No RVs, No Socks - Welcome to Hawaii

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Day 1 May 17

Having spent the night in Vancouver, WA, we woke up at about 6:00 a.m., a couple of hours before our alarm went off, and drove just across the river to the Clarion Inn Portland Airport. We'd already booked the night of the 24th at this hotel, the night we land at about midnight on our return from Honolulu. We'd figured that we'd have to stash the RV and trailer at an RV storage lot, which wouldn't be accessible at such an hour, so we'd need a place to stay the night, lest we end up like Tom Hanks in "The Terminal".

In the interim, though, we'd heard that it might be possible under such circumstances to store your vehicle at the inn where you'll be staying. So we called the Clarion a few days ago and inquired about this possibility, and the fellow we spoke to told us that yes, we could do so for 8 dollars a day -- which is considerably less than the 30 dollars a day we would be charged by the airport lot. So we told him we wanted to do it, and he said it was all set.

When we pulled in this morning, however, it appeared less certain from the get-go. The parking lot was the size of a postage stamp that had gone through the wash, and it was already pretty full, with no pull-through spots. And Matt, the young man to whom we'd spoken only three or four days before, seemed to have little recollection of the conversation at all. Even though he'd assured us then that there'd be no problem fitting us in, he seemed at a loss as to how to do so now. And oh yes, that 8 dollar per day fee? He said that in fact the fee was $129 for up to two weeks. Upon further investigation, however, he decided that the fee should be 8 dollars per day after all.

Despite all the confusion and uncertainty, Matt did make every effort to accommodate us, and ended up giving us a spot normally reserved for a hotel van. So then we had an hour or so to finish packing, carry out trash, put things in order in the RV, and clean out our refrigerator -- unfortunately, we forgot to leave the refrigerator open, so it may be a bit odorous when we return, especially given the record heat Oregon's been having lately. And then we hopped on a shuttle and it was off to Portland Airport.

Yes, we're finally taking the Hawaiian getaway we've talked about for years. It was almost a Hawaiian performance tour as well, as we were contacted by a school on Oahu about a possible booking there. But it didn't come through, so we'll just have to settle for a tropical vacation instead. Oh well. For Kimberly, it's a homecoming of sorts, as she lived on Oahu as a child, and has been back to visit only once, some 20 years ago. For Dennis and Zephyr, it's totally new territory, which is increasingly difficult for us to find in the U.S.

The dream of all of us making an excursion to the 50th state came true in large part because of Kimberly's parents. Being retired, they have membership in a timeshare program, which allows them to spend x number of days per year in one of a large number of vacation resorts. And every year they give us a week of their time. In the past, we've used it in Las Vegas (3 or 4 times), Orlando, and Ruidoso, NM among other places -- the location we select is subject to what works with our touring itinerary. Last year we stayed in Panora, Iowa. This year, we opted for something a little more exotic.

Because Hawaii is more in demand as a destination than Iowa, we had to book our lodging nearly a year in advance, and even then we were probably lucky to secure billeting. Then we immediately started searching for the best airfares available, and spent a few months following the price fluctuations. Finally, in October, we snagged what we figured would be the best deal we'd find. And boy, were we ever right. Not long after that, gas prices began punching holes in the moon, and airline fares followed suit. Had we waited much longer, we would have had to pay double or more, assuming we could have afforded it at all.

At the Portland Airport, we saw a display of bicycles custom designed and built in Oregon. One of them was a collapsible edition, which perhaps we should get next time, so we can take them along on trips like this. We'd hoped to lug our own bikes along this time and see Oahu in style, but it would have cost 50 dollars per person, so we scratched that thought, hoping that we'll be able to find some for rent over there at an affordable rate. We'll see.

The 6-hour flight went smoothly enough, and even landed a few minutes ahead of schedule, despite the difficulty the pilot was having communicating over the intercom; we were only hearing about every other syllable, and we just hoped and prayed he wasn't trying to give us vital information, or that he wasn't having the same problem talking with the airport. But since we made it to our destination in one piece, it appears that all other systems were functioning satisfactorily. Our one complaint about the flight is that, contrary to expectation, lunch was not provided. When we booked the flight, we were asked to specify a meal preference, and we selected vegetarian with dairy or egg acceptable; and this selection appeared on the confirmation the airline sent us. Wouldn't you assume this meant that the lunch of your choice would be included? But the only thing we received for free was water and other beverages. For 10 bucks we could have purchased a ham and turkey sandwich (not terribly vegetarian, is it) with a little dish of pasta salad. For 7 bucks, we could have purchased a microscopic tray of vegetables or fruit. For 3 bucks we could have purchased chips or candy. Welcome to Wishful Thinking Airlines, where you can order whatever your heart desires, as long as we don't have to give it to you or something.

To top it all off, flight attendants issued us produce declaration forms from the State of Hawaii, so we could fess up if we were packing any fresh fruits or vegetables to stave off starvation -- and they didn't give us a pen to fill it out with, but just announced that if we didn't have one, we'd have to borrow one from a "neighbor". No, kidding, they actually said this.

Well, we did have some pens on hand to use for our own form, and to lend to our neighbors. We also had the foresight to bring along a few goodies, so we didn't have to shell out more money. Not a regal repast, mind you -- just some boiled eggs, a PBJ, one apple, some prunes, and some Clif Bars. But it was enough that when our flight touched down at 3:15 (6:15 West Coast time) we were merely hungry, and not ready to devour each other.

Since all of our baggage was carry-on, we didn't have to linger to claim that ours was ours, but just got right on a bus and took the hour ride through downtown, and on to our hotel in the resort district, only 4 blocks from fabled Waikiki Beach. We're staying at the Kuhio Banyan Resort, which hardly looks like a resort in any ordinary sense of the word; it's certainly not on a par with the other timeshares we've stayed in, but more like a standard 2-star motel, especially from the outside. It's in a nondescript building, with the entrance in a courtyard flanked by a Subway sandwich shop, a bar, an ice cream shop, a pedicure place, and one of the many tattoo parlors tattooing the Honolulu cityscape. On the mainland, it hardly would command resort prices, but here it benefits from the three golden keys of real estate: location, location and location.

We entered the tiny office and were checked in by a large woman in a muu muu, uttering her spiel in a machine-gun patter hardly stopping to catch her breath, as if she could do it in her sleep. And then she adorned our necks with leis, in the classic Hawaiian manner. These were real leis, made of real flowers -- not cheap plastic imitations.

Our room, on the fourth floor, is just that: a room. Normally, a timeshare is a 2, 3 or more-room suite. But this one is a single room plus bathroom, although one niche in the room is set aside as a fully equipped kitchen, including all the necessary dishes and utensils. These units are designed to sleep at least 4 people, but we had to do a little sleuthing to figure out where our "bedroom" is. The main bed, for 2 people, is a murphy bed -- the first one we recall ever sleeping in, and the first one we've seen in we can't remember when. The two smaller beds are convertible sofas, and the one Zephyr chose (closest to the TV, of course) requires him to extend his feet under the lamp table. If all three beds were unfolded, they would take up so much room as almost to make one big wall-to-wall bed. The entrance to our unit looks over a narrow alley upon an apartment building adorned by some rather ratty curtains; but the front window looks out on bustling Kuhio Street. All-in-all it's not a bad place, despite the two imprints of an iron that once burned very distinct shapes into the carpet. (How could anyone manage to do that twice??)

After checking in and depositing our belongings, our first order of business was to go out and buy some food to stock our kitchenette. No, wait -- on the way to do that, we must first stop to buy food to stock our stomachs. We don't eat out much, and when we do grab a bite on the run, there's nothing like one of the burrito/wrap franchises (Moe's, La Salsa, Baja Fresh, Chipotle, and in Florida, Tijuana Flats) for a tasty, healthy, filling, and inexpensive meal. But when we ran the names of these places by the lady at the reception desk, we drew only a blank stare. We were going to have to rely on serendipity.

Only a couple of blocks from the hotel, we discovered a shopping plaza that had a food court. And the food court included a wrap shop, and the wrap shop's menu included a chopped vegetable wrap. So we ordered these, and they were not too shabby. They were cold vegetables rather than the grilled variety, as we expected -- rather like a wrapped salad -- but they were satisfying enough for the moment.

As we sat and ate, we couldn't help noting how prevalent the Asian culture was in the shopping center -- even more so, it seemed, than the Polynesian culture. There were so many signs in Japanese, and the atmosphere was so different from what we'd find on the mainland, that it felt like being back in Japan. Next to the table where we sat, a sightseeing tour bureau had all of its signs in Japanese except one. It said, "We speak English, too."

Then it was on to Foodland, a supermarket chain that, at about a mile away, was the closest food store except for quick shops of the 7-11 variety. Most of these, in fact were ABC (Aloha Brings Customers) stores, which had -- we swear -- at least one outlet on every block, and sometimes TWO on every block! We decided to walk there so we could get the "lei" of the land. It was a pleasant evening for a stroll, a bit overcast with a hint of breeze; not nearly as hot as one or two of us had feared. In fact, when we landed this afternoon, the temperature was only 80, and because the sky was mostly cloudy, it felt even cooler -- cooler than what it felt like back in Portland.

En route to the market, we took a little detour to have a look at Waikiki Hawaiian village, a resort operated by Hilton, which was also on our roster of possible lodging places. And it certainly would have been more luxurious than what we ended up with. But they had nothing available at the time we were trying to book, and we didn't want to hold out for it and risk not getting anything at all. Just as well -- we're not planning on spending much time in our room except for sleeping. Who cares if it's short on closet space? As we approached the property, we noticed one very possible reason why there was no availability: the grounds were being prepared for some sort of reception for the state GOP convention, and the place was swarming with folks wearing John McCain buttons and even Ron Paul buttons. (At least we didn't see any "Hillary is the Antichrist" T-shirts.) If you're going to have a political, or any other type of gathering, there are certainly worse locations you could pick for it. The Hilton is right on the beach, with a view of Diamond Head, and it has its own additional little lagoon for swimming. Since dusk was approaching, a pair of young men dressed in native garb (which, for one of them, meant a grass skirt) ran along the thoroughfare with torches in hand, lighting the torches that line the curb, and that pop up everywhere at night in Hawaii, lending an even more festive atmosphere. In the courtyard where the banquet was being set out, a group of Polynesian musicians warmed up their chops. Nice work if you can get it.

Continuing our walk, we came to a shop that drew Kimberly in like a chicken coop draws a fox: a tea emporium, and a very extensive one at that. She was out of tea at home, and so had none to bring along. And that's a crisis situation, as tea comprises a large percentage of her food pyramid. On the plane, she had to settle for Lipton's; and determined to spare herself from such a fate again, she bought a packet of Assam (her favorite variety) while Dennis bought a packet of Lapsang Souchon, which is very similar to Russian Caravan (his favorite variety). We then were all braced to face a week of brutal tourism.

Nearby was another shop she popped into, having the dubious name of Crack Seed Store. It sported jars and jars of dried seeds and nuts and fruits and even cuttlefish and other marine animals, all salted and preserved and just waiting to be dished out to folks who actually crave such things. And Kimberly is one of them; while living in Hawaii, she developed a fondness for "salty seeds", which are dried and (extremely) salty plums. She's continued loving them all these years, though they can be very difficult to find. So she couldn't resist buying a few ounces, and with both her epicurean cravings fulfilled, we went on to Foodland.

We anticipated that groceries would be a bit higher here than what we were used to, but we weren't at all prepared for what we found. It was, quite frankly, the sticker shock of our lives. It's understandable that milk would be 8 to 10 dollars a gallon, and cheese more than 8 dollars a pound. After all, there's only one dairy here. But everything else was in the same stratospheric league. Granted, we shop whenever possible at Trader Joe's (none of those in this neck of the Pacific), which sells quality food at 30 to 40 percent less than what other supermarkets do. Well, at Foodland in Honolulu, these same items can be had for twice as much as we usually pay -- or more! Healthy bread is more than 5 dollars per loaf (even the white pasty variety is about 3 dollars), and whole grain cereal more than 6 dollars a box. Bananas were $1.29 a pound. Even locally grown produce was higher than average.

Hoping to scout out a supermarket later that would not require us to sell our firstborn and consume his share too, we decided to buy just enough food for now to get by for a day or two. Even so, the total came to over 97 dollars, and we had such a light load that we easily could walk back rather than take the bus.

Along the way, we encountered quite a number of homeless people, more than we'd expected to see. We figured that in such a high tourist area, the police would chase them out regularly; but coming in on the bus this afternoon, we saw quite an encampment of them in a city park. Who knows what factors contributed to their being on the streets in the first place -- maybe they bought groceries at Foodland instead of paying rent. But if you're going to be homeless, there are certainly worse places to be not officially living in; at least they don't have to worry about getting cold at night.

Back in our room, we started getting ready to turn in by about 9:00, which was probably our earliest bedtime ever -- while the clock in our room said 9:00, our internal clocks said midnight plus 3000 miles. But before we drifted off to sleep, we were startled to hear the booming of a fireworks display, erupting for reasons we never heard about, on the beach right in front of our window. What a welcome to Hawaii. "Mahalo" (thank you) Honolulu. And good night.

Day 2 May 18

Surprisingly, we all got up early enough to attend the "island orientation continental breakfast" at the resort. Not surprisingly, the "continental breakfast" turned out to be, like many other continental breakfasts, of the Homer Simpson order: gooey donuts and bad coffee. The real objective was the "island orientation" part, which was an opportunity for management to pitch to guests various tour packages. The problem with staying at a timeshare is that they assume you have a lot of money, and try to sell you other bad investments to round out your portfolio.

Not surprisingly, we passed on these golden opportunities, had a real breakfast in our room, and set out on the day's mission: getting an overview of Oahu by taking a self-guided tour around the island on The Bus. Yes, that was supposed to be capitalized. That's what they call the major Honolulu-based transit company: The Bus. A smaller shuttle line from the airport has the more colorful name of Wiki Wiki, which means "fast fast", which really is just equivalent to plain fast, since "Hawaiian time" is notoriously tardy, and even bus drivers seem lax about sticking to the schedule, if anybody can even find one. But The Bus is what people ride most often, unless they have enough money to catch The Cab. Or if they're commuting between two points along the coastline, they might want to take The Boat.

There are three freeways on Oahu: H1, H2 and H3. The Boat is sometimes referred to as H2O. H3, completed in 1997, is the newest, most scenic, and most controversial of the three roads. Its construction dragged on for years, delayed by protests and legal challenges. Among other things, its route passed through ancient burial grounds, and many indigenous folks objected to having their relics desecrated. Many of them even now believe the highway to be cursed and refuse to travel on it. Perhaps there's really something to this curse, considering how gas prices have risen. (Actually the price of gas here, while sky-high, is to our surprise no higher than on the mainland.)

Much more recently, another controversial transportation option was developed: The Superferry. Last year, when we first started planning this trip, we were hoping to extend it to two weeks instead of one, and use the additional days to do some island-hopping. But at that time the only means of traveling between islands was to fly, unless you had access to a private boat or were a VERY good swimmer. We commented that we couldn't understand why no inter-island ferry was available after all this time. Well, lo and behold, we read only a few weeks later that such a service was about to commence, offering passage not only for people but their vehicles. It seemed like an idea long overdue!

But alas, the Superferry cut some corners and neglected to do an environmental assessment, a standard practice for decades. And it adopted a boat design that has been known to kill whales. Concerned citizens pressured the company to clean up its act, and even obtained a ruling by the state Supreme Court that the Superferry should suspend operation until its environmental impact could be evaluated. Superferry ignored the ruling, and even moved its opening up two days. The inaugural launches were met with hundreds of protestors, some on the land and others in the water, swimming or surfing, to block the boat's departure from the harbor. (That's a spectacle we wish we'd been here to observe!) On behalf of the Dept. of Homeland Security, the Coast Guard plucked these men and women from the water forcibly, and some were arrested. Superferry went full speed ahead, and that's where things still stand the last we heard.

Well, our itinerary today did not require the Superferry, The Boat, or H3, and very little H1 or H2. Instead, The Bus stuck mostly to low roads, giving us a healthy dose of local color. We poked along past little farms with horses and the two or three cows on the whole island (that's an exaggeration, but not much of one), past too many beaches to count, picking up passengers and passing passersby who were dressed in a variety of combinations of contemporary and traditional attire. At one point the bus picked up a pair of teenage girls fresh from the beach; about three buses later, on the other side of the island, we encountered them again.

Everywhere you go, you're greeted with "aloha", which can mean either "hello", "goodbye" or "I love you". Given the context, we'd say the first interpretation is a safe bet. And we hear and see many other Hawaiian words and phrases as well, spilling out what seems to be an uninterrupted flow of vowels – some Hawaiian words, in fact are composed entirely of vowels, and every syllable in the language ends with a vowel. It's a liquid language that flows like tiny bubbles in the wine, with no t's, s's or r's to clink against the ear. Thus, the many expressions borrowed from English require a bit of transformation; "Merry Christmas", for instance, becomes "Mele Kalikimaka".

Anyway, The Bus took us past the fairgrounds where the state fair currently is in progress, although it doesn't seem to have any action today, and then past Pearl Harbor, which we plan to investigate tomorrow, and past Aloha Stadium, which we will probably never investigate because we're not terribly fond of football; if we were, this would be a place we might catch the NCAA Hula Bowl, or the NFL Pro Bowl, both of which have been hosted here many times. Before long, we were out in the country, with The Bus providing service from The City to some unexpectedly rural areas. In the midst of miles and miles of farmland, we found what was to be our first stop: The Dole Plantation. We knew that Dole was a Hawaii institution, but we had no idea exactly where it was until The Bus rolled up in front of its doors and we decided on the spur of the moment to get off.

Dole, of course, is synonymous with pineapple, which is synonymous with Hawaii, but it has been so only for a century or so. The pineapple, which probably originated in South America, was brought to these isles in the 1500's. But the fruit didn't really flourish here until around 1900 when American businessman James Dole established his plantation here. (Dole was a cousin of Sanford Dole, who'd had himself proclaimed "President of the Republic of Hawaii" after overthrowing the queen. We're not making this up.) The present tourist attraction was opened as a roadside fruit stand in 1950, and finally expanded to its current layout.

What the Dole Plantation features now is a train ride around the plantation, a garden of the various crops and plants grown in the area, a gift shop, a restaurant, and the attraction that really caught our eye: a maze. Not just any maze, but a gigantic, elaborate maze that Guinness declared to be the largest in the world in 2001. (Presumably it no longer holds that distinction, but it's still impressive.) The labyrinth is constructed of trees on the perimeter of the maze, with the center consisting of shorter shrubbery planted in an array that looks like a pineapple when viewed by pilots or space aliens.

Yet it isn't just the size or shape that makes this maze special; the greatest appeal of all is the added challenge of trying to locate 8 hidden stations inside. Each of these stations, resembling an unenclosed-variety phone booth (anybody remember phone booths?) only smaller, features a different stencil in some relevantly recognizable shape – fish, hula dancer, pineapple, etc. -- and just to prove that you've found the station in question, you're supposed to trace the stencil onto a card you're issued at the entrance. Everybody got that? Then pay your 6 bucks and let's have at it!

The allotted time for the quest is supposed to be about half an hour, although the bragging rights board out front indicates that some people have completed it in as little as 12 minutes. Dennis surfaced after about 30 minutes, figuring that everyone else also would be hot and hungry and ready to have lunch. He'd located only 5 of the stencils – although he accomplished the equally difficult feat of retracing his steps to retrieve the stencil card and stencil pencil he'd dropped, in different places. Kimberly and Zephyr were nowhere to be seen; it was about 20 minutes before Zephyr emerged, and about 10 more before she did. Each of them had discovered 7 of the stations, though each was missing a different one, and they were different from the ones Dennis missed. Between the three of us, we got them all.

We sat on the patio and ate the homemade burritos we'd brought along, and decided that some cold, fresh pineapple juice would go really well with them. And it just happens that we knew right where we could get some.

Our next stop on The Bus route was Turtle Bay Resort, which Kimberly's family used to take vacations at many years ago. After changing into our swimwear in the crowded restrooms, we took our first dip (at least it was the first for D & Z) in those magnificent Hawaiian beach waters. Now you might think that a fancy resort like Turtle Bay might restrict the use of its beaches to its guests only. Certainly that would be the case at most places. But Turtle Bay does not have its own beach. Neither does anyone else in Hawaii. There is no private ownership of beaches anywhere in the state – they're all open free to the public. Now that's the kind of law we can live with!

We decided not to stay in the water very long, however, because we were hoping to make it to Kailua, Kimberly's old hometown, where the beaches are even better. So we rinsed the sand off at the outdoor showers, dried off and got back on the next bus.

Our route took us by Kualoa Ranch, where "Jurassic Park", "Lost", "Mighty Joe Young" "Pearl Harbor", and other films were shot. If you squint, you almost can see dinosaurs romping around among the palm trees. As you might expect, Hawaii has a fairly active film industry – in fact, on our ride from the airport yesterday, we passed a film shoot in progress somewhere in the downtown area.

Our ride today also took us past Chinaman's Hat, a curiously shaped little island just off the coast that is open to the public during the daytime, and at low tide is even accessible by foot. Back when this formation was nicknamed, its moniker was considered less offensive than now. (It's more officially known as Mokolii.) In any case, you readily see how it came to mind: it really does resemble one of the classic straw hats worn by Chinese immigrants. It's really not that different, though, from many of the mountains you see around here. The ranges of Hawaii tend to be a different breed altogether from the mainland species. With the exception of those barren, squarish buttes in the desert states, mountains on the continent tend to slope up from the plains more or less gradually. But here they jut up as abruptly as if the volcanoes below had thrust their fists through the earth's crust. And these outcroppings are all covered with lush vegetation. For those accustomed to the mainland landscape, this looks like another world – or at least a prehistoric era.

While waiting to transfer to another bus at Windward Mall, we noticed something that we'd seen earlier at Turtle Bay, but thought it was peculiar to that resort only: BLUE stop signs. Is this the wave of the future in Blue Hawaii?

By the time we reached Kailua, it was getting later than we'd expected, so we decided to save the beach outing for another day, and take care of something more pressing: the completion of our grocery shopping. There was a Safeway next to the bus stop, where we'd catch the bus "home"; and while the prices there were still higher than on the mainland, they were considerably lower than at Foodland. We'd all emptied our backpacks as much as possible before leaving the room, so we were able to stuff them with a large part of the food, and easily carry the rest in shopping bags on the bus.

On the ride back, we sat next to a man who was studying a transit map that had all the bus (oops! The Bus) routes marked on it, so we asked him where he got it. He said at the library, which was down by the statue of King Kamehameha, who was looking across the street right at the library building. This gentleman, who teaches nutrition at a local university, is a chef who recently moved here from Orlando. (When we mentioned that we go to Orlando every winter, he asked, "Would you like to buy a house?") He told us that he once catered for Will Smith and Bon Jovi at Aspen, Colorado.

Finally back in our room after a long day of gawking out the window of The Bus, we unpacked what we hoped would be a week's supply of groceries – including, of course, rice, a staple of the local diet. We also bought some Orajel, because Dennis is experiencing a rebellious tooth that started acting up almost as soon as we got here. When you're vacationing in The Aloha State for only a week, the last thing you want to do is take time out to go to the dentist.

Day 3 May 19

Pearl Harbor day. How can you take a trip to Oahu and not see Pearl Harbor? It occurred to us that it might have been especially worthwhile to go there next Monday, which happens to be Memorial Day. Odds are some special activities will take place that day. But we won't be here then; besides, it's also certain to be more crowded, and it was quite crowded enough today.

Pearl Harbor is so named because (Surprise!) it was once a rich source of pearl oysters -- and even now, you can see pearls from somewhere being sold in the marketplaces of the tourist district in Honolulu. The naval base was established in 1899, and for many years it was just the most enviable assignment a military person could be assigned. The only "war" was between the navy and the army over who got custody of what territory. But the world changed dramatically and abruptly on Sunday Dec. 7, 1941.

Just before 0800 hours that morning, 183 Japanese planes launched from 6 carriers lurking 230 miles to the north bombed the unsuspecting installation, while many sailors were still lounging in their "racks" (bunks). About half an hour later, a second wave of 180 planes struck. American forces detected these planes on radar, but mistook them for U.S. Air Force bombers. A total of 9 American ships were sunk, and 21 were heavily damaged, 3 beyond repair. Some 2390 Americans were killed, including 68 civilians – the youngest victim was just an infant. Roughly half the military losses (1177, to be precise) occurred on a single vessel: the USS Arizona, which sank within seconds of being hit. And just like that, the U.S. found itself embroiled in the latest War to End All Wars.

As for the Arizona, it was left in its resting place on the bottom of the shallow bay. Almost immediately, there was a drive to honor the fallen with some sort of permanent marker at the site. But at first that just meant a flag with a plaque at its base. Finally, the USS Arizona Memorial, designed by Alfred Preis, was completed in 1961. And now, millions of people from around the world come every year to pay their respects.

We were pleased to know that the Memorial has been designated a national park, because we have a National Parks Pass, and we recommend them. For one reasonable annual fee, you can get into any national park, from Yellowstone to Gettysburg to Ford's Theatre. And we've done them all, plus many others. But we were even more pleased to learn that our nifty plastic card is useless today – because admission to the Memorial is free. There are optional guided tours for a fee of a couple of other WWII ships, the USS Bowfin and the USS Missouri, which also was damaged in the attack. But you can see the Arizona Memorial itself without charge, and it only seems fitting.

Taking line #42 on Da Bus (as the locals are most likely to call it), we got off at the entrance to the national park, and promptly learned that heightened security measures prohibit anyone from bringing bags inside. This, we hear, currently even includes shopping bags from the attraction's own gift shop, a new policy which has caused certain employees to do a bit of kvetching. But not to worry, there is a bag check service available for a mere $3 per bag. We first had lunch on the grass, and then had enough room in our own bags that we were able to consolidate them into one – thereby saving 6 dollars, in case we should decide to have a glass of milk later.

Once inside the entrance, the next step was to wait. And wait and wait. The tour start time that we were given was about two hours after our arrival, so we had plenty of opportunity to browse in the gift shop and the little museum featuring photos, uniforms and memorabilia from the war, as well as video clips about the attack itself. These films, including the 23-minute orientation movie shown in the auditorium before you take your tour, featured some amazing footage of the airstrike shot by the Japanese attackers themselves.

The gift shop also sells a DVD that incorporates an interview with actress Gloria Stuart, who unlike us had the chance not only to go aboard the ship before it was demolished, but to work on it. While starring in the 1934 motion picture "Here Comes the Navy" (which was nominated for Best Picture) she did some shooting on the Arizona. So there she is on the TV screen in the gift shop, looking young and glamorous and vibrant, smiling as she strolls the deck and greets the crew. (Sixty-three years later Stuart, still glamorous and vibrant, received an Academy Award nomination for her role in another movie about a doomed ship: "Titanic".)

At last we shuffled into the auditorium, watched the poignant little film, and then shuffled out to the shuttle that would take us out on the water to the Memorial. While the Memorial as a whole is under the direction of the National Park Service, the shuttle boat is operated by a band of active navy personnel, young men and women whose parents probably weren't even alive on that infamous day, looking polished and pristine in their impeccably pressed dress whites.

The Memorial is essentially a covered platform 184 feet long on the water straddling at right angles the Arizona on the bottom, close to its midpoint. Actually, it sits almost directly over the ship's galley. In addition to a central assembly area that is used for occasional ceremonies, there is a smaller chamber where the names of the victims are engraved on the wall, sorted by branch of service. People can and do lay flowers on a balustrade at the bottom of the wall, and at least a couple of people had laid leis there.

If you want to see the entire outline of the Arizona just below the surface, you'll need an aerial view. From the observation deck, you can see only a few feet of the rusty hull in any direction, especially when the water is as murky as it was today. But you seem to feel the whole thing resting beneath your feet, and you also seem to feel the presence of her crew.

And they are indeed there. More than 900 of the Arizona's sailors went down with her, and that's where they've stayed. Dozens of survivors who've died over the years have had their ashes placed down there as well, having expressed the desire to be reunited with their shipmates – the most recent was earlier this year. This is not just a national monument, but a national cemetery, and respectfully hushed conduct was in evidence from the attendees – well, with maybe an exception or two.

Ask just about anyone who's been here, even many years ago, what most stands out in their minds, and chances are just about everyone will tell you the same thing: the oil. Even after sixty-six and a half years, you still can see little strands of oil bleeding to the surface in a silent SOS and floating away in black ribbons and filmy rainbow patches. Between 8 and 9 quarts every day, year after year. Assuming that rate has been constant (and it likely was much heavier in the beginning), that's at least 3100 quarts per year, more than 204,000 quarts (or 51,000 gallons) in all! This, we gather, was fuel grade oil and not just oil for lubrication; the ship had a capacity of 500,000 gallons, so this seepage, which is sometimes referred to as the "tears of the Arizona", should still have many generations before it runs dry.

The total time spent on the Memorial is only about 13 minutes, but the impression it makes will last a lifetime.

Taking Da Bus back into town (a distance of some 10 miles), we decided to debark at Da Library to pick up one of Da Maps. We didn't know exactly where it was, but it wasn't hard to spot the iconic statue of King Kamehameha that the fellow we met last night told us was a reliable marker.

This world-famous sculpture, which actually is one of three similar statues to be found in the islands, honors Hawaii's first king, Kamehameha I, otherwise known as Kamehameha the Great. (If you think his name is tricky to pronounce, you'll be pleased to know that it's really more of a nickname, so you can try his real name instead: Kalani Paiea Wohi o Kaleikini Keali`ikui Kamehameha o `Iolani i Kaiwikapu kaui Ka Liholiho Kunuiakea.) Born in 1737 or 1738, or wait maybe it was 1758, he ruled these islands from around 1780 until his death in 1819. But it was in 1810 that he officially established the Kingdom of Hawaii, which stood for nearly a century before it in turn was conquered by "haoli" (Caucasian) invaders from the U.S. resulting in rulership by a member of the pineapple clan. (In 1993, Congress and President Clinton, only 100 years after the fact, passed a resolution apologizing to the Hawaiian monarchy and declaring its overthrow to be an unlawful act. So there, we're all square.)

The King's best known legacy was something called the Law of the Splintered Paddle, which took its name from an incident during his military campaign days, when two fishermen who feared him struck him in the head with a paddle and broke it – the paddle, if not his head. Years later, when he was on the throne, they were brought to him for punishment, but he pardoned them and decreed the Law of the Splintered Paddle, which sought to protect civilians during times of armed conflict, and reportedly saved many thousands of lives. It was the first law of the new Kingdom, and it's still found in the state constitution. He also saved a few more lives when he ended the practice of human sacrifice (of course, he never had to deal with people who chat on their phones while driving), which previously had been an important part of the native religion.

This statue, interestingly enough, is not the original, but a duplicate made by the same sculptor who crafted the original, which had been lost in a shipwreck on its way here. It later was recovered, and now stands (and points) in the King's birthplace on The Big Island. This second statue stands and points and poses for photos on the spot originally intended for the first – in front of Ali'iohani Hale, the historic building that was previously the seat of the royal government and then the territorial government, but is now the home of the state Supreme Court. Incidentally the sculptor, Thomas Gould, chose to Europeanize the statue rather than model it after photographs of natives to which he had ready access.

Well, we know a photo op when we see one, and we couldn't pass up the opportunity to pose with The King. And we thought it was preferable to get all three of us in the shot with him; and, having some difficulty setting up the camera so the automatic timer would catch us in a good position, we looked for another tourist to do the honors for us. Fortunately, we saw someone we knew was an excellent prospect: a woman snapping pictures of a little homemade cardboard figure in front of the landmark. We had no idea why she was doing this, but we figured if she could handle cutouts she could handle cutups. So we handed her our camera and she obligingly did an admirable job of capturing the statue and the stooges together; and we daresay that we are at least as photogenic as her paper doll.

We followed The King's gaze across the street in quest of the library, but we found that he actually was looking at The Royal Palace, another building of historical and architectural significance. Though of very classic (and classy) design, the structure actually was completed only in the 1880's, in time to serve as a royal residence for only about 10 years before the world came crashing down around it. It was occupied primarily by the last Hawaiian monarch, Queen Lili'uokalani, who among other things was a prolific songwriter. Her best known creation was the quintessential Hawaiian anthem "Aloha Oe"; if you've ever even so much as heard a rumor that a place such as Hawaii exists, then you almost certainly can hum this tune.

The Palace was in the news briefly just a few days ago when it was seized by a radical group calling itself the Hawaii Kingdom Government, headed by a woman who claims to be the heir to the throne. (Her claims apparently were groundless, but don't quote us on that without consulting an attorney.) We'd been half expecting to see some drama unfolding while we were here, but it all seems to have blown over now. There was no sign of an insurrection, and in fact no sign of anything, since the Palace, which is open for tours most days, is closed on Mondays.

Okay, so we still needed to find the library. So we looked back across the street, and noted that while The King was looking at the Palace, he was pointing to the next building over, so that must be it. We headed over, pausing to admire the banyan trees between the two. A sign nearby said "Please do not climb on the roots". It's not every day you see a message like that, at least not in the Contiguous Forty-Eight, but we're clearly not in Kansas anymore. These trees really do have roots that a person could climb on – long, thick, outcroppings jutting vertically 20 feet or so between the ground and the branches. Next to them was what we call the Wishbone Tree, because that's what it looks like. Even though it clearly has been pruned back, it still was quite an unusual trunk formation.

Kimberly has been basking in all the flora she's observing, vegetation she hasn't seen much of since moving out of the state these many years ago. She has been especially delighted by the aroma of the plentiful plumeria trees we've encountered. We also saw one tree that she couldn't identify, a tree sporting some type of gourd-shaped fruit that we've never seen for sale in a supermarket.

Upon finding the library, we picked up one of the transit maps, and then Kimberly decided to drop in on the children's librarian, and perhaps sow the seeds for a future return to Hawaii in a business capacity. The librarian was very gracious and generous with her time, and ended up talking to Kimberly (and Dennis, who joined her later) until closing time, about 45 minutes later.

Back at our home for the week, Kimberly had to spend some computer time getting an important publicity project ready under a deadline. And then we had to email it, which was impractical to do in our room. It doesn't have its own wi-fi; the best you can do is pick up one of the stray signals in the neighborhood, which are very weak – we might be able to stay online for 20 minutes by balancing a laptop on our nose while hopping on one foot and flapping our arms. So we lugged our computers to a hotel down the street and sat in their lobby until the cumbersome file had been sent. We hope this will be the last time we have to interrupt this vacation in paradise to tend to business.

Day 4 May 20

As a rule, we shy away from guided tours. We prefer exploring at our own pace and, whenever possible, in our own space, rather than in the company of an elbow-bumping horde being shuffled around by a guide with a rote spiel. But when it came to the Polynesian Cultural Center, we were ready to make an exception. Sort of.

We could have ridden public transportation (The Bus) to the Center, which would have taken perhaps a couple of hours each way, as it's way around on the north shore of Oahu. But we wanted to spend that time at the Center itself rather than commuting, so we thought it best to book passage on a tour bus to take us there and back. And this entailed having a guide on the bus who, we expected, would point out every blade of grass we passed on the way. But that was the extent of our buy-in; once we arrived at our destination, we'd strike out on our own, rather than sticking with the guide throughout the day.

This tour was the one thing we booked in advance of our arrival in Hawaii, as it's the most popular paid tourist attraction in the whole state. It was also, by far, the most expensive indulgence during our stay; in fact, not counting plane fare, it cost about as much as all our other expenses combined, including food.

The Polynesian Cultural Center was established in 1963 by nearby Brigham Young University Hawaii, which over the years has offered employment opportunities to many thousands of its students. In other words, the Center is a project of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, otherwise known as the Mormons, and we can't help noting the irony here: the Mormons began sending missionaries to these islands around 1840, and what missionaries do, to some extent or other, is try to alter the cultures they come in contact with. But now this same church is very instrumental in helping to preserve those pre-contact traditions. Whatever their motives, they do an excellent job of it and they do so, as far as we can tell, without proselytizing. (It's probably religious policies, however, which led to the unfortunate decision to keep the Center closed on Sundays, which would be the best time for many people to enjoy it.)

At 10:30 this morning, we caught the bus in front of the Hyatt, which is only about 3 blocks from our "hale" (home). Our guide was a handsome young Samoan in native garb (something akin to a tropical kilt) who called himself Gandhi, since his full name, which he also rattled off, unspooled from his mouth like a measuring tape. Gandhi capably narrated the entire 45-minute ride, and while we often prefer to soak up our surroundings in contemplative silence, we didn't object at all to his commentary. In fact, it was quite entertaining and informative. He referred to himself as "Cousin Gandhi" and the bus driver as "Uncle Junior", and he referred to other friends and acquaintances in his anecdotes as "cousin". We weren't certain whether this was a Polynesian thing or a Mormon thing, and perhaps he should have explained it. There was no doubt, however, about the origin of the word "shaka" (roughly translated as "hang loose") which is a common Hawaiian expression of salutation often accompanied by a shaken hand with pinkie and thumb extended and the other digits closed, a gesture you probably shouldn't practice in East L.A.

Much of the territory that our route covered was already familiar to us seasoned passengers of Da Bus. But we did get a much closer view of Chinaman's Hat. And we passed a street sign that said "Haiku Rd.", which was the first time we'd ever heard of a street with that name, but it was quite fitting that we should find it in this rural Hawaiian region'. It inspires us to compose a haiku of our own:

Not a great haiku, mind you, but hey, we're on vacation.

Upon arrival at the PCC, we had to wait only a few minutes for Gandhi to obtain and distribute our tickets. Then about half the attendees accompanied him on a tour for the rest of the day, while we putted along on our own steam. Just inside the entrance we were welcomed by more of that endless supply of friendly natives, who decked our necks with more leis – this time made of shells. We wanted to avoid crowds, and one secret for doing that at an attraction of this type is to beeline for the very rear section, and then work your way forward. (Shh!! Don't tell anyone.) It didn't work out quite so well today, however, because we discovered that while guests had not made it to the rear yet, neither had the employees.

The PCC covers several acres, and is divided into "islands", each representing a different Pacific island chain. Like Edo Wonderland in Japan, the facility portrays the architecture, arts, artifacts, costumes and customs of a bygone era – but instead of just one culture, it embodies half a dozen! And each "island" is staffed by costumed interpreters who are actual natives of that particular country.

At the far back was the "island" of Hawaii itself, which at this time of day was totally uninhabited. But there was a dish of poi, the fabled foodstuff made from taro roots, placed on a table just waiting to be sampled once things got underway. At the moment, there was nobody around to dish it out, so we were off the hook. We decided to poke along to another "island" to see if it had come to life yet, and on the way out we met two Hawaiian ladies on their way in to assume their shifts at work, and they assured us that "you will have poi some time today". We weren't sure if that was supposed to be a promise, a prophesy or a threat, but we resigned ourselves to the inevitable.

Next to "Hawaii" was the "island" of the Marquesas, which also was abandoned. But in this case, the desolation is more or less permanent – "Marquesas" is closed until further notice due to the unavailability of native personnel to staff it. About a century ago, the Marquesas Islands boasted a population of around 100,000. Two noted French artistes took refuge there from the rat race, and are buried there within a few yards of each other: impressionist painter Paul Gauguin, best known for his vibrant interpretations of life in the Polynesian Islands (particularly Tahiti); and singer-songwriter Jacques Brel, best known for inspiring a Broadway musical, and for sparking what comedian Martin Mull called the "great folk music scare" in the U.S. during the Fifties and Sixties. But today, the Marquesas have only 5000 to 8000 inhabitants (depending on whom you ask), which means a tiny pool from which to draw personnel for the PCC – particularly if, as seems to be the case, having Mormon credentials is prerequisite or at least preferred for employment. But even though there were no islanders, the "island" itself still stands, and we were able to stroll through it like archaeologists stumbling upon a legendary lost civilization.

Near the Marquesas ghost village is "Tahiti", famous among other things for a hip-wrenching dance of jack-hammer intensity. But this exotic archipelago boasts other claims to fame as well. It gave us, for instance, the word "tattoo", for better or for worse; and in connection with that, the exhibit offered guests a chance to obtain a temporary tattoo -- which is the only kind to get, as far as we're concerned. Oh yes, and it was their reluctance to leave Tahiti behind that prompted the crew of HMS Bounty to mutiny against Captain Bligh. What ingrates they must have been, to prefer frolicking in the surf with beautiful maidens in a tropical shangri-la to sharing cramped quarters on a cold, dank ship with a bunch of sweaty old salts who snored and passed gas.

Next on our voyage around the Pacific was "Tonga", which was nicknamed "The Friendly Islands" by Captain Cook. (He didn't know that some of the natives were secretly plotting to kill him. But notwithstanding that, it is indeed a congenial race of people.) Here we witnessed a lively drumming performance, accompanied by an even more lively dance, a sort of cross between the gracefully expressive Hawaiian hula and the hernia-inducing Tahitian shimmy. A female dancer demonstrated her version and taught it to the ladies in the audience who were game, and a male dancer did likewise with the men, and then the two of them combined their skills into one performance.

Also in "Tonga", we participated in a spear-tossing contest, using some rather crude spears that didn't exactly go where you threw them. Even so, we got surprisingly close to the metal ring on the ground that served as the target -- we probably hit within 15 feet of it. And we attended a little class in weaving reeds. The woman teaching the session showed us how to construct a little "fish", and when she saw the one Dennis had crafted, she laughed heartily and declared it to be the most creative one yet. (Maybe she meant most ridiculous, we're not sure.)

Next came "Aotearoa", better known to most of us as New Zealand. It's the only Polynesian nation that undergoes changes of season; the others only have tourist season, which never ends. New Zealand is home of the celebrated "stick game", which Kimberly remembered playing as a child. It didn't really start out as a game, mind you. It started as a military drill to foster coordination, reflexes and teamwork among soldiers. But eventually somebody realized that it was just too much fun to be a military secret, so it was turned over to the kiddies. We happened to catch the young man who was teaching this activity at a moment when there was a lull in business. And thus he was willing and able to lead us through just about every stick trick in his repertoire, with just about every possible combination of partner pairings between the four of us.

In "Samoa", we witnessed a fellow actually start a fire by rubbing two sticks together (You've heard about it often, but how many times have you seen it?) and demonstrate how to split a coconut deftly in half and extract the milk from the meat. He mentioned that he'd be performing a fire dance in the evening at the grand spectacle, and also exhibiting his paintings for sale. An all around talented guy, but above all he was a beefy hunk that Kimberly couldn't resist posing with. He was assisted by another fellow who demonstrated the art of climbing a coconut tree without colliding with the ground, by use of what looked like a pair of sandals attached at the heels.

After grabbing some lunch (which we'd brought along), we watched the "canoe pageant", a parade on the waterway that flows through the park. The participating vessels were made of two canoes connected by a platform about 8 feet wide; and on this platform dancers from each of the "islands" offered a brief display of their talents. This included the islands we've already mentioned, as well as our first glimpse of dancing and costuming from Fiji, the one island we didn't really spend any time in. Sorry, Fiji, it wasn't a deliberate slight -- it's just the way our schedule happened to fall. We'll make it up by visiting the real Fiji someday.

We also attended a screening in the IMAX theater of "Great Reef Adventure", a dizzying documentary that chronicles the efforts of a diving team to assist in studying and trying to save damaged coral reefs. The amazing underwater cinematography shows some close encounters with sea life that you don't normally bump into at your local swimming hole. In one scene, divers were practically rubbing fins with a large school of hammerhead sharks, who seemed to take no notice of them. (Contrary to Hollywood blockbuster, sharks don't like to eat people, although they have been known to attack on rare occasions -- probably because they mistake a swimmer, or more likely a surfboard, for something on their usual menu.) Even more jaw-dropping was one woman's playful romp with an aquatic snake about 5 feet in length and marked with black and white stripes. The narrator stated that its venom was five times more deadly than the cobra, but it rarely bites humans, and that's what the diver was "counting on". we think we'd rather count on such a loaded reptile to observe its usual habits from a greater distance.

By the time seating started, around 5:00, for the luau that was included in our package, we were beginning to feel ready for it. We were welcomed at the entrance to the dining area, an open-air arrangement (roof but no walls) with another lei, this time of the traditional orchid flavor. We were ushered to our table and seated next to three very likeable college students from Utah (themselves Mormon, we'd guess) who seemed to be partaking of just about every imaginable outdoor adventure on their Hawaiian vacation: snorkeling, scuba diving, biking, hiking, parasailing, you name it.

It was still about an hour before the grub was served, and by then we were REALLY ready to luau. But in the interim, we were entertained with music and dance, some of it provided by a talented emcee who sang and played -- what else -- the ukulele. There was also a procession by the "royal court" of Hawaii in traditional dress. And there was a pig, who neither sang nor danced, but merely looked roasted after being brought out of an "imu" (fire pit) before being invited to join the feast. This, we gather, was intended to be appetizing.

Finally, our host announced that it was time to began filing toward the buffet tables, urging us to "eat like Hawaiians", adding that "we don't eat until we're full -- we eat until we're dizzy." Only one of the 6 or so buffet tables -- the one specially designated for children -- had a vegetarian entree, namely some tasty chili. How do we know it was tasty? Because when we asked one of the attendants about snagging something vegetarian, she invited us to pretend that we were kiddies for the time being, and that's what we did. But even without horning in on that table, there would have been plenty to enable us to "eat like Hawaiians". Among other things, Dennis and Zephyr got their first taste ever of real Hawaiian pineapple.

But wait a minute. What about the stuff you buy in your supermarket's produce section or canned goods? Doesn't that come from Hawaii too? Well yes, technically it does. But because those pineapples have to be shipped great distances, they're harvested before they're fully ripe, while the ones sold here are left unmolested until they develop a lush sweetness that only the state's residents and visitors are privileged to savor. And tonight we did. And now D & Z can understand why K has always turned up her nose at the tart, immature fruit we've always had available on the mainland.

The guys also finally got their first taste of poi; and all they have to say is, it's a good thing that only three letters of the alphabet were wasted on it. Not that it tastes bad, mind you, it just doesn't taste at all. A bowl filled with poi equals a bowl. But something about the texture makes it feel uneasy in your mouth, and makes you feel relieved when you finally swallow it and get it over with. The most stimulating thing about poi is that it leaves you pondering whether it works better as a condiment or a glazing compound.

There was another item made from taro, however, that was infinitely more appetizing: dinner rolls. If the concept of purple bread doesn't sound appealing to you, be assured that these little loaves were delicious enough to make a meal out of by themselves. They were so good that you could have dipped them in poi and they still would have been delicious.

Entertainment continued throughout the feast, with our emcee providing credible musical impersonations ranging from Louis Armstrong to Tiny Tim. He wasn't content to do all the work himself, however, but also got the audience in on the act. At one point he asked everyone having a May birthday to stand, and Dennis sportingly obliged along with many other people in the crowd, only to be bombarded with the sound of everyone else singing "Happy Birthday". And later, every couple having an anniversary this month -- which also included us -- was urged to come to the stage and indulge in a dance while the band played. (One couple gamely came to the edge of the stage and capered with the rest, even though the husband was in a wheelchair.) We really cut quite a rug and, we say, outshone the rest, even though we also continued our timeless debate about which one of us is the better leader.

The server who brought our beverages was a Japanese girl, and she was delighted to hear that we'd visited her country and loved it. She invited us to "come back to Japan any time", and we assured her there was nothing we'd like better (except maybe to stay in Hawaii longer). Once she'd finished her duties, she returned to our table and stayed to chat for a while. But not just to us. She also seemed to be quite interested in the college boys from Utah, and they in her. When we left, she was still there.

Our final stop of the night was "Horizons", the song and dance revue mounted in a splendiferous amphitheater that rivaled any venue Disney has assembled. A backdrop simulating a rocky cliff featured waterfalls and even a volcano. The bill included exhibitions by performers from each of the island groups, and each set was outstanding. But the highlight was definitely the fire dancing. Well, dancing is an understatement. We saw guys twirl fire and walk on fire and sit on fire and crawl on fire. Don't try this at home.

Of the 5 or 6 daring fire dancers, the one who really stood out -- the big soloist -- was our old friend the Samoan coconut shredder. He executed a fantastical bit of fire twirling not only with his hands but with his feet. And just when you thought you'd seen it all, he hurled the fiery baton about 100 feet toward a "cliff" some 25 feet high, on which was perched one of his comrades, who caught the baton and hurled it back down. These guys give a whole new meaning to passing the torch.

At the end of the performance, which seemed all too short, we started making our way to the exit, after detouring to find bathrooms that weren't booked up a year in advance. we passed the Samoan coconut shredder/ fire twirler, who'd stationed himself out front to sell his paintings -- very realistic depictions of island landscapes that looked almost like postcard photos. Rain was beginning to fall, but not nearly heavy enough to threaten the artwork or the spirits of the crowd, just a delicate drizzle that cooled us off as we headed back to the bus.

The Polynesian Cultural Center is just across the street from one of Hawaii's numerous free beaches -- it seems that everything in this state is across the street from a beach -- so we could have taken a break during the day and gone over to take a dip or a wade. But there was so much going on inside that the day just zipped by as it was; and there will certainly be other opportunities to indulge in beaches while we're here. Now, taking the ride back to our room -- a ride without commentary this time -- we marveled at the ocean that seemed to be next to us at almost every turn, and at the huge moon hovering over it as if about to make a soft landing.

Oops, better end for tonight. We feel another haiku coming.

Day 5 May 21

Kimberly's homecoming day, or rather homegoing day. We decided to spend the entire day, or as much of it as we could, in Kailua, just a few miles north of Honolulu, where the poor girl once was forced to spend three years of her childhood. Kailua, she assured us, has the best beach in the whole dang country, so we intended to take advantage of it.

We stopped at the desk downstairs to pick up boogie boards, beach towels and a beach mat. We are being assessed a daily charge for these items whether we use them or not, so we are going to get our money's worth today. Most guests, we figure, pick them up and then just walk (or drive if they're really pampered) to Waikiki, just a few blocks away. It's probably not every day that beachgoers schlep their boards onto a bus and sit with them propped up in front of them like shields. On the other hand, it's probably not all that rare, either.

As usual, we had to change buses at Ala Moana, the shopping center that serves as the major downtown transportation hub. While we were waiting for our next bus, Kimberly decided that she had to have a new hat especially for the beach. So while Zephyr helped a blind man locate a restaurant inside the food court and Dennis waited at the bus stop, she went to nearby Hilo Hattie and purchased a white floppy number that suits her to a T.

Our second bus deposited us right at the corner of her old homestead, next to a stone wall with the name of the neighborhood on it. She often has told of a childhood incident in which she was attacked by bees lurking in a nook of this wall. She was the innocent by-stander it was the other kids who threw the coconuts. We passed safely today, however.

Walking up the hill and around the corner, we found ourselves in front of her old house, which has changed quite a bit – mostly for the worse. The current occupants just don't keep it up as fastidiously as her dad did. (But then few people would!) Gone are the plumeria trees and coconut trees that used to grace the yard. You can understand why someone would get rid of the latter; they get so tall that the tree trimmers refuse to scale to the top (not even the guy from Polynesian Cultural Center) and coconuts falling from that height could be a lethal liability. But what harm could plumeria blossoms possibly do?

One thing that hasn't changed is that the next-door neighbors are still there; and they were still there this morning when we astonished them (perhaps shocked is a better word) by appearing at their door. The wife was for many years a member of the state legislatures.

After our brief visit with them, we continued on foot toward the beach, taking what ended up being a long way around. A few blocks away from the old home, we passed Maunawili Elementary School, where Kimberly attended a summer camp. And she also pointed out something to the rest of us that she'd told us about before, but which we swore must have been a mythical creature that she'd only imagined: "sleeping grass", a plant which closes up its fronds when you touch it, like a plant from another planet. She wasn't lying folks, it really does move! Maybe she also was telling the truth about the little three-eared purple gremlin that used to live in her closet.

After hiking all the way down the hill and into town, we were hot and thirsty and ready to take a break for some refreshment before continuing on to the beach. We happened to stumble upon a large health food store with rather decent prices, which was just perfect since we were in the mood for juice or maybe a smoothie. We settled on a large bottle of kefir, and also bought a couple of things to supplement our lunch. After downing the kefir rather quickly, we were off again.

The health food store did not have bottles of water, however, and our supply in the permanent bottles we always carry with us was running low. So we stopped at the next suitable location to pick up some, which happened to be a cookie shop with the curious name of Chip and Cookie. We paused outside to look at a large poster in the window, featuring a photo of a dashing fellow wearing a flamboyant hat decorated in a watermelon motif, a white outfit and a big smile. He was Wally Amos, the famous cookie magnate, who apparently had some connection to this shop. As we stood there, along came a man dispensing free cookie samples. He was wearing a flamboyant hat (it made Kimberly's new lid literally pale in comparison), a white outfit and a big smile. The same hat, outfit and smile in the photo. It was Wally Amos in the flesh. He was the last person we would have expected to bump into, but that's just because we didn't know the facts yet.

Wally Amos was the founder of the Famous Amos cookie company, but he no longer has any connection to that brand name; in fact he shuns it. After some poor business decisions, the brand changed hands a few times, and the recipe changed along with management. The result is a Famous Amos cookie that Mr. Amos claims bears little resemblance to his original brainchild.

In any event, Wally Amos has bounded back from business disaster and is now a cookie guru once again. He lives right here in Kailua, and seems to be a regular presence at his colorful little bakery. Furthermore, he is branching out, opening another store in the Ala Moana Center in Honolulu, where it's certain to attract the attention of gazillions of bus passengers. He's also a paragon of positive thinking, and has even published books on that topic.

But there's something even more fascinating that we didn't know about him. He's become a major champion of reading to children – not just reading by children, mind you, but reading to children. In fact, in addition to the quasi-lifesize poster of the man himself, what caught our eye about the storefront was a smaller poster advertising the proprietor's weekly sessions reading to children right here in ye olde cookie emporium, in a cozy little nook set up just for that purpose. We were very pleased to learn about this passion of his, and to be able to meet such a dynamo of enthusiasm and achievement. He provided us with information about his work with Read It Loud Foundation, and we in turn told him all about what we do for a living, which he also took an interest in. Before we left, we asked if he'd pose for a photo with us, and he replied, "sure, if you'll take a cookie." Such a deal.

A few blocks farther, we finally found ourselves at the beach, and a beach in Hawaii is an excellent place to find yourself. First we had lunch in a shady spot on the other side of a berm just a few yards from water's edge. Kimberly, who was not quite as hungry as the males, finished eating first, and after changing into her beachwear in the restrooms about 100 yards away, headed on over to stake out her spot in the sand. Soon Dennis followed (bathing) suit, and about 5 minutes later, Zephyr did likewise. We mention this sequence of events because it turned out to be potentially quite significant, and we'd be replaying it in our minds very carefully before the day was over.

The surf was particularly weak today, so weak that it was an insult to our boogie boards. Kimberly swears it was never like this before, but D & Z are beginning to have doubts about that little purple dude after all. In any event, the water was blissful, even if it was too blissfully calm for our purposes, the sand was like powdered sugar, and the scenery was out of this world. We commented on how this place really was paradise, and Kimberly noted that she hadn't realized how much she missed it. Unfortunately, we were then just moments away from discovering that this paradise had at least one serpent lurking in it.

Although Kimberly is the strongest swimmer in the family, she rarely ventures into the water. But today, being back in her old splashing grounds, she couldn't let the day pass without taking the plunge, even if the surf was wimpy. After lounging on the beach for a couple of hours, she was ready.

It's such a rare event to see her swimming that Dennis thought he should document it photographically. So he went to get the camera, and... let's see, where was it? He called out to her and asked where it was, and she said it should be in her bag.

But it wasn't.

Nor was it in anyone else's bag.

The camera, in fact, was nowhere.

We knew we'd had it with us earlier when we were eating lunch. Kimberly had handed it to Zephyr, who'd then covered it with his boogie board before going to the changing room. After he'd changed, he'd brought all the gear still left at our lunch stakeout over to where Kimberly and Dennis were ensconced on the beach. Had we all walked away, taking all of our other stuff with us, but somehow overlooked a very conspicuous object? It seemed inconceivable, but nonetheless, we walked back over to that area and searched every inch, without success.

We inquired with the lifeguard, thinking maybe someone had found it and turned it in. But no such luck.

As we thought back on it, we realized that we'd left some of our belongings, including the camera, unattended for perhaps five minutes while Zephyr went to change. It had been covered up, but even so it was theoretically possible, however improbable, that someone had poked around, discovered it and snatched it during that time. We were reluctant to draw such a conclusion, but we didn't know how else to explain what happened.

Whatever the explanation, it really steamrolled our spirits. Not only did we face the prospect of buying a new camera immediately or else losing out on photo opportunities for the remainder of our trip, but even worse, we'd lost the pictures we'd already taken. And the ones we'd taken were of particular sentimental value to Kimberly. Her old house, her old neighborhood, the neighbors, the bee wall, all gone. Not to mention our pose with Wally Amos.

While Kimberly and Zephyr were changing back into their street clothes, Dennis was making a final "Hail Mary" effort by walking through the parking lot and asking everyone he met if by chance they'd glimpsed a wayward camera scurrying around. Of course they all said no, but two young men who spoke with what appeared to be a German accent did offer a slightly promising lead.

"When I was in the water", said one of them, "I saw a woman trying to take my sunglasses. I wouldn't be surprised if she has your camera."

He described her as a gray-haired woman dressed in gray and carrying a gray plastic bag. Scouring the beach, Dennis did find a woman matching that description, stuffing shells into her bag. He told her that we were missing a camera, and didn't have a lot of money to replace it; and that it contained some pictures that were very important to us. He asked her to keep an eye out for it, and turn it in to the lifeguard if she found it. She promised that she would.

After making sure the lifeguard had our phone number, we started trudging back toward the bus stop, much more somber than we were on the way down. Kimberly, in particular, was heartsick.

We detoured a couple of blocks to see her old school, St. Anthony's, but without an actual camera, she had to settle for taking a shot with the phone. A bake sale apparently was in progress, but nothing else was going on. Peering through the large windows in front, we could see that the chapel was undergoing some severe renovation, and in fact was closed off because of the threat of some kind of toxic substances.

Continuing toward the heart of town, we came to the police station, and decided we should drop in and file a report, since we were certain a theft had occurred. We were surprised to see that the sign on the station said "Honolulu Police" rather than "Kailua Police". Local government is structured a little differently in Hawaii, with all offices administered by four counties. As far as the police are concerned, the entire island of Oahu is considered part of Honolulu!

As the bored prisoner in the cell on the other side of the reception desk looked on in mild interest, we told our story to the officer on duty, who gave us the appropriate form to fill out. Although he wasn't at all optimistic about our chances, he conscientiously and courteously went through the process, and handed us a report for our records.

Proceeding a little farther into town, we stopped again at Chip and Cookie. That's because we also were missing Kimberly's sunglasses, but we knew exactly where they were: she'd recalled taking them off and putting them down to pose with Mr. Amos.

Having retrieved them, we started pondering whether we should try to make it to Diamond Head, as we'd tentatively planned. We were off to a late start this morning, and then there was the longer than expected walk from bus to beach, then with the camera episode on top of that, we were much farther into the day than we'd expected to be. So we decided to postpone Diamond Head until tomorrow, and begin heading home.

About the time we reached that consensus, our phone rang. It was the lifeguard. He had our camera! Naturally, we were overjoyed at this news, but then things really started to get strange.

We asked him if one of us should walk back down to the beach to get it, and he said no, he'd already left and was on his way to pick up his son in another town a few miles away. This in itself struck us as quite irregular. Surely there must have been a place near the lifeguard station that it could have been stashed safely until claimed. Instead, he took it home with him, without even trying to contact us first. So we asked him how we could arrange to recover it -- we certainly were willing to go out of our way to make it convenient for him, even though he hadn't made it terribly convenient for us. We even could have returned tomorrow, or perhaps have arranged for Kimberly's former neighbors to get it for us. But he said he'd drop it by himself as soon as he had his son. Oh yes, and one more thing. He wanted a reward.

Now we'd certainly been prepared to offer, say, 20 dollars to anyone who returned it to us (Dennis even mentioned this possibility to the lady in gray), and especially if driving was involved, given the price of gas these days. Mind you, we ourselves would never accept such a payment just for doing the right thing (in fact, we've declined rewards in several such situations), but making the offer still seems a reasonable gesture of gratitude. But to have someone demand a fee upfront seemed supremely tasteless, especially for a representative of the local government. Nonetheless, we were so thrilled by the prospect of getting our pictures back that we just told him we'd discuss it when he arrived.

A few minutes later, he called back to be more specific: he wanted FIFTY DOLLARS -- a sum, he explained, that would enable him to take his girlfriend to dinner. We told him that we weren't rich and repeated our suggestion that we talk it over upon delivery.

In about half an hour, he walked up carrying his son, who was about three years old. He looked very young himself, too young to be a parent, and judging by our conversation with him, he was certainly too immature. We shudder to think what kind of example he was setting for his child today. As he approached, he smiled and waved as if greeting an old friend; but we're afraid we returned his greeting with icy glares. Dennis and Zephyr, both wearing dark glasses, stood with arms crossed, sizing him up like a pair of mafia hit men.

After he'd produced the camera from his pouch, Kimberly told him, "You know, we're perfectly willing to offer you something for your trouble, but we don't think it's cool to hold our camera for ransom."

"I wasn't holding it for ransom", he innocently protested.

"That's certainly the way it looks", she told him.

Dennis stuffed a twenty into his hand and said curtly, "Thank you for bringing it back to us."

He looked at the money and asked, "Is that all?"

"How much is your honesty worth?"

"I think it should be worth more than that", he answered.

At that point, Dennis held up the slip of paper from the police department and asked, "Do you know what this is?"

"No", he said. "What is it?"

"It's a police report we filed about a stolen camera. Maybe I should walk back to the station and tell them I think I know who the thief might be."

"No no", he said, "I didn't steal anything, honest. Someone just turned it in to me."

"Under the circumstances", we told him, "they'd probably consider you a suspect, and they'd certainly want to talk to you."

This seemed to give him pause, as he stopped whining about not being paid more for his good deed, and tried to be cheery and cordial.

"You're lucky to get it back", he pointed out.

"We know", Dennis responded. "And you'll be lucky if you still have a job tomorrow."

In the end, though, we elected not to report his conduct, even though it was a decision that we don't entirely have a clear conscience about. But at least he did take the trouble to return it rather than just keep it; and once we'd met him, it was clear that his behavior was motivated by naivety (which, admittedly, is a euphemism for cluelessness) rather than malice or greed, and it was hard to condemn him more than pity him.

When we'd returned to our room and had dinner, D & K decided to take an evening stroll on Waikiki Beach, while Zephyr was content to stay behind and occupy himself with the holy trinity of computer, television and telephone. It was a fantastic night for a beach stroll, with just enough breeze to keep us cool, and the approximately full moon gilding the waves with gold. We had the beach pretty much to ourselves, not counting the diners in the many outdoor restaurants. We walked, we waded, we capered and danced, and generally acted like a pair of teenagers on a class trip. In no time, the stench of the day's bad experience was entirely washed away.

You'd have to work at it really hard to maintain a bad mood for very long in a place like this.

Day 6 May 22

Today Dennis celebrated his birthday -- meaning he tried his best to forget about it while everyone else in the world reminded him. But if he had to have a birthday, and if he had to do something special to commemorate it, and if he could choose what he'd do, it would probably involve some outdoor activity in a beautiful, exotic setting. Too bad we couldn't, for example, go snorkeling at some rich, unspoiled stretch of coastline in Hawaii.

Oh wait, we could, couldn't we?

Our destination was Hanauma Bay Nature Preserve, only about 6 miles east of Honolulu, and yet lightyears removed from urban bustle. "Hanauma" means something like "sheltered bay", so Hanauma Bay is a bit of a repetitious redundancy. Its distinctive ovoid shape surrounded by steep cliffs reflects the fact that millions of years ago this was a volcano. But at some point a piece of the crater's side fell off, leaving a partial basin into which water could enter, along with all the accompanying shallow-water life forms, who found the bay to be a comfy new nest.

We again picked up towels and mats from downstairs, but no need for boogie boards, because the water would be too shallow and we'd be too far inland to expect anything stronger than the ripples in a jacuzzi. Besides, today wasn't about waves, it was about snorkeling. And we already had our snorkels, which we'd purchased in Florida, where we first snorkeled back in January. But that was like going to snorkeling kindergarten. By the time today was over, we'd feel that we'd earned our doctorates.

Boarding a bus packed with folks who obviously were all headed our way, we took the brief ride to Hanauma's parking lot, then walked down to the entrance. Just past the gate, there was an excellent viewing spot where we could get a panorama of the bay, and what a panorama it was. From a height of about 200 feet, we looked down in awe upon the textbook blue water, extending out from the shore about 200 yards before it deepened. We could see the patchwork of variously colored, shaped and sized coral configurations just beneath the surface, making the whole curved bay appear to be a huge, intricately detailed map of some other water-bearing planet.

Before we were able to go down there, we had to watch an orientation film that gave us an introduction to the reef and laid out some ground (and water) rules -- mostly just basic stuff like supervise your children and don't stand on the coral and don't throw cans or bottles into the water, and don't try to take a squid home in your thermos. That sort of thing. You're only required to view this movie once a year, though we have no idea how they keep track of who has and who hasn't.

Eschewing the shuttle, we hiked down the hill to the beach, which needless to say was thick with people, although we still managed to stake out our territory with no trouble. We imagine that everyone who comes here treats the place with respect and care, but even so the sheer numbers, day after day after year after decade, are taking their toll on the ecosystem. Currently the bay is closed one day per week (Tuesday) to allow the fish a chance to catch their breath. But there is talk of taking even further measures to restrict attendance. It's a sobering, almost sad fact that you can't enjoy nature without contributing in some degree to its destruction; there are no truly passive observers, and the observers who flock here don't even pretend to be passive -- snorkeling is a very active interaction. We've all heard of the butterfly effect, and humans leave a much larger "footprint" than butterflies. Will it ever get to the point that this beach must be closed for public viewing altogether to make sure the public still has something to view? We certainly hope not -- it's just too priceless a treasure not to make available to all.

We didn't realize it at the time, but even sunscreen has an impact. With thousands of bathers per day, a lot of lotion is bound to leach off into the water, where it inflicts damage on marine organisms and coral formations. We (especially Dennis, who has a vampire's dread of sunlight) always slather on the sunscreen when we're going to be outdoors in sunny weather, including at the beach. We thought it prudent to do so today, even though most of the day was heavily overcast -- not with clouds or fog, but with "vog", which is what they call the fumes that vent from a volcano. The Kilauea volcano on The Big Island has been spewing since March 19, and the resulting vog has produced cooler than normal weather. Even so, and even with Coppertone armor, we got our share of sunburn. The birthday vampire even got his stomach reddened, despite spending most of the day face-down in the water. Go figure. The best solution, then, is probably to wear wetsuits. They not only protect you from the sun without harming the environment, but they also help keep you warm -- yes, you do get chilly after a couple of hours in the water, even in Hawaii.

In addition to wetsuits (which can be rented), and a snorkel (ditto), all you really need for snorkeling is a good set of lungs (which you'll have to acquire on your own). Breathing through the mouth, especially in conjunction with the exertion of swimming, can really leave you winded after a few hours. Flippers can held diminish the effort required to get around, and are especially recommended (or at least some water shoes) if you're going to break the taboo against putting your feet on the coral or rock on the bottom -- which is not recommended. Not only can you damage the coral, you can also damage your feet -- coral can be sharp, and the cuts get very sore and heal very slowly. When you absolutely must stand, there's usually a patch of sand accessible. But you also have to watch our for spiny critters like urchins, which can serve up some discomfort in their own right. And then there is the man of war, which has been known to inhabit Hawaii's coastal waters, and which can deliver the equivalent of a bee sting. They appear at some beaches fairly regularly, but don't seem to have much of a presence here, so we didn't get to collect one of their stings as a souvenir.

You don't even have to be a swimmer to enjoy snorkeling; you can rent a flotation jacket and just lie there in the water without putting out much energy, if that's your bag. And you don't have to stray into deep water, either. All you have to do is stick your face in the water, and immediately you'll be greeted by swarms and schools and companies of fish who are very accustomed to seeing those hordes of strange two-legged creatures invading their bathtub, and aren't the least bit shy about coming up to say howdy. We rarely went to a depth of more than about four feet, in fact.

Even in such a shallow habitat, we encountered such curious species at the parrotfish, which makes an intriguing clacking sound with its "beak", giving the impression that it's chewing on the rocks. And what else did we see? Well, there was the Hawaiian sergeant, the blackspot sergeant, many varieties of tang, varieties of surgeonfish, trumpetfish, butterflyfish, coronetfish, many varieties of wrasse (including the especially eye-catching Christmas-wrasse), varieties of hawkfish, ladyfish, flagtail, milkfish, bluefin trevally, mullet, shortbodied rudderfish, theadfin, and Moorish idol, to name just a few. Oh yes, and we mustn't forget the most impressive name of all, the humuhumunukunukuapua'a. No, it wasn't the biggest fish there, it was one of the smallest. Maybe it just wears that oversized moniker to ward off predators.

One of the rangers told us that occasionally an octopus will stray in this close to shore, but we didn't lock arms with any today. Zephyr did have a close encounter with a giant sea turtle, but alas, we can't prove it. Our wayward camera, with which we've been joyfully reunited, doesn't operate underwater, so we didn't get any photos of any of these glorious specimens we've mentioned. But we did see them, we swear. At such close range that we almost touched them as well.

On the land, we also saw a few mongoose (mongooses? mongeese? mongi?) frolicking in the bushes, and they're a relatively uncommon sight -- although Dennis also spotted one at Pearl Harbor. (No, a mongoose is not a type of fowl; it's akin to a ferret or weasel.) Our trips to the sand became more frequent and of greater duration as the day wore on. On one of these pit stops, Dennis did his obligatory annual barefoot birthday cartwheel.

Once we'd marinated, pickled and chilled ourselves to perfection, we started making our way homeward, although we were sure there were still species of fish who had not made an appearance on our stage. Our return bus passed by the headquarters of the Hawaii Film Office, a hangar-type building surrounded by dozens the familiar trucks for hauling movie equipment. We've already mentioned some of the film and TV projects shot in these parts. Here is just a small sampling of the productions that have set up shop here in recent days: "Tropic Thunder", "Forgetting Sarah Marshall", "Extreme Makeover", "The Bachelor", "Dante's Cove". "Antiques Roadshow", "Supernanny", "Animal Planet", "You, Me & Dupree", "Snakes on a Plane", and "the Shaggy Dog". Repeat, this is just a small sampling. If we didn't know better, we'd swear that filmmakers are looking for any excuse they can find to schedule a shoot here.

We disembarked not far from the film office, because it was near the entrance to Diamond Head, which we were hoping to see today. Following another uphill hike (we seem to be doing a lot of those lately), and a squeeze through a tunnel that really was not designed for pedestrians, we met a trolley transporting civilians back down from the summit, and the driver was kind enough to stop and inform us that the entrance to the park closed at 4:30, and we'd never make it up there in time. So, one more attraction to be reserved for another day, probably another trip, but hopefully not another lifetime.

After dinner, and after we'd rested up a bit, we took a stroll through the open-air marketplace not far from our hotel, where we could thread our way through the narrow passages between stalls displaying all manner of gifts, souvenirs, mementoes, bric-a-brac and doodads: Hawaiian shirts, grass skirts, cheap ukuleles, shells, jewelry, postcards, and on and on and on, row after row after row.

Dennis had been looking for a genuine Hawaiian print shirt at a reasonable price, but he insisted it had to be genuine; most of those he found were, to our dismay, made in China, or in some cases, India or the Philippines. You don't have to come all the way to Hawaii to find that -- you can get all manner of Chinese goods (including "Hawaiian" shirts) at your local Wal-Mart just about anywhere in the world. And it shouldn't have surprised us to find them here as well. We recall being on Indian reservations in the middle of the desert, and examining what appeared to be handmade Native American crafts, only to turn them over and see that all too familiar sticker that says "Made in china" -- presumably by the Beijing branch of the Hopi Pueblo. Some of the items we found here (some of the higher priced items, we might add) at least said "Designed in Hawaii, Made in China", which is better than nothing. But "Made in Hawaii" was a message as rare as a three-dollar gallon of gas. By some miracle, however, he found just such a shirt that he really liked, and it was quite affordable, so he snagged it.

The nearby (indoor) shopping center also had plenty of interesting shops, as well as free nightly performances of Hawaiian music and dancing. Among the stores here was a ukulele shop, which included more variations of that instrument than you ever wanted to know might exist. (Although the uke originated in Portugal, it was brought to Hawaii once upon a time, and we surely don't have to tell you that it was adopted with a vengeance by island musicians.) Among them was a model for a mere $20,000. Yes, that's twenty thousand. It would have made a fine birthday present for someone.

Just down the street was a movie theater, a type of establishment for which Zephyr has superhuman radar. He suggested that it somehow would be entirely appropriate for us to go there for the midnight premiere of the new Indiana Jones movie. Let's see.. standing in line two hours for a screening that begins at midnight (which is 3:00 AM west coast time), and ends about 3:00 AM (which is 6:00 west coast time) knowing that we'd be getting up bright and early for another day of furious tourism... hmmm...

After much careful consideration, we decided to pass.

Day 7 May 23

Our last full day in this surreal parallel universe.

Zephyr, in particular, has been hankering to take a stroll through a tropical rainforest, such as might appear in "Jurassic Park" and the like. He has grand schemes of scouting out such locales to use in his own cinematic project one day. Kualoa Ranch did not fit into our packed schedule this time around, but there is a small rainforest rather closer to us that we felt comfortable in allotting half a day to: Manoa Falls Park.

Following a brief bus ride and an even briefer walk, we were at the entrance, greeted by a flock of wild roosters running around near the banquet/meeting facility. Another sign at the trailhead proclaimed: "Pig Hunt. Wednesday and Sunday Full Moon Hunt."

This had to be one of our very favorite signs of all time, and it left us scratching our heads over some pressing questions, such as: How do they manage to swing a full moon twice a week? And what do those pigs turn into when the moon is not full?

Another sign cautioned about the stream running alongside the path, a stream that looked quite innocent enough, but which apparently is capable of inflicting something called leptospirosis, which sounds like an illness you'd contract from eating butterflies.

As rainforests go, this was a tiny one, encompassing only a few acres. But it was packed with distinctive vegetation like the elephant ear fronds of ape (pronounced in two syllables -- it's not named after a primate), species of fir and more bamboo than you can shake a stick at. Tall bamboo, thin bamboo, thick bamboo, straight bamboo, contorted bamboo, bamboo arrayed in clusters and configurations that really do look as if they'd been planted by a set designer.

We had our first encounter with Hawaiian mosquitoes, and their presence is hardly surprising -- they don't call this a rainforest for nothing. They weren't big enough or plentiful enough to be bona fide pests, but they did make their existence known. By the way, we have yet to see any of the cockroaches that also are reported to make their home in Hawaii -- probably because the state is also a popular resort for geckos, which consider cockroaches a delicacy. And we've spotted only three or four of those exterminators, as they tend to be nocturnal. For that reason, and because of their dietary predilections, people have been known to keep these lizards as house guests. They slither out at night, slurp down the roaches, then go sleep it off during the daytime when not pursuing their day job of selling insurance. It's a system that benefits everyone except the cockroaches. We didn't spot any geckos today either, but we did see enough birds to make up for it, flitting around like the fish in Hanauma Bay.

The short hike going in (during which we read, via cell phone, a nice email we'd just received from Wally Amos) was made more invigorating by being entirely uphill on the way in and somewhat muddy at times, making it a bit of a challenge to negotiate without taking a tumble. We were rewarded for our mile of exertion by an impressive waterfall at the end of the trail -- they don't call it Manoa Falls for nothing. In fact, it's tall enough (about 150 feet) to rival Niagara, though of course it's much slimmer, a thread of water compared to Niagara's thick, broad sheets. This is the end-of-the-line photo op niche, and the ideal spot to have munchies before heading back down.

Until a few years ago, you could reward yourself further by splashing off in the refreshing little pool that collects at the base of the waterfall. Thousands of trekkers have done so, apparently without contracting leptaspirosis. But then on Jan. 28, 2002, "Manoa Falls" took on a whole new meaning as 30 tons of rock came cascading down the 600 ft. cliff and took a dive into the pool. Fortunately, nobody was in it at the time -- although if someone had been there, how would we ever know? So now the pool is roped off to people, and the boulders have it all to themselves.

By the time we'd arrived back in our room, it was mid-afternoon, and we figured that while there were still buses running to Diamond Head, we'd once again missed that boat. Which meant that this revered landmark, named by many guidebooks as Oahu's number one must-see, would remain, this time around, a miss-see for us. But that's okay. We had in mind another indulgence that also rates very high on the list, and which has been in front of our noses all week: Waikiki Beach, our temporary front yard. It turned out to be more climactic than we'd ever hoped.

Truth is, our expectations weren't all that high. We'd heard rumors that this legendary beach (actually consisting of several beaches along one two-and-a-half mile strand.) has seen better days. They say it's too crowded. They say it's too developed. They say it's too dirty, too this and that, too excessively excessive. Just goes to show you that you should take what "they" say with a few grains of sea salt.

To be sure, this is no place to get away from it all; there are entire cities full of people here, especially in the summer, winter, spring and fall. And yet after all these years it still has not become one of those places that are so crowded nobody goes there anymore. In other words, it still wasn't difficult to find a piece of ground that we could call our own. In fact, there were plenty of bare spots in the sand big enough to park a VW van if that were allowed -- although admittedly a semi truck and trailer might be a bit more problematic. And the water, of course, was considerably less crowded, since many beachgoers, rather than actually entering the water and doing what beaches were invented for, just sit and stare at it -- or even more curiously, close their eyes altogether and just soak up some radiation, which they might just as well do in their own back yards.

And yes, there is a solid wall of hotels, condos and other concrete monoliths holding up the sky along every inch of available beachfront real estate. But we think it safe to say that they have no measurable effect on the tides. Turn your back on them, and you won't hear them.

Dirty? Nope, not one scrap of litter, not one whale carcass, not one sewage plant, not one oil rig (yet). All in all, we'd guess Kamehameha would be pleased.

And the surf -- oh lordy, the surf. Finally we hit upon the mother lode, the type of waves that justify the very invention of surfboards and boogie boards and lifeguards. Even just a few feet into the water, they thrash you around like sneakers in a dryer. Kimberly at last had an opportunity to show the guys how a board really boogies. And Dennis and Zephyr finally had their boards behave like wild broncos instead of rocking horses. They never quite achieved the type of jet-pack propulsion that she did, but they did manage to get in at least a couple of atomic spurts of momentum that sent them scudding along on the surface as if it were ice. At one point, Dennis scooted right up onto the sand and nearly bowled over a pair of passersby who happened to be passing by.

The real surfers, the ones who stand upright on their boards like fully evolved beings, also know the real deal when they see it. They formed a line of dozens or perhaps hundreds across, about half a mile out in what appeared to be the magic standby zone, waiting for the next mini-tsunami. And when it came rolling in, they all recognized it at once and pounced on it, then went barreling shoreward like a troop of fierce warriors assaulting the phalanx of stone and steel giants lurking ahead. About a mile out, a Coast Guard ship sat keeping watch on the proceedings in case anyone should need assistance. Most of the time, the personnel aboard seemed to just take in the scenery from a perspective that most people don't get. Tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.

Altogether, it was a scene more thrilling than we ever could have ordered from headquarters. You may have seen the iconic postcard photo of Waikiki Beach with Diamond Head looming in the background, teased by a scattering of clouds and challenged by the bank of skyscrapers making a sand sandwich with the ocean. Well, Waikiki really does look like that. Just about every day. Honest.

The postcard shows a distant aerial shot, and you can just make out the stippled forms of humans all over the sand. Just to the left of that little red sailboat near the center is where we would have been. Look closely, and you can almost see us waving and sporting grins visible even from that distance.

Eventually we had to call it a day, because that's what it had been whether we called it that or not -- quite a day at the end of quite a week. After rinsing the sand off our feet perfunctorily, we headed back to the room for a real shower, and began contemplating dinner.

We didn't have much left in our pantry, except some of the genuine Hawaiian sticky rice we've been subsisting on all week, enhanced by various combinations of vegetables and soy protein. Anyway, we knew there was no way we'd be able to get back home without eating dinner out at least once., and it had to be now or never.

There was an abundance of restaurants in our neighborhood, and many of them were enticing at first glance, bur none of their menus offered any meatless entrees, nothing that didn't once run, fly or swim. None of these establishments seemed interested in stalking the wild tofu beast and bringing it to justice. But by some miracle we did stumble upon one place that offered a "kahuna burger", which was a veggie burger prepared Hawaiian style -- which means among other things that it was served with the obligatory pineapple. (The word "kahuna" has come, through surfer slang, to mean something like really cool dude, ace, etc. But originally it was a name for a shaman or wise man.) Lacking any other options, we opted for this one, and it turned out to be absolutely, positively, unequivocally not bad.

Once we'd eaten, we indulged in one more stroll about our neighborhood, which featured a Don Ho St., named in honor of the Hawaiian Elvis, the Big Kahuna of Polynesian Pop. Ho, who was of Hawaiian, Chinese, Portuguese, Dutch and German heritage, was born in Honolulu in 1930. After an international touring career that spanned many years, he came full circle by dying last year right here in Waikiki. How could they not name a street after him? And if you're going to be born somewhere, you hardly could pick a better location. Come to think of it, the same could be said for dying.

We passed a shop that rented out bikes, both of the motorized and pedalized breeds. The bicycles were only $15 per day, which was much more reasonable than we'd expected, and in fact less than we shelled out on Cape Cod three years ago. Touring the island on two wheels would have been entirely feasible, if only we'd had the time. As it is, we have one more excuse to return here some day. Sigh.

Zephyr was possessed by the spirit of compulsory purchase to take home a souvenir of his own, being always dutifully on the lookout for more stuff with which to stuff the gaping voids in our 20-ft. RV. And he found just the ticket this time: a hand carved wooden mask approximating some deity from native folklore. It's really quite a striking piece, but who knows when he'll ever pull it out of its wraps. At the moment, he doesn't have a thing to wear with it.

With this new member of the family in tow, we were back in our room relatively early, and despite having had a day that was memorable for all the right reasons (except for being too short) there was an undeniable tinge of melancholy in the air.

Because tonight we start packing.

Day 8 May 24

Penny postcards. Movies without commercials. Babe Ruth's home run records. Free meals on airlines. Ally McBeal. InRadio. A fudgesicle in July. A week in Hawaii. Some things are just too good to last forever. Unfortunately, one of them was now coming to an end.

Although we've established that our room was far from luxurious, and we haven't been spending much time in it except to sleep, it became a comfortable home for a few days, and we were reluctant to say goodbye to it. But we did, and we were reminded of that irrevocable cosmic law that the baggage for a return trip is always more cumbersome than the baggage you brought along to begin with. Suitcases have an inescapable habit of stuffing themselves fuller than full when they're away from home. Nonetheless, we managed to lug our luggage down to the lobby to check out, then out to the bus stop, and haul it all onto the bus -- and still have room to put ourselves on as well.

When our plane lifted off, we at last had our paydirt vista of Diamond Head, a more inclusive view, no doubt, than we would have obtained by scaling the 99 steps to the crater's rim. And at its base lay Waikiki Beach, heavily stippled as usual with swimmers and surfers and sun worshippers. It was a difficult scene to leave behind; at the risk of sounding tiresome or namby-pamby, this place really is paradise. Sorry, but it's hard to avoid using superlatives when you're speaking of a superlative.