Nicole may have hoped that a Lost day entailed going around the island looking for Lost filming locations, but it was really just time killing. There was too much time on our hands, yet not enough to really do anything of substance. I dragged Nicole out to see my old apartment. It is indeed still there. Waikiki is a complicated matter in my mind. It would be one thing if I could walk around the neighborhoods and point things out that stirred memories, but everything’s basically gone — replaced with at least one Cheesecake Factory or a Tesla showroom. That old apartment was truly terrible, but it was my terrible apartment. Now everything I know is gone, perhaps even that poofy haired boy.
Meanwhile back in the tourist’s Waikiki or as some call it, “Waikiki,” I wanted to tell everyone off at the Voyager 47 lounge. I don’t like feeling people breathing on me as I grab a processed croissant. Why must people hover behind me? Why is everyone else so slow? Why doesn’t anyone look where they’re going? And what’s the deal with buffets and why do people like them? Alright, let’s all breathe. Nicole and I did a small amount of shopping and I got some coffee at an ABC store — one which claims to be 100% Kona coffee and one that was 10% Kona coffee and about 1/5th of the price. I also grabbed a spam dog and a Haupia malasada for my lunch.
That Spam dog didn’t sit well, which probably surprises no one, but the malasada was relatively fresh and warm. It was about this time that we were informed that our original flight on Alaska was delayed nearly three hours. This would put us in LAX after 3am, so not ideal. We switched to a delayed American flight that would now depart around Alaska’s original undelayed time. We’ll call it a wash.
We switched into our traveling clothes, and slowly packed our Outrigger water bottles, tote bag, macadamia nuts, Kona coffee AND “Kona” coffee, Nicole’s new Locals, and checked out. Salt tried to make a silent exit to avoid being spotted by paparazzi, but they are again very inexperienced with such matters and I was able to spot them before they snuck away in an Uber. Bricole departed some 30 minutes later or so and sat in the typical Waikiki traffic for another 30 before arriving back at Daniel K. Inouye International.
Shortly after the security checkpoint, we were issued seats together in row 29 A/B of an A321 with an open C next to us. If you recall from recent times, an open seat means nothing to the traveling public. After all, there are people on here who probably hover behind other people at buffets and have no social etiquette. Such creatures luckily didn’t materialize next to me, and we settled in for the five hour flight back to Los Angeles with views of Diamond Head and the city on our way out.
It was nice to get everyone together. Scattered as we are across the country, it is a rare occasion these days. I got to watch the keikis catch their first waves, see a lone tear on Nicole’s face as she ran through a bamboo forest and away from mosquitoes, and to see Salt manage a smile or perhaps a slight smirk at being able to get everyone together. It was a mostly subsidized trip for us and that was very nice and generous of the others, but being in Waikiki will always add a layer of complexity to my feelings that is difficult to articulate.
Salt probably doesn’t remember this as well as I do, but they came to help me pack up from Hawai’i and move back to the east coast in May of 2006. For the previous six months, I had been surviving off plate lunches and cheap fried Chinese food. I had a routine. Armed with a K-Mart bike and a bus pass, I was adventurous and unstoppable until one of the pedals fell off my bike and I found myself riding in the back of a pickup with some highschoolers.
At 20 years of age, my brain was also not fully developed and I made some rather idiotic decisions that got me lost in a rainforest, stranded on a highway on the north shore, scraped across coral, and homeless for a night in Hilo. And when Salt came back to Waikiki to collect me, they found that boy (with very poofy hair if you recall) a bit set in his ways. They were looking to drink mai tais and eat at Cheeseburger in Paradise. I was unfairly hostile to them and basically said I couldn’t be caught dead in such an establishment. They were on vacation. I was trying to preserve my local boy reputation — clinging with desperation to something that was already on its way out.
And in the ensuing decades, every aspect of my life in Hawai’i faded away too. The place is virtually unrecognizable. I can’t navigate the streets by landmarks and have to use Google Maps. Of course the hotels are mostly the same, but that wasn’t my realm except when I’d occasionally use the Marriott for free unprotected Wi-Fi. On Valentine’s Day, I stood outside the Outrigger Waikiki Beach with a rose and a sign that said, “Looking for someone to split a hula pie with me,” Ten minutes later, security booted me out. I guess I’ve always been at odds with the tourist part of Waikiki. Of course, I should have known I wasn’t going to find any single people on a heavily touristed part of Waikiki beach on Valentine’s Day. Again, I wasn’t that smart back then. I’ve been back a handful of times since I left in 2006, but it always stirs up odd emotions.
People may forget that for as little as I actually lived in Hawai’i, I made it a pretty big part of my personality for many years. It’s basically what bagged me Nicole. She may have been duped by my big hair and flip flops, but by playing the long game, she now gets flight benefits to go to Hawai’i whenever she wants (in theory at least).
Salt (the reason for this season) have been coming to Waikiki for many years, with increasing frequency it would seem. They too have seen all the changes and perhaps have a more objective view of the transition than I. “This used to be the International Marketplace! Now it’s a Target!,” they might point out. There used to be some properly dodgy eating establishments — particularly on Kuhio Avenue near my apartment. Sex workers used to patrol the street in their six inch heels before grabbing a coffee at Denny’s on the McCully side of the strip. Addicts would routinely be tweaking on the Hawai’i Pacific campus (or in my apartment’s parking lot). The city’s pivot to more affluent tourists has resulted in newer and classier businesses, cleaner streets, and perhaps an overall safer town than I experienced. It’s hard to argue against that transformation, but part of me will always mourn the world I knew.
Perhaps Salt keep coming back because they are chasing that dopamine hit that recalls a time that made them happy, triggering memories of family and fun — even if that involved arguing with their son over Cheeseburger in Paradise. Nowadays, I am reminded of those days of my own past when I put on my wedding band — inlaid with Hawaiian koa wood. Ukuleles adorn our walls. Local flip flops are scattered near the doors for quick exits. There are parts of that life that will carry on even if my walk-up Chinese joint has been replaced with a Burberry. Aloha for now.
