On Saturday, I got up around five AM and drove to BWI. I parked at the Pre-Flight place where I always park (where you earn free days by parking there), and was driven to the airport. I checked my bag (“through to Honolulu” are beautiful words), selected an exit-row seat at the terminal, waited in the longest yet fastest-moving security line of my entire life, and went to the gate, where I found and woke up Paul and Julie. The agent made an announcement that there had been children seated in the emergency exit rows, and they needed people who had two seats together elsewhere in the plane to switch. I made Paul and Julie volunteer, which they did with suitable—and (had I known what was to come) surprising—alacrity. So we were all able to sit together on the 3-hour flight to Minneapolis. We got there, we ate lunch, and we anxiously awaited Wayne’s arrival. His flight was delayed twice, but he still made it. There was apparently a long line at either Burger King or Cinnabon, though, so he almost missed our boarding call. He and I were seated together in the back of the plane, but Paul and Julie were seated several rows ahead of us, both in middle seats, several rows apart. Poor things. It was a long flight, during which we read Harry Potter. Wayne reads faster than I do, but I still stand by my belief that my comprehension is better. He also kept interrupting me with his THEORIES. One of them was borne out early, one hundred percent correct. I don’t remember the others. We landed in Honolulu and took a cab to the hotel where Wayne and I were registered, the Continental Surf. We were greeted with $5 for a cab, a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, and the information that we’d been bumped due to a booking error to the Waikiki Beach Resort. We tried calling there and a few other places, only to discover that no one had a room for Paul and Julie. A passing woman told us she’d seen a vacancy sign at the Bamboo nearby, so they went and stayed there. They ended up with a HUGE apartment-type room which must have cost a fortune. Much nicer than the tiny room Wayne and I had. We had dinner at a traditional Hawaiian Denny’s.

On Sunday, the three of them got up at the asscrack of dawn (reverse jetlag, you see) and went walking around Waikiki. Julie and Paul even went in the ocean, I think. I stayed in bed reading, and caught up to where Wayne was in the book. We tried to have breakfast at Denny’s, but the wait was long, and we had a flight to catch, so we got sandwiches and fruit for breakfast in the first of many trips to the ABC Stores. These convenience stores sell everything from liquor to sundresses to towels to flip-flops to souvenir chocolates to t-shirts to memory cards to bulk-quantity keychains. And there’s at least one on every block in Honolulu. You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. Every block. We went back to the airport, to the interisland terminal this time, in the first cab that happened to show up, which was a stretch limousine. We flew to Kona, where we got off the plane on the tarmac and claimed our luggage in what was actually a thatched hut. Kona has something like four gates. The agricultural inspection station is bigger than the baggage claim. It’s adorable, as airports go. We picked up the Jeep we’d rented and discovered (not to our surprise, but much to my frustration) that it would take two trips to get all four people and all nine bags to the resort. So we did the bags first, leaving them with the bell staff at the Hapuna Beach Prince. On the drive, we saw the amazing white-rocks-on-black-lava graffiti that seems to cover the Big Island. It was incredible. We went back and got Paul and Julie, and we checked into the beautiful oceanfront room. There was swimming. We drove into Waimea for dinner, where the only restaurant we could find looked like a local dive bar from the outside but turned out to be the second-most-expensive restaurant in town. Ooops. I had an awesome steak. There were leftovers, which were given to me in my first-ever aluminum-foil swan. On the drive back to Hapuna, I was astounded at how many stars there are on the Big Island. It’s indescribable. INDESCRIBABLE. I thought there were a lot of stars when I camped in the Grand Canyon fifteen years ago. That was BUSH LEAGUE. This was one of the most beautiful and moving things I’ve ever seen. This trip cost me thousands of dollars, and it was worth it just to see the stars.

On Monday, we swam. They snorkeled. I finished the lousy fucking book and ate my leftovers. I made an appointment at the spa for the next day to get a manicure and pedicure and eyebrow waxing. In the afternoon, we set out for Hilo and Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. It was an hours-long drive, but beautiful. Wayne said repeatedly how it could pass for Montana if you were filming a movie. We stopped at a hardware store and bought flashlights, which we’d been told were a necessity for hiking up the volcano. We did some other hiking down trails and a lava tube at the volcano park. There are pictures. They are numerous. I pissed my friends off by pulling the Jeep off the road several times to take pictures of the sunset. When it got dark, I was again astounded by the stars. We were at a much higher elevation (the resort, obviously, is at about one foot over sea level; the volcano park is at around 2000), and it was VERY windy. We drove up toward where we’d been told the red lava was, and we had to turn around and park the car. Then we had to hike. Eventually, the road ended where the lava had flowed over it and hardened two years ago. There were amusing sights, like speed limit and ‘no parking’ signs buried askew several feet deep in hardened black lava rock. The road then FULLY ended. And we were faced, in pitch blackness, with two flashlights for four people, in shorts, with a string of tiny reflective markers and a mountain covered in what is actually broken glass to hike over. The sign at the ranger station had said it was six miles, four hours, to where you could see red lava. I guess we thought that was metric, because off we set. At the first blinking-light beacon, the yellow reflectors ended. We made it to the second beacon, and I guess we wandered too far toward the ocean, because we came on a rope that told us in no uncertain terms that what we were standing on could “fall into the sea” without warning. Spiffing. We veered more left and kept going. We got much, much closer to lava than you’ve ever been, but eventually we gave up and turned back. It was, as I believe I said here the next day, thrilling and dangerous. We got back to Hapuna around two in the morning.

On Tuesday, I paid an exorbitant amount to have my twenty nails painted “Cajun Shrimp” and my eyebrows made the shape I now believe (now that they’re healed) they were always intended to be. You have read already about the wedding and the eyebrows and the luau and the panic attack. So be it.

On Wednesday, we tearfully checked out of the Hapuna. There were payment issues, but they were resolved. We returned the Jeep (again, making two trips to ferry Paul and Julie and the luggage to Kona). The Jeep was cheaper than I’d been quoted, which was great. We flew back to Honolulu, and we checked in at the Waikiki Beach Marriott. I flipped out when I saw the view from our balcony. We were at the Diamond Head end of the beach, facing the other way (I forget the word. Eka, I think? Ewa? Anyway, you don’t say “east” in Hawaii, you say what the landmark is. Inland is Mauna, for Mountain, and toward the ocean is Mauka [I think], for Sea. It’s cool. We were Diamond Head of most of Waikiki), and we could see everything there was to see. Beautiful. There are pictures. They are numerous. We went out walking, discovered that ABC Stores are more prevalent than … well, something prevalent … Scientologists in Clearwater, and told Julie she had to either buy or at least play a ukulele while we were here. I don’t remember what we did for dinner on Wednesday. I’m sorry.

Edited to add: On Wednesday we ate at a restaurant in a food court that was closing about 15 minutes after we got there. The drink menu had all those tropical things (Blue Hawaii, pina colada, daiquiri, etc.) so I assumed they had a full bar—and a bartender. So I ordered a Skyy vodka tonic with limes, which is what I usually drink. The waiter said they didn’t have Skyy. I asked about Absolut. They didn’t have that either. Instead of trying for Grey Goose or Finlandia, I just said “I’ll have whatever the well vodka is.” He said “Yep, I’ll get you the good vodka.” I thought this was odd—what kind of waiter doesn’t know the term “well”?—but that was just the beginning. I was served a glass of mostly vodka (probably Smirnoff, though I have no idea) with no ice and an opened bottle, with the words “there’s the rest of the tonic water for you.” I asked for ice and limes. They never came. But it’s okay, because I soon noticed it was a bottle of mineral water. So I had a diet Coke, explained that mineral water and tonic water are not the same thing, verified there was not in fact a bartender at this restaurant. Later (and luckily) we found out that the food was pretty darn good. But the service not so much. At least I wasn’t charged for either drink. End of edit.

On Thursday, Wayne and I went to Pearl Harbor while Paul and Julie did beach things. I think I already wrote about Pearl Harbor. Anyway, there are pictures. They are numerous. The four of us had dinner at Chili’s. We got drunk. At some point (not actually at the restaurant), Julie played “Smoke on the Water” on a ukulele. It was awesome.

On Friday, the three of them went scuba diving. I had chickened out. Wayne loved it; Julie and Paul apparently did not. In the afternoon, Wayne wanted to try surfing, so he and I went down to the beach. I sat on a woven grass mat—$1.19 at the ABC Store, you can’t beat it with a stick—and read The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke and people-watched. A surfing instructor named Savage (really) tried to get Wayne to promise to come back and take a lesson Saturday morning, since it was too late (say, 5pm) to really learn that day. Wayne just swam. He was bummed. I did not like the beach in Waikiki as much as at Hapuna. Not even close. I hadn’t been swimming in salt water since Tuesday morning, because my eyes were burning, but I at least walked calf-deep in the Pacific one last time. That evening, Wayne and I ate dinner at Kobe, a Japanese steakhouse. I loved it; he seemed disappointed. But then, he didn’t have the fist-sized, butter-drenched Scallops of Doom that I had. Man, they were good.

On Saturday, they really did go surfing. Wayne came back with blisters and board rash all over his arms and knees. We checked out of the Marriott and stored our bags, then went souvenir shopping. I’m so glad Lisa likes the dress I got her. We reunited with Paul and Julie and the four of us hung out by the pool until it was roughly time to go to the airport. We actually went to the airport much earlier than we needed to, but there wasn’t much else left to do. Julie and Paul were on different flights home than Wayne and me, and theirs was later, so they sat with us until we boarded and said goodbye. It was an overnight flight, and he slept pretty much the whole time. We did watch three or four episodes of the first season of Arrested Development before he gave up. I watched more. I LOVE having three batteries for my computer. Those purchases were LONG overdue. We landed in Minneapolis, and he walked me to the gate for my flight (which was earlier than his) and we said goodbye. I had a window seat in a group of three, and spent the whole flight cursing (a) my stupidity for not peeing at the airport (b) the two people sleeping in the other seats and (c) the seatbelt sign, which was on the whole time. When we landed in Baltimore, I peed (thank you thank you thank you), barely caught the Pre-Flight bus, was driven back to my car, and drove home. I got home around 4pm, went ill-advisedly to sleep, woke up around 1am, tried to make myself tired again, somehow succeeded, and STILL had trouble waking up and going to work at 10.

Then I quit my job. August 12 is my last day.

Honolulu is like Miami. It’s utterly commercial, it’s incredibly crowded, there are chain restaurants and convenience stores on every block, and honestly the beach isn’t that great. It can’t compare to the Big Island, and I don’t really feel the need to ever come back.

I mean, it’s nice and all. It’s soft-breezy and sunny, like I suspect the whole state is, and it’s been in the low- to mid-80s instead of in the 90s and low 100s as it has been on the mainland this week, but as far as I can tell, Oahu is simply just not as wonderful as Hawaii was.

There are exceptions to the lack of wonderfulness, of course. This morning I had a truly awesome cheeseburger at a restaurant called Cheeseburger in Paradise. And Wayne and I went to Pearl Harbor yesterday. Julie and Paul didn’t want to go, which I think is a decision that, had I made it, I would have regretted.

I felt somewhat obligated to go, but I’m glad I did. There wasn’t a whole lot to see, but it felt very similar to going to the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial or pretty much any of the memorials in DC that I’m so familiar with. There was a 20-minute movie with actual footage of the attack and pictures from the war in the Pacific, and the rangers made a point of telling everyone to be quiet and respectful. For the most part, and to my surprise, pretty much everyone was.

After we came back off the ferry, I overheard a child talking to her mother about the veterans in their family. The child’s great-grandmother had been living in Hawaii in 1941, and the mother remembered hearing about the air-raid sirens and the alert that all the military personnel (pretty much every adult man on the islands) had to report to duty that day. The child’s uncle had been stationed at Pearl Harbor (but much, much later than 1941), and the child’s father had been in Saudi in the first Gulf War. But the child didn’t understand the passage of time between these events, and kept asking if her relatives’ names were on the wall in the Arizona memorial (the 1,100-plus names of the sailors and Marines on the ship). The mother explained that that was a long time ago, a different war, and the child said, “Oh. I get them confused sometimes.”

It made me sad to stand on the Arizona memorial, with the Arizona below me where she sank and the Missouri docked nearby along what was Battleship Row, and try to imagine 350 Japanese planes flying overhead, dropping bombs and torpedos, and smoke and fire and explosions … but it made me sadder to hear an eight-year-old say there are so many wars that she gets them confused.

Technorati Tags: arizona, hawaii, honolulu, pearl harbor, star wars

Well, it’s beautiful beyond belief here; everywhere you look looks like a postcard. I’ll give it that.

Wayne pulls away like he’s burnt every time I come near enough to touch him, even accidentally. Julie and Paul forget everything, sit on everything, spill everything, and basically take six times longer to do everything than normal people. I feel like I’ve spent the whole fucking trip waiting for them or cleaning up after them or going back to get them or explaining the same things to them over and over and over again.
Despite knowing all along, for the six months we’ve been planning this trip, that you need to know what flight you’re on in order to check in at the airport, Julie and Paul never printed out the flight information (meaning they called me in a panic three times around five in the morning on Saturday before we left). And despite knowing that we’d be using Paypal to send Wayne the money for the hotel bills, Julie never got around to getting her Paypal account verified. So instead of being able to send Wayne the $780 that is hers and Paul’s share of this hotel bill (totally estimated, because we don’t really know how much the taxes are, the bill on the TV isn’t itemized, and I’m the only one who’s been saving receipts for split expenses at all), she was only able to send $15. So now we have to split the hotel bill between their two credit cards (that is, Wayne’s own, and Julie’s mommy’s) at the desk. Hopefully they won’t notice that we put four people in the room against the agreement.
Last night we drove for more than two hours (each way) to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, where we spent about three other hours hiking in pitch blackness (we had a couple of cheap flashlights) over an incredibly uneven field of pitch black hardened lava so we could get to where lava was either glowing or venting or falling into the sea. After around two or three miles (only the first mile of which was blazed or marked in any way) we were told by passing hikers that it was another two hours to get to the red spots on the distant hillside. So we turned and went back. I’ve never done anything remotely so physically dangerous in my entire life. But despite walking in shorts for miles in the dark over slanted sheets and rocks and hillocks of what is basically broken glass, I didn’t fall, and I didn’t get cut. Wayne did (good), but I didn’t.

I went snorkeling this morning. It was utterly amazing. I bought a waterproof disposable camera, and I’m going again in the morning to hopefully take pictures. It was like swimming through the Discovery Channel. I couldn’t believe it.

At noon I went to the salon/spa in the hotel and had my eyebrows shaped and had a manicure and pedicure. The manicure and pedicure were really nice, despite the fact that I now have fingers and toes that match the dress I wore to the wedding but are a bright, whorish color that won’t complement anything else I brought to wear. The eyebrow lady was very sweet and articulate and educational, and I’m glad she took the time to explain to me what she was doing. It (the waxing and tweezing) didn’t hurt too much while she was doing it, but since instead of getting me the aloe she promised me for the burning, she went to lunch and forgot about me (even though after she came back she saw me in the pedicure chair and said hi), it’s now eight hours later and my eyes are all red and puffy and the skin hurts so bad I can hardly stand it.

The wedding was at 5, not 6 like the invitation said, and even though we were ready to be there at 4:45, we were late because we had to go back to the room three times for things Julie and Paul forgot. The last time, Paul had to go back for their present—a big saucepan thing in a huge box that they should have had shipped to Alecia, which is how wedding registries work—and missed the entire wedding.

Including the part where one of the bridesmaids (Dan’s sister, I guess?) fell over during the vows, and narrowly missed braining herself on the lava rocks. I cannot imagine the horror if she’d fallen even a few inches farther back. It’s a terrifying thought.

Instead of a real reception, we had to go to the resort next door to attend their luau. There were some tables reserved for the wedding guests, but there wasn’t any special service or any guidance. We were late, but we still got there before anyone else. By the time Alecia and her family even arrived, our whole table had been claimed by people who didn’t even speak any English but seemed to know exactly what they were doing. And there were easily a thousand other people at the luau. I was totally surrounded by strangers, shoulder to shoulder, with no idea what I was supposed to do or if I was even in the right place. I had a panic attack and I took the car key and the room key from Wayne so I could come back to our hotel room and hide. On my way out, the way we came in, an employee started to tell me I couldn’t go that way, but I hitched up my skirt and ran. I’m back in the room now, everyone else is at the luau, and I can’t stop crying. And since my eyebrows hurt so bad, it burns and burns.

I called my mother once this week, and she was too busy to talk to me and said she’d call me back in a few minutes and never did.

Never, ever, ever again will I go on a trip with people who aren’t able to take care of themselves, and never, ever, ever again will I assume that obvious things like saving receipts and printing flight confirmations are obvious to anyone but me. No one else seems to know what the fuck they’re doing. And don’t leave the goddamn Solarcaine I bought you in the car so you spend the next 24 hours lying in the hotel room moaning in pain and refusing to do anything so sensible as go back and get it. God forbid.

And don’t even get me started on J. K. “Bitch, What Are You Doing?” Rowling. We’ll have words, she and I.

It’s really beautiful here.