh for the next 18 hours). If I may use the kissing metaphor again, the day was like a kiss that goes on for way too long, so long that you start sweating and chafing and cramping up, and you don't even care anymore whether things move forward or stop altogether, you just want to do something else.
We found that it's a lot harder to relax when there's a timer counting down in your head, threatening to blow your vacation to smithereens. It was like trying to sleep through seven consecutive episodes of 24. Somehow, with the help of numerous tropical beverages and strategic avoidance of the sun's direct rays, we managed to lame-duck through the afternoon. We completed our stay, tearfully, at the poolside Nalu Kai Restaurant and Bar where we charged one final meal to our room.
Our Kauai footprint.
And then there was the hour ride to the airport, and two hours waiting at the airport, and the five hours to Phoenix, and the six hours to D.C., and the six hours that just plain vanished, and by the time J. and I returned home and were able to take another shower, it felt like August 2014.[42] The idea of going back to work -- where there wasn't even so much as complimentary pineapple spears -- seemed incongruous and wrong.
But the nine days of honeymoon and the steady falling action of the final 18 hours put me to thinking about what a honeymoon really means.
Obviously, and most urgently, it is a reward to the new couple for surviving the wedding, which is its own special obstacle course and marital training ground with lessons in high-stakes negotiation, family diplomacy, financial management and color coordination. And we probably call it a "honeymoon" because it's the dessert at the end of a long and expensive meal.
More cynically, the honeymoon may be the last and perhaps only opportunity for the husband and wife to escape the relentless, punishing, tiresome responsibilities of adulthood. And it's called a "honeymoon" because you might as well try and enjoy the sweet taste while you can, before it permanently hardens and you're totally stuck.
But I've begun to think of the honeymoon as a kind of slack tub, where hot metal is quenched and hardened into steel, strengthening it for its ultimate purpose. True love, like steel, burns brightly at first: different elements slam together chemically; it is stoked in heat, awesome and dangerous; and then it is intently shaped into something meaningful. Eventually, it cools and becomes unbreakable, eternal.
I like to think of our honeymoon and our Hawaii -- with its fires and fire dancers, oceans and waterfalls, flora and fauna, mountains and valleys, sunshine and rain -- as this kind of consecration. As for what the word "honeymoon" really signifies, I'm still not quite sure. But I know that honey and true love are the two things that never spoil.
Blue skies ahead.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
[24]
Date: 2010-07-19 03:58 am (UTC)[25]
Date: 2010-07-19 03:59 am (UTC)My guess is that the St. Regis Princeville is somewhere between “Journey’s End” and “Paradise Found,” a subdivision I think of as “God's Own Hideaway."
[26]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:00 am (UTC)[27]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:06 am (UTC)http://enchanted-pants.livejournal.com/139286.html
[28]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:08 am (UTC)But what was really cool about it was this peek-a-boo switch in the bathroom that could instantly transform the glass from transparent to frosted and back again. Unfortunately, additional photos are considered "not safe for work" – or your home, for that matter – or, for heaven's sake, mobile multimedia devices. Just take my word for it.
[29]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:09 am (UTC)[30]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:11 am (UTC)Without the responsibilities and consequences of real life, we can finally slow down and appreciate those moments that occupy so much of our time – and we can appreciate the people with whom we spend those moments. When Henry David Thoreau spoke about the desire "to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life," I believe he was presciently speaking of the will to lie in the shade all day, contemplating bikinis[*]and savoring every sip of an $18 milkshake.
I like my vacations deep.
[*] RE: Bikinis
Date: 2010-07-19 04:12 am (UTC)Here we have a garment (by definition it is two pieces but for these purposes we will refer to it as a collective) that essentially covers the same exact parts as a woman's underwear – and often less so. And yet the bikini is public while underwear is private; the bikini is boastful while underwear is bashful; the bikini is fun-loving while the underwear is serious.
On beaches and boardwalks, women nonchalantly wander around in their bikinis. But these same women balk at the idea of walking around in a public place in their underwear, and if their underwear was somehow exposed, they would be likely to duck and cover behind the nearest shrubbery. What is the difference between these items that denotes the line between confidence and humiliation and distinguishes each garment's connotative meaning?
Is it the fabric? (Does spandex and lycra somehow inspire more confidence and security than cotton and silk?) Is it marketing? (Has the women's fashion industry intentionally or unintentionally dictated attitudes by declaring that this is for this and that is for that?) Is it context? (Is underwear as appropriate for the beach as a bikini would be inappropriate off the beach?)
In recent years, underwear designs and swimwear designs have slowly migrated toward a more unified principle of style, but the dividing line still exists. That line still seems clear enough that no one ever questions it – even and especially the women who observe it – and I can't figure out why.
[31]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:13 am (UTC)As an ice cream substitute, almost apologetically, "shaved ice" booths are located just about every 50 feet. Shaved ice is basically the same thing as a Sno-Cone, only with less stubble.
[32]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:14 am (UTC)[33]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:15 am (UTC)Teasing me.
Mocking me.
I hate you, St. Regis, because I love you.
[34]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:16 am (UTC)There are valid reasons for my abstention, some of them logical and valid (my parents were and are tepid drinkers) and some of them self-aggrandizing and silly (in college, this was my ironic attempt of nonconformist rebellion).
I could probably even come up with a convincing ideological argument that alcohol's psychotropic effects represent an unwelcome departure for a person like me, a person who gets a distinct spiritual (no pun intended there) "rush" from being in control, fully aware and intellectually engaged with my environment. (Rationally, I'm still conflicted about this position. There has never been an occasion when I was drunk and, in retrospect, didn't wish I had been sober. At the same time, I will quickly concede that if I had been a social drinker in college, I would have been a lot more popular at sorority mixers, if you know what I mean. Whether my unfortunate reality was more a function of my smug superiority or the usual "wallflower" effect, I can't say. Certainly both.)
Anyway, most fundamentally, my avoidance of alcohol has always come down to the fact that I just don't like the taste of it. These sorts of things are naturally subjective, but to me a Diet Coke just tastes better than a Guinness, or a Sauvignon Blanc, or a 30-year old scotch. And I just don't have the patience or the discipline to develop the "acquired taste" that is apparently necessary to appreciate fine ales and spirits. Acquired tastes, as a rule, are stupid. If it takes that long to acquire a taste for something, you can keep it. I'm thirsty now.
But I make exceptions. I partake of post-softball pitchers of cheap beer because it is less about mere refreshment than it is about communion and fostering team cohesion. I accompany J. on those rustic sippy-sippy winery tours she loves so much because I enjoy seeing her get so excited about it and because it sometimes makes her frisky.
And I decided to try some of Hawaii's frosty tropical drinks because it's part of the Hawaii-Resort-Vacation experience, and because they're so loaded up with fruit and sugar and juice that you can't taste the alcohol anyway, if there is even any in there. And these drinks were pretty good. But it's probably pretty telling that I mostly ended up reverting to plain old regular lemonade and those $18 milkshakes.
[35]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:17 am (UTC)Maybe "hate" is too strong a word. As the larger story makes clear, I willingly set foot on a beach, so right away we know that I don't even hate the beach as much as I hate, say, Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport or Roy Rogers Restaurant. But I'm also framing my view relative to the general population, which preponderantly loves the beach. Regular people can't get enough of the beach. The Beach is far and away the world's No. 1 vacation destination, far outpacing The Mountains, The Country and The Grateful Dead.
More to the point, J. loves the beach. If she thought she could move to Kauai right now and make a living on the beach as a seashell collector or a surfboard waxer or a turtle wrangler, she would steal a jet and fly there herself. And I'm open to the idea of a retirement home on the beach somewhere – assuming that we are ever able to retire and that our current condo doesn't soon become beachfront property – because I actually like the water. And I like the sea breezes and the volleyball and the bikinis and everything.
But the sand. Ugh. I just don't like the sand. It's everywhere and it gets everywhere. You can't set foot on the stuff without it seeping into every crack and crevice of your body, and those crappy little showers don't do anything but move it around on your sticky-sweaty skin. And just forget about your clothes. If you sit on the beach in anything other than a skin-tight Speedo, which invariably poses its own problems, you can just forget about getting those little bitty grains out of the pockets and seams. You might as well just burn the damned thing. If sand is hot and dry, it feels like you're walking on hot coals; if it's cold and wet, it feels like you're walking in mucus. One strong breeze and it's in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, along with all the stuff that's hiding in it like bugs and glass and seagull turds and whatnot, and who knows whose greasy cocoa-buttered ass cheeks were brushing against it just seconds ago. Sand is filthy and you know its filthy but you can't really even see how filthy it is so all you can do is imagine what foul, repugnant, plague-infested particles are waiting to enter your body via your toenails.
So I really dislike the sand, and the beach is mostly sand, so I mostly dislike the beach. And I can't understand why everyone else likes it so much, which makes me hate it. But I go to the beach because I think that maybe, eventually, I'll see what everyone else is so excited about, and because J. likes it, and you don't get to the point of marriage, much less your honeymoon, without figuring out what's good for you.
[36]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:18 am (UTC)[37]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:20 am (UTC)J. made it clear that she had selected the best possible movie from an uninspiring library of films, which I have come to think was probably assembled for the primary purpose of distracting restless children rather than providing in-room entertainment for consenting adults. At the time, I guess we figured that watching the free, potentially crappy movie was better than spending $10 or whatever on one of the more diverse Pay-Per-View features. In retrospect, though, given the occasion and what we were paying for the room – not to mention the fact that I was dropping $10 tips around the hotel like they were breadcrumbs – it seems pretty ridiculous that we didn't just eat the $10. Of course, that would be no guarantee of seeing a decent movie either. We should have just listened to the radio.
[38]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:21 am (UTC)[39]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:21 am (UTC)[40]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:23 am (UTC)The “Kona Gold”:
1 oz Kauai macadamia nut liqueur
1 oz Kahlua
4 oz pina colada mix
The “Princeville Palace”:
4 oz champagne
1 oz peach schnapps
1-1.5 oz passionfruit concentrate
It really is kind of amazing that I didn’t have to carry J. back to our room in the freight elevator.
[41]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:24 am (UTC)[42]
Date: 2010-07-19 04:25 am (UTC)Experimental Project
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