Poked, prodded and pancaked in paradise

So you walk in and they greet you with soft, white spa robes and hot tea.  Nice.  Ah, but don't be fooled.  It's a ruse, done to lull you into thinking that the procedure you are about to endure will be pleasant.  It is not.  Once in the room, a petite, smiling but serious woman with cold hands manipulates your exposed breast into a vice and applies 25 pounds of pressure.  Now, 25 pounds may not sound like much, but trust me, it leaves a mark.  There's gotta be a better way.  

That was the morning's fun on Friday.  In the after noon, I was poked, prodded and probed elsewhere on (or should I say in) my person, which made for the perfect, shitty day.  This all happened in the lovely city of Honolulu.  Now, Waikiki is nice, with fancy shopping and swanky hotels.  But deviate from that strip one iota and you will witness the sordid underbelly of the service industry.  Hey, the regular people have to live somewhere.  For all it's azure blue ocean, balmy climate and swaying palms, much of Honolulu and environs is a dump.  Ah but what big, American city isn't?  It reminds me of L.A. in the 80s.

Still, I managed to enjoy my stay and to savor the overpriced meals.  I came home last night, completely out of money.  We'll be eating hot dogs and beans until payday.  Hey, any excuse to eat a good hot dog works for me.  The trouble comes in finding a decent hot dog here.  Maybe I could carve some spam into the shape of a frankfurter, slap it on a bun and serve it up with mustard and sauerkraut.  Hmmm... sauerkraut.  Might have to substitute kim chee....  Do you see my dilimma?  It's really not the same.

On my way to the clinic from the airport Friday morning, the cab driver asks me, "What exit should I take?"

I say, "I have no idea."

"Should I take McCully or Punahou?"

"This is your city," I say.  "I'm the visitor."

He says, "OK," then proceeds to guess wrong and has to backtrack, on my dime.  Oh well.  He was a pretty nice guy.  I tipped him two bucks anyway.  That should buy him a big package of squat in Honolulu.

Then, on the way back to the airport from the hotel, the driver asks me where I live.  When I say Hilo (because nobody knows where Glenwood or Volcano are) he says, "Hilo is boring." Then he tells me he lived there for a year.  I laugh and say, "That's just how I like it," and he laughs too.  He knew the way to the airport.  He got a little bigger tip, but not much, since my wallet was on the verge of empty.

I could have saved a bundle taking the bus instead of a cab to and from the airport, but it takes nearly two hours on the bus, as opposed to half an hour by car.  Long bus rides make me queazy.  If it's choice between parting with some cash or hurling, I chose the former. 

I ate dinner at an Indian food restaurant Friday night. The waiter was dark and handsome and made me wish for just a nano-moment that I was 25 years younger and single.  The friendly water glass guy was cute too, a college student from Pakistan.  Only in America would you find a Pakistani guy working happily at an Indian restaurant.  Detante lives.  OK, you might actually find that just about anywhere, since the two countries share a border.  For all I know, all the employees there were Pakastani.  Maybe it was really a Pakistani restaurant, but they called it Indian so as not to ruffle any closed-minded American sensibilities.  There was this tall guy in the kitchen.  He wore a turban, had a messy beard and walked with a long staff... Nah!  Bin Laden's not in Waikiki.  Don't be silly.  Anyway, the service was spot-on and the food was pretty good, too.  Mostly, I enjoyed two (count 'em, 2) Taj Mahal lagers, each served ice cold in it's own frosty glass.  It's the best beer in the world.  Must be the water in Bangalore.  Anyway, I deserved them after all that torture.

Now I'm home, sitting on the lanai, typing.  I love wifi.  I had planned to update this blog during my stay, but the Hilton charges $8/hour for an Internet connection and I could find no free wifi nearby.  Does anybody know why the word Internet is always capitalized?

It's hot and sunny today.  The dogs and cats are all sacked out in the coolest parts of the house. Ron is happy these days, feeling smug about his ability to share gardening tips with the neighbor and the fact that he has no money invested in the banking industry or mortgage-backed securities.  I am becoming bored with this place.  Sometimes, I just want to drive someplace new, see some new scenery.  But there's no place new to drive.  It may be the Big Island, but it's not that big. Wah, wah, wah. Nothing but foliage and lava, lava and foliage.  The foliage is green, even though autumn is upon is.  It will not turn yellow or orange or red.   I miss fall.   I like the way morning frost glistens on the grass.  I like seeing my own breath come out like steam rising from a cup of hot cocoa.  I like wearing sweaters.  Oh sure, there are some nice waterfalls here and some darn pretty beaches, but I live nowhere near those. The only people who get to live at the beach in Hawaii are the rich and the homeless.  Wah, wah, wah.  I'm beginning to think I'm just a perpetual malcontent.  Time for a little cheese with this whine.  Ah, but as the masthead on the Denver Post reads, "There is no hope for the satisfied (wo)man."  I can never remember to whom I should attribute that quote.  

A hui hou.  Aloha!