Home? Again
Used to be, as soon as we stepped off the plane in Honolulu the scent of plumeria wafting on a breeze greeted us. No matter what time of day or night, thick warm air enveloped me and made my airplane-dehydrated skin feel better immediately. The lei greeters weren’t there on our behalf, but their very presence welcomed us. We knew we were home.
Nowadays when returning to Hawaii, it’s not the time difference that affects us most, it’s the changes, and the unchanged, that remind us we’re back. Making it through the airport with a few illusions of Paradise intact is the first obstacle. The orange cones, yellow caution tape, and if it’s raining, large buckets are permanent fixtures on the open terminal. First impression of Oahu, for us and millions of others. The walkways, so badly in need of repair that they’re a safety hazard, are beyond filthy. The wiki-wiki bus looks every one of its 38 years. And in baggage claim, cold as a meat locker, people watch carousels amidst the drabbest of brown and cement architecture anyone could possibly devise for a tropical destination.
The cab makes its way through heavy traffic, something that hasn’t improved in our absence.
The newspaper in our driveway also tells us that not much has changed in local politics in our absence. Our incumbent mayor is accusing his rival of campaign shenanigans: volunteers who are really staff are working on city council time. This should be laughable since the squeeze is on all government employees to campaign. In the accumulated mail is a postcard urging us to vote for the incumbent and signed by a friend of ours. She was told when she accepted the C and C job that she would be donating some of her vacation time to work on campaigns. Coerced volunteerism isn’t an oxymoron in Hawaii government.
Day two after our arrival, we need to buy groceries. Sticker shock gets us every time. Reminds me of the tale about a frog in a pot that will sit while the heat is turned up gradually until it boils to death. While here, we don’t see the gradual increases. But when mainland prices are fresh on our minds, we know we pay almost two dollars more per box of cereal, up to four dollars a gallon more for milk, and about a dollar fifty more for a dozen eggs. We shut our eyes to prices, not just of groceries, but everything. From gasoline to haircuts, insurance, taxes, there isn’t a thing we can name that’s a real bargain in Hawaii. So we don’t talk about the cost of living here. In fact, we hold ourselves in check so that we don’t always “talk stink.” Too much negativity only depresses us.
Day three, and we’ve done some reconnecting and got our sleep patterns on a better schedule. The house has lost its stuffiness, and we happily note that the ants didn’t carry it away. We make appointments, set up tennis and golf games and dinners with friends. Gradually we fit back into our own routines and take up the reins of our destiny. We drive over washboard roads—“skinned” in DOT terms that means half-assed maintenance with faulty materials—without complaining. We stop thinking our garage is cramped and count blessings that we have a two-car garage with a door that closes. We wear sandals, mine a hot pink that match nothing, and know we’re in style.
And then we go to the beach. Thanks to a friend with a military husband, we join in a potluck picnic at Bellows on a glorious afternoon. With our bellies stuffed, we drop our beach chairs and ease into the soft sand that powders our feet and soothes to the core of all problems. Friendships and perfect weather: two intangibles without price tags that can’t be messed up or regulated. We watch boogey boarders, body surfers, kids in sunhats and rash guards and volleyball wannabes, castle builders, posers and more. When the lure of the turquoise water and crashing waves becomes too strong, we peel off shirts and sunglasses and wade through the shore break into warm water that makes our islands—our islands—what they are.
And finally we’re glad to be back.
