The worst part of returning to Hawaii is being reminded of the types of people who visit this place. One is inclined to sympathy, on these occasions, for the retreat of the rich into their enclaves. A few days on island can make a person secretly desperate for a world where the phrase "flyover state" is quite literal, where airlines do in fact deny the masses of the great intra-coastal cultural wastelands the opportunity to mingle here.
Part of the problem is the inevitable fish-out-of-water effect. People vacationing here, almost per se, come from someplace very unlike this place. So there is a certain amount of forgivable awkwardness that comes with the territory. But there's also plenty of unforgiveable tastelessness on display. You will see people who appear as though one of the highlights of their trip will be picking up a "Harley Davidson: Kona" T-shirt from the dealership in town. You see couples for whom wearing matching shirts may be done without a hint of irony.
We've had good ahi poke, rice and edamame for lunch on each of the last three days. On the front of the poke shop there's a sign publicizing the loss of a pet tortoise and urging its safe return and it is hard not to notice the date that is eight months old and start calculating some pretty bleak odds.
It's now easier to find imported coconut water in a carton here than it is to find someone selling fresh coconuts.
When you drive through the highlands of the Big Island there is an abundance of coffee plantations and abandoned storefronts. There is a former movie theater made of corrugated iron. There are newer coffee shops trying to appear youth-oriented.
After driving down from the hills you might come to a parking lot that feeds off to both a Hawaiian cultural site (the Place of Refuge) and a monument on the place where Captain Cook was killed. Both feel sort of ersatz and obligatory, but the snorkeling in front of them is genuinely good despite being so accessible. The giant coral heads are in good shape and fishes like yellow tang swarm and change directions in unison, birdlike.
On Friday night it rains hard. All the dry surfaces feel sticky and it silences the songbirds. Saturday morning is sunny and windless and we go to Kua beach. Saturday night B & E get married in what is as genuine and simple a ceremony as I have ever witnessed. Afterward we drive to the Four Seasons and celebrate with a memorable dinner of steak, lobster and crab, with plenty of Moet, a hundred feet from the sea.
The surf has been defiantly flat for our entire stay. The bodyboarders alone enjoy the tiny swell that breaks only over the shallowest reefs. By Sunday morning I find myself sitting by the road near our rented Jeep, alone, watching for any sign of building swell and occasionally taking a video on my iPhone, as if to have evidence that I am not imagining the stillness of the ocean. Driving back to the house, I notice that even the lifeguards have let their attention wander and are looking toward the mountains.
Part of the problem is the inevitable fish-out-of-water effect. People vacationing here, almost per se, come from someplace very unlike this place. So there is a certain amount of forgivable awkwardness that comes with the territory. But there's also plenty of unforgiveable tastelessness on display. You will see people who appear as though one of the highlights of their trip will be picking up a "Harley Davidson: Kona" T-shirt from the dealership in town. You see couples for whom wearing matching shirts may be done without a hint of irony.
We've had good ahi poke, rice and edamame for lunch on each of the last three days. On the front of the poke shop there's a sign publicizing the loss of a pet tortoise and urging its safe return and it is hard not to notice the date that is eight months old and start calculating some pretty bleak odds.
It's now easier to find imported coconut water in a carton here than it is to find someone selling fresh coconuts.
When you drive through the highlands of the Big Island there is an abundance of coffee plantations and abandoned storefronts. There is a former movie theater made of corrugated iron. There are newer coffee shops trying to appear youth-oriented.
After driving down from the hills you might come to a parking lot that feeds off to both a Hawaiian cultural site (the Place of Refuge) and a monument on the place where Captain Cook was killed. Both feel sort of ersatz and obligatory, but the snorkeling in front of them is genuinely good despite being so accessible. The giant coral heads are in good shape and fishes like yellow tang swarm and change directions in unison, birdlike.
On Friday night it rains hard. All the dry surfaces feel sticky and it silences the songbirds. Saturday morning is sunny and windless and we go to Kua beach. Saturday night B & E get married in what is as genuine and simple a ceremony as I have ever witnessed. Afterward we drive to the Four Seasons and celebrate with a memorable dinner of steak, lobster and crab, with plenty of Moet, a hundred feet from the sea.
The surf has been defiantly flat for our entire stay. The bodyboarders alone enjoy the tiny swell that breaks only over the shallowest reefs. By Sunday morning I find myself sitting by the road near our rented Jeep, alone, watching for any sign of building swell and occasionally taking a video on my iPhone, as if to have evidence that I am not imagining the stillness of the ocean. Driving back to the house, I notice that even the lifeguards have let their attention wander and are looking toward the mountains.
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