Like a bottle of fortified wine in the hands of a derelict old man on the curb, it can be truly said of our hotel that it is reasonably priced. Of the many places I have spent a night in the past six years, it compares with only one: a non-chain hotel in Aberdeen, Washington, where I spent one night of the summer of 2010. In terms of location it compares favorably - otherwise, it merely compares. But we had asked for no-frills and for our sins we got it.
Our hotel limits expenses through a complex process that can be summarized as "having inferior everything." It has two full-size beds, which is fortunate considering that we can't sleep together in one. The mattresses feel salvaged. In
the bathroom expenses are reduced by having only bolted-on toiletries.
The dispenser in the shower emits a bath gel* in an alarming purple hue that suggests it may be also - if not primarily - suitable for deterging dishes. I
won't go into detail vis-a-vis the toilet, which is incongruously high tech and mocking. The air-conditioner emits a
sound best described as "caged bird cries through a damaged intercom."
The only aspect of the hotel that does not suffer from obvious effects of price controls is the attitude of the staff. The staff is, without exception, friendly and helpful. The cynic suspects that this probably has less to do with either dumb luck in hiring or especially good working conditions and more to do with a well-maintained and strictly enforced black list for sub-stellar performance among hospitality workers, given the relative importance of the industry to the local economy.
The only aspect of the hotel that does not suffer from obvious effects of price controls is the attitude of the staff. The staff is, without exception, friendly and helpful. The cynic suspects that this probably has less to do with either dumb luck in hiring or especially good working conditions and more to do with a well-maintained and strictly enforced black list for sub-stellar performance among hospitality workers, given the relative importance of the industry to the local economy.
Regardless of where one stays, Waikiki is vulgar, plebian and coarse, without the dissolute and transgressive charm of Las Vegas, to which it is increasingly similar.** It has been so for my entire life, but it exceeds itself each year.
One gets the sense that many of the people who visit here are not only not well traveled, but really embody the aphorism "they don't get out much." I have watched a retirement-aged white male American work to frame and capture the perfect picture of a Honolulu Fire Department hose truck. I have seen a newlywed couple pay $14.99 to pull a "real" pearl from the maw of an oyster living in a bucket. I walked past a kiosk selling t-shirts with oscillating electronic lights in the shape of a marijuana leaf. I have seen a line of several dozens form each night in front of a Cheesecake Factory,*** which boasts an outdoor eating area fronting on the same busy street where the line forms, leading to an incredibly recursive and post-modern mise-en-scene for all involved.
One gets the sense that many of the people who visit here are not only not well traveled, but really embody the aphorism "they don't get out much." I have watched a retirement-aged white male American work to frame and capture the perfect picture of a Honolulu Fire Department hose truck. I have seen a newlywed couple pay $14.99 to pull a "real" pearl from the maw of an oyster living in a bucket. I walked past a kiosk selling t-shirts with oscillating electronic lights in the shape of a marijuana leaf. I have seen a line of several dozens form each night in front of a Cheesecake Factory,*** which boasts an outdoor eating area fronting on the same busy street where the line forms, leading to an incredibly recursive and post-modern mise-en-scene for all involved.
The sand is fine-ish without being quite powdery. The water is a chalky blue-green that offers an uncanny complement to the skin-toned beach. Diamond Head is pleasantly imposing and an essential counterpoint to the garish hotel stacks that line the beach. The breeze is gentle and desirable in the afternoon heat. Everything natural seems designed for maximum balance.
We've identified and sampled great Korean and Japanese street-food restauants. We've found a good sushi restaurant where we've had dinner two nights.
In the mornings we get coffee and breakfast and then surf for two hours. The waves are rideable the whole time, but shrink a bit toward the end of our stay. Surfing offers me a happiness that is unchallenged, which makes it singular among all the things I do.
In the afternoons we lay on the beach and read. I am in the midst of Every Love Story is a Ghost Story, a biography of David Foster Wallace that was a birthday gift from my youngest sister, and Arguably, a collection of essays by Christopher Hitchens. Although I've read no more than half of each, I'm convinced that David Foster Wallace was brilliant yet deeply flawed as both a human being and a writer (and profoundly doomed on both fronts) and that Christopher Hitchens' greatest asset was either a truly incredible memory for facts or a commendable method of recording and organizing everything interesting that met his attention (I say "either" because a greater measure of one would stand in for an equal measure of the other). Both men died before their time, but only Christopher Hitchens did not obviously have his best work behind him.
From the deck of our hotel I can see a good portion of the inland part of the city, including the dorm where I spent a semester in 1999. At the time I was a student journalist basing major life decisions on proximity to good waves. Since that time I have made some fundamental changes of direction; in that same time the city has merely amplified what it was. It's yet to be seen how it will work out for either of us.
Monday consists mostly of traveling homeward. The rigorous humiliation involved in the commercial air travel experience has been exhausted in pop culture and is now irretrievably cliche and impossible to write about interestingly. It is pointless to point out that the in-flight meal represents a sort of high-modernist confounding of expectations regarding color and form. It is no longer interesting to note the incredible intra-fuselage alchemy that makes every person in the plane both a demonstrable annoyance and justifiably annoyed. It is too clever to mention that it can be said for an airplane restroom what can also be said for mankind: it exhibits a sort of basic functionality, but clearly does not represent a perfection of any purpose whatsoever. It is not even interesting to share a personal anecdote regarding "walking in," through an unlocked bi-fold door, on a woman seated in the lavatory, who had inexplicably been sitting in the dark, having failed to activate the door latch that in turn activates the overhead light (meaning that the whole experience would not have been possible but for a really odd and (forgive me) stupid set of circumstances). None of that ought to be written about and it certainly won't be here.
We arrive home to uncharacteristically good weather and a condo that is stuffy from the A/C having been turned off for the week. October looms. Seattle is in the national news thanks to football referees. On the mainland one's life seems to have been plugged back in.
Monday consists mostly of traveling homeward. The rigorous humiliation involved in the commercial air travel experience has been exhausted in pop culture and is now irretrievably cliche and impossible to write about interestingly. It is pointless to point out that the in-flight meal represents a sort of high-modernist confounding of expectations regarding color and form. It is no longer interesting to note the incredible intra-fuselage alchemy that makes every person in the plane both a demonstrable annoyance and justifiably annoyed. It is too clever to mention that it can be said for an airplane restroom what can also be said for mankind: it exhibits a sort of basic functionality, but clearly does not represent a perfection of any purpose whatsoever. It is not even interesting to share a personal anecdote regarding "walking in," through an unlocked bi-fold door, on a woman seated in the lavatory, who had inexplicably been sitting in the dark, having failed to activate the door latch that in turn activates the overhead light (meaning that the whole experience would not have been possible but for a really odd and (forgive me) stupid set of circumstances). None of that ought to be written about and it certainly won't be here.
We arrive home to uncharacteristically good weather and a condo that is stuffy from the A/C having been turned off for the week. October looms. Seattle is in the national news thanks to football referees. On the mainland one's life seems to have been plugged back in.
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2 comments:
So, my guess is that expedia would not hire you to be a property surveyor. My question is: Are you excited to return next month?"Perhaps, you might consider another island, even another archipelogO, not yet spoiled by modern travelling hordes. Where is that? Not Figi, not Thailand, not the Cooks, the ABC's Not the Mariannas.so where? Maybe some privaate island owned by some mega billionaire for $3500-4500/night?
Oops, pardon the typos, I wasn't wearing my glasses!
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