Traveling is always hard. There's the usual drama: rudeness, lashing out, large insects, centipedes, good food, bad food, bad service, people who drink beer out of cans, people who will not eat fish, screaming children, the pain of missing your kittens, girls being late, girls being slow, but demons? Really?
The purpose of this trip was to celebrate Mark’s 45th birthday. He always has to work on his birthday but this year he was able to escape so his mom Lynnette footed the bill for a glorious five bedroom home in the Hawai’i Kai neighborhood of Honolulu. Since the house was basically paid for my sister came along.
I also invited my old friend, whom I shall refer to henceforth as Boy. I have not seen him in at least ten years. I learned recently that he had lost his business, gotten a divorce, and gone through the death of his father, all in the last year. I thought he could use a break so I bought him a ticket to join us in Hawai’i. He brought along his new girlfriend whom I shall refer to henceforth as Bimbozuula.
So much drama. I guess I should just start at the beginning, but just for a bit of context you may recall that on my last trip to Hawai'i, to Maui in May, I was astrally projecting and got into a bit of trouble. That story is not required to comprehend what happened this time, but it helps.
Day 1
I got my sister upgraded to First Class at the last moment so we could all arrive at the same time. As you know, the front of the plane travels faster than the back part. It’s a space-time thing. I didn't tell her until we were at the ticket counter. Instead of the very appropriate and expected tears of joy and thanks I was met with a frowny, almost Gallic shrug. Love you too sis. You are so sitting with the wretched refused yearning to breathe free in the back of the plane on the way home.
Our flight over is fine because we are in First Class. I drink champagne and watch the latest Batman movie, which is 6 hours long and really stupid. As we start to descend into Honolulu International Airport I look out the window and see a glorious view. All the islands to the south of Oahu have lined up in some kind of harmonic convergence as if to welcome me back. Moloka’i, Lana’i, Koho’olawe, West Maui, Haleakalā, Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea all seem to say “Aloha old friend, it has been 6 months. We missed you!” The anti-hellmouth on Maui winks at me, as if to let me know everything is five-by-five.
We land and get the car, then drive for an hour through the 10 lanes of insane traffic on the H1 Freeway to get to Hawai’i Kai. We stop at Foodland to get some groceries for dinner. Boy and Bimbozuula won’t be there for a few hours so it will be nice to have dinner ready for them. $400 dollars later I try to pay with my Bank of America Hawaiian Airlines Visa Card. It is declined. So is Mark’s. Lynnette finally pays with her debit card.
When we get to the house I call the Bank of America. They inform me my purchases at Foodland were declined because I did not call to ask their permission to do international travel.
Me: “I did not leave the country, I am in Hawai’i.”
Them: “Sir, it is our policy that our customers must call to alert us to international travel.”
Me: “Hawaii is a state. One of the United States. Of America. The 50th state. This is the third time I have been here this year. I have never had to call before to use my Hawaiian Airlines Card. In Hawaii. A state. The 50th state. In America.”
Them: “Sir I am looking at a map. You are on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”
Me: “Are you the same fuckwit I spoke to when my card was rejected in New Mexico?”
It’s probably best that I not transcribe the rest of the conversation, but in the end I got my credit card unblocked.
Bimbozuula and Boy arrive. He looks exactly the same as he did over 10 years ago. Bimbozuula is standing waiting for a hug from me. I cringe. Where do I start? Blond, done up like a New Jersey housewife of a certain age, loud, hard of hearing. All my favorites. But there’s something more… I can’t put my finger on it just yet.
We sit down to a lovely dinner of mahi mahi marinated in a bit of soy, rice wine, and wasabi; bok choy sautéed in ginger and garlic; and soba noodles dressed in sesame oil, toasted sesame seeds, soy, ginger, and green onions. Damn this was good. Who made this? Oh yes, me.
Anyway, I start off by asking Bimbozuula about her career. It turns out she has made millions of dollars by selling painted glass plates to Neiman Marcus. She hands us some of her old catalogues. On the cover there appears to be a painting of some Venus Fly traps done in some sepia tone faux mosaic. Inside are more photos of odd choices in plant paintings on plates.
As she warbles on in her New Jersey accent mispronouncing things like Water, Orange, and Carmel, I notice a certain lack of elasticity to the skin on her face. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and quickly run upstairs to Google her. Turns out Bimbozuula was in fact born in the 1950’s.
As the evening winds on we have more wine and the conversation focuses even more about her. We learn that her father worked for the state department, has thousands of patents to his credit (he invented museum putty, manhole covers, Listerine, and air). Her mother made dresses for Her Hiney Elizabeth II, who is of course a close personal friend of the family.
When I think of Her Hiney, high fashion is not the first thing that comes to mind, but I digress.
It turns out that Bimbozuula won a contest in the 1970’s to be a Miss Clairol Girl. She traveled the country making personal appearances and doing television commercials in small to mid-sized TV markets. Her acting career was cut short by her inability to lose her New Jersey accent, but cash in hand she bought her way into Yale and majored in horseback riding.
After graduating, Bimbozuula began her glass painting business. By the early 2000’s she had millions of dollars in sales of plates to Dallas housewives, Saddam Hussein and Vladimir Putin.
At this point Bimbozuula began to explore the spiritual side of her life. She made several trips to Iraq to explore ancient Sumerian religion and art work. She makes vague references to a dramatic event which took place in Iraq during one of her trips, but we don’t press her for information.
We do learn that at some point she had become close friends with Saddam Hussein’s doctor and in 2006 she opened a galley to celebrate this great humanitarian’s artistic side – his paintings.
With my mouth agape, I quickly fill my wine glass up and steel myself to hear more. There is more. Lots more.
When the Iraqi National Museum was looted during W’s war, Bimbozuula got a call from her doctor friend asking her to buy up all the lost pieces on the black market. She did. She has since resold most of them back, at a profit, to a private collection in London. I am appalled that she seems quite proud of making a profit off of this tragedy.
Recently she has been focusing on her theory of Synchronicity. You know, the idea that there is a connection between all of our minds, so that if I am in Seattle and thinking of a plate of shrimp, and you are in Las Vegas and you think of a plate of shrimp, then the combined mental energy of our brains warps space-time and someone in Canada then orders a plate of shrimp. She has invented an iPhone app to track and measure Synchronicity in the world.
As I am sitting there I download the app. It does not work. Bimbozuula is livid. She gets up to call her software developer and screeches at him. It’s like 3:00 AM for him. As they talk we learn that the app was just working in New York before they left. It’s as if something is blocking it here in Hawai’i.
Aside from my obvious annoyance at her rudness to her software developer, I just cannot take the Synchronicity stuff. The Philosophy major in me has had enough wine that I can no longer play along. I aggressively point out that there is no scientific evidence to support any of this drivel and that Synchronicity is a made up thing like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Clean Coal, and God.
Bimbozuula gets quiet. I see a subtle black aura emerge from around her head. You know I have this problem about seeing auras around people, right? Well she has one, and it’s black and growing. She whispers something to Boy in what appears to be a Middle Eastern language. Lynnette then asks Boy, “What’s wrong?” Boy says, in a low voice, “She didn’t know about the Easter Bunny.”
Boy quickly suggests that they must be jet lagged from their 11 hour flight from the East Coast and will now go to bed.
The rest of us get even more drunk and say bad things about them while we soak in the hot tub. From the hot tub I see a dark aura emerging from their bedroom.
Day 2
I am up early for two reasons. First, there are these stupid ducks outside that are making a very loud laughing noise. I step out onto the balcony and scream at the ducks to shut up but they just keep laughing at me. Stupid ducks.
Second, we are going to the Kapiolani Farmers Market today. Mark and I have been there before so we actually came to Oahu a day early just so we could be there at 7:30 on Saturday morning when it opens. I have been to farmers markets in Italy, Spain, England, France, even Yakima, and this is the best one I have ever been to anywhere. It’s outdoors at the community college right at the foot of Diamond Head. You need to be there right when they open lest all the good stuff gets bought up. You also need to bring your own sack to carry your purchases home or people will give you stink eye. I bring Metropolitan Market bags from Seattle.
We leave Bimbozuula and Boy asleep in their east coast jet lag and take off at 7:00 AM. We walk up right when the market is opening. It’s packed. There are all these food stands. I have Portuguese Sausage on a stick, then some green seaweed and algae drink, then a whole grilled corn on the cob, then a Kalua Pork slider on a taro bun with green onions, then some really good Kona coffee.
Yes, yes I am aware that Portuguese Sausage and Kalua Pork have dead pig in them and I don’t eat meat, but those pigs were already dead and I am on vacation. We are not going to talk about this. I will say though that having Portuguese Sausage on a stick is so funny I had to save the stick.
I buy a ton of kale, some cilantro, some green onions, and lots of purple Moloka’i sweet potatoes. Everyone else gets a mix of corn, more greens, more onions, tomatoes, chilies, and more sweet potatoes.
Several people ask about my Metropolitan Market bags and say they used to live in Seattle. They pity me.
At some point I realize we are like the only white people here. I love that. Some Hawaiian guy is playing his ukulele and singing. I look up at Diamond Head, sip my Kona coffee, look over at the Honolulu skyline, and then up at the mountains. I sob and cry a little. How come I don’t live here?
After the market we drive up to this viewpoint overlooking Honolulu called Tantalus. We drive through a bamboo forest, giant trees with vines hanging down, gigantic plants you would see in a conservatory back home. We’re still in Honolulu proper but we’re also in the jungle.
The view stretches from Diamond Head to Pearl City, with about 500 high-rise buildings in between. It’s weird and wonderful to be in this giant city with its skyscrapers and freeways and in the jungle and in the most remote place on earth all at the same time.
People who do not like Oahu can just suck it.
We drop off our purchases from the market at the house. Bimbozuula and Boy are gone. Good. We drive up the windward side of the island to go have lunch at this little shack called the Heeia Pier. This is a fishing pier. There are lots of boats and lots of fishermen here. There is a little store with a kitchen inside and some picnic tables outside.
Someone, who shall not be named, orders a hamburger at this fish shack. Shame. Shame.
I have my plate lunch and then ask the guy at the counter if he can recommend a place to buy some fresh fish for me to cook tonight.
Him: ”You want feesh? I can sell you some feesh. How much you want?”
Me: “Wow. Um. How about three pounds of Ahi? How much?”
Him: “Howz 15 dollar a pound?”
Me: “Um, that will work.”
Suddenly I feel like I just made a profit on stolen art work.
He comes out with this gigantic piece of Ahi, just caught, and carves me out a perfect three pound rectangle of red flesh. $45. This is easily worth like $900. He even throws in some ice and a bag of poi for free.
Driving back to the house we stop at this gigantic Buddhist temple. It’s a replicate of one built in Japan in the 1600s. We light some incense and thank the Ahi gods for their sacrifice. As you know, I am a big old atheist, but as I said I do have this problem where I see auras and crap. As we walk through the Buddhist temple, I start to see auras moving around. They’re just little squirts of energy really. They twist and turn. I try to ignore them like I always do, but eventually they coalesce in the southeast corner of the temple, the corner closest to Maui. Then they start to blink on and off like a warning light. I say to Mark, “I think some auras are trying to tell me something.” Mark rolls his eyes and we move on.
Back at home I boil up some of the corn we bought, shred it off the cobs, and make a fresh corn salad with local tomatoes, onions, basil, and some goat cheese from the farmers market. Then I peel all the purple Moloka’i sweet potatoes and cook them down in coconut milk with some red chilies.
Just as I am starting to cut up the amazing three pound piece of ahi, Bimbozuula and Boy show up. They insult my fish carving skills but are happy to sit down and eat.
During dinner we learn that Bimbozuula invented both Q-Tips and those plastic fastener things that hold bread wrappers closed. This goes on and on.
Someone starts to clean up and the sink gets clogged. We try using a plunger to unclog the garbage disposal but that does not work. Soon brown goo is backing up out of the drain in the laundry room and then the kitchen sink.
We are all kind of drunk, hot, full of fabulous food, and frustrated with Bimbozuula. No one really wants to deal with the goo. We try mops, shop vacs, fans, Drano, an ultraviolet germ killer -- nothing helps.
The energy that comes out of the ultraviolet germ killer must be similar to whatever type of energy I see as auras, because I can see all of its glowiness throughout the room and no one else can. Again, I’m sort of used to this and I try to ignore it, but every now and then I see some black, sneaky energy coming out of the goo and being destroyed by the ultraviolet light. No one believes me and they decide to go to bed and to call a plumber in the morning.
This whole drama was just a little bit stressful and totally made everyone forget my amazing cooking. I am not happy. After they are all off to bed Mark and I decide to sit in the hot tub and decompress. I am really not drunk at this point -- I have been cleaning up brown goo for 90 minutes.
I get a bottle of water and go out to the hot tub. Then I realize I need to pee. Rather than go back in house and go upstairs to my private en suite bathroom that is probably filled with brown goo I decide just to go pee in the ocean.
As I am going down the stairs to the ocean, I see a slight silver glow in the distance that I assume is the anti-hellmouth on Maui. It’s blinking on and off quickly as if to warn me. Suddenly, a black tentacle of energy rises out of the garbage disposal, darts through the house, past the pool and hot tub, and wraps itself around my ankles. I fall. As I go down I say out loud, “Wow, I just fell down the stairs just like Michelle did in Paris a couple years ago when we were standing there and the next minute she was in the Seine. Now I know why she started crying!” Mark is like, what are you mumbling about over there?
I try to stand up and realize I am hurt. It’s dark so I have no idea that I am bleeding profusely. Like some episode of CSI Honolulu I leave a trail of blood all the way through the house, up the stairs, all over the carpet, and into the bathroom. Mark goes to get my sister, the heath care professional, who determines that I broke the big toe on my left foot, lost the toenail off my middle toe of my left foot, have left a deep gouge in my right knee, and cut up palms on both of my hands. We use the Portuguese Sausage stick from the farmers market as a splint on my big toe.
Mark and Sherie focus on cleaning the carpets with OxyClean as I start to bleed out. I see a little sliver of silver energy from the southeast enter the room and the bleeding stops.
Day 3
I am awoken again by the sounds of ducks laughing, but also by another bird screaming and people screaming. I try to get out of bed but then I realize my toe is broken and my leg is all banged up. So I kind of slide off the bed and hop down the stairs to find Boy and Bimbozuula outside by the pool.
A Hawaiian dove is standing on Boy’s head, claws dug into his skull while the bird wiggles around in some kind of mating ritual. Bimbozuula is laughing hysterically while filming the whole thing on her phone. Just as blood starts to drip down Boy’s head the bird flies away. I just roll my eyes and go back inside to get some coffee and make breakfast.
I usually make at least one giant unhealthful breakfast on each trip to Hawaii. Today’s menu is:
- Portuguese Sausage, both hot and mild
- Banana bread
- Fresh pineapple, mango, and papaya
- Scrambled eggs
- Kona coffee
Yes, yes I am aware that Portuguese Sausage has dead pig in it and I don’t eat meat, but that pig was already dead and I am on vacation. We are not going to talk about this.
Boy’s bloody head is the topic of conversation so no one compliments me on my wonderful breakfast. Actually, my toe and leg are much more of a topic of conversation than I would like. I insist that we pretend the whole thing never happened, but then my sister comes in. She found my toenail outside in a puddle of blood and has brought it to me as a memento. I will save it along with the four other toenails that have come off this year, my wisdom teeth, and that little blond ponytail I had in the 1980s.
Yesterday while we were at the Farmer’s Market, Bimbozuula and Boy went up to the North Shore. We decide to go up to the North Shore today so we don’t have to deal with them.
We drive through Honolulu then up through central Oahu’s pineapple and sugar cane fields to Haleiwa Joe’s for lunch. My sister tells us there is a giant military base under the sugar cane fields that allows the government to listen in to all our phone calls. I am dubious, but I switch off my phone anyway.
I am excited to get to the North Shore. This is my seventh trip to Oahu. I have always been here in the early summer, so I have never seen any of the big waves because they come in the winter, mostly. As we come down from the higher central valley we can see the ocean. Not a ripple. I am sure someone is going to say, “You should have been here yesterday!”
We hit Haleiwa Joe’s for lunch first because that is what you are supposed to do here. Our appetizers are Ahi poke, crab spring rolls, and lumpia. Yes, yes, I know there is dead pig in that lumpia and I don’t eat meat, but that pig was already dead and I am on vacation. We are not going to talk about this. Then I have a mahi mahi sandwich. All great.
At one point I notice there is a vampire sitting behind us, just out of the sunlight. I take a picture.
I text Mark, "Nosferatu behind you. Don't look!" Of course he looks.
Then we go over to Matsumoto’s Shave Ice because that is the other thing you have to do here. I get Lilikoi and Li Hing Mui. My sister gets White Cake Flavor, because that’s so authentic. But then I taste it, and it’s really good, but it reminds me of Albertson’s.
We drive over to Turtle Beach. Just as there are no waves, there are no turtles. Regardless, the beach is really beautiful.
We keep driving across the North Shore. At Sunset Beach there are big bleachers set up for a surfing competition, just no waves yet. Some adorable little Hawaiian girl walks up and says, “You should have been here yesterday!”
Past the Turtle Bay Resort we start to come down onto the windward side of the island. At the little town of Laie there is a place called Hole In The Rock, because there is a hole in the rock. Supposedly a tsunami made it.
The view here is quite amazing.
I know somewhere out there is Maui. I look up, and there is blinking.
Down the coast a bit we pull into Kuola State Park just to stop and take pictures.
There is a little island in front called Mokoli’i. The politically incorrect name for this island is Chinaman’s Hat.
I don’t think this is especially racist. I don’t.
We need to pick up food for dinner. We drop off the girls at the house and then Mark and I drive to the Foodland in Aina Haina. We buy stuff to make teriyaki chicken, long beans in Sichuan peppercorns and chilies, and brown rice.
Coming back out of the store I do the beep beep thing with the car keys and we walk up to our car. As we put all the groceries in the back of the car I’m like. “Wow, how did we get so much sand in here?” I get in the front seat and realize someone has pulled the seat up so close to the steering wheel that I don’t fit. Mark and I look at each other and then both realize “THIS IS NOT OUR CAR!” We both scream and jump out. We quickly look around for the giant angry Samoans that surely must own this car. No one is running towards us. We grab our groceries out of the back and quickly put them into our own car, parked in the next space.
Wow. It has to be that I heard the click from my own car unlocking and that this car was just never locked, but oh my god, how weird was that? It’s almost like someone put a curse on us, like when The Brady Bunch went to Oahu. Weird. I look back at the other car. There is a slight black glow to it.
Back at the house I marinate the chicken and get the beans ready while Mark tries to clean off the rusty barbecue. Bimbozuula and Boy show up. They have been snorkeling. Someone was bitten by a shark on Maui today, someone else on Kauai was bitten by a shark today, a beach over by the airport on Oahu was closed due to a shark sighting today, the Portuguese Men of War jellyfish and Box Jellyfish are all out in the water today. Do you know what happened to Bimbozuula and Boy? Nothing. Nothing would bite her because dark clouds of energy would suck out their aquatic souls.
Bimbozuula parks herself in the kitchen and tries to make conversation with me. I can’t let myself make eye contact because first, I will throw up, and second, I know she will figure out that I have this aura thing, and I don’t want her to know. I am afraid.
She tells me she is a "a passionate and talented chef" and that she "understands the zen of chopping." Everything is pretty much ready except the rice so I ask her if she wants to do that.
She insists on using the rice cooker because of course she invented rice cookers and is an expert. 30 minutes later she is going back and forth between screaming and crying because she cannot figure out how to turn the rice cooker on. Her dark energy is expanding. I open the refrigerator and see that as I am standing there the kale I bought at the Kapiolani Farmers Market is wilting before my eyes. Little puddles of green goo from the kale start to form in the refrigerator.
She brings Boy into the kitchen with his computer and they begin to search the internet for the operating instructions to this specific model of rice cooker. They have to empty the rice cooker so they can turn it upside down to find the model number, but then none of us can read the tiny font.
Eventually I suggest we just cook it in a pot, like I was going to do from the start. After much drama we agree to use a pot, but then they both come in and open the lid to check on the status of their ricey masterpiece at least 5 times.
3 hours later the rice is finally done. We sit down to dinner. There is really weird tension. Have they been fighting? It’s like that scene in Rocky Horror when no one is talking before they realize they are eating Eddie. Did Boy flush something down the toilet that perhaps is not legal here in Hawai'i?
This is so not OK. The point of having dinner is the conversation. I try to jump-start conversation by talking about why Hawai'i is so wonderful by explaining about the anti-hell mouth on Maui. There are crickets. Mark tries too, by bringing up his work on the Academy Awards and talking about how The Exorcist, the first horror film nominated for Best Picture, was steeped in authentic research and theology. Even more crickets, but now they sound angry. Then Lynnette tries, and then Sherie tries.
Finally Bimbozuula calms down and starts talking. I try to keep the conversation away from her inventions, art work, travels to Bali and Qatar, plates of shrimp, or Saddam Hussein’s doctor’s glorious artwork. We all end up talking about the bird that attacked Boy’s head. She seems to take joy in this, and the mood lightens.
Day 4
There are ducks laughing, my foot and legs hurt, and then I realize I am on Oahu, near Maui, and I wake up. Today is Mark’s birthday. He’s waking up 45, just like in the Jenny Lewis song.
We could not get reservations for six at Alan Wong’s tonight, so Mark and I are going to go to Nobu by ourselves and we’ll have the big dinner for everyone tomorrow.
Bimbozuula and Boy are leaving to go snorkel or do some sacrifices or climb a mountain or something annoying like that. Lynnette and Sherie are content sitting around the pool, so Mark and I head over to the Kahala Resort for lunch.
The resort is just a couple miles away. This seems to be quite the ritzy residential neighborhood, but then we see the neighbors seem to be engaged in some kind of war around who can put the ugliest statues in their front yards. It’s a nasty fight with lots of really ugly statues. Some look Greco-Roman, some Asian. There are no Sumerian statues here.
I have wanted to go to the Kahala for years but have never made it here till now. The place is old, nearly as old as me, but you would not know it by looking at it.
The lobby has these really cool chandeliers with multi colored pieces of glass.
Most of the guests are Japanese. A couple is getting married.
To get downstairs to the pool and restaurant you walk down a stairway with an orchid wall. What is an orchid wall? Why it’s a wall of orchids, silly. Some smell like vanilla.
Outside is a pool with dolphins in it. You can sign up to go swimming with the dolphins if you stay here. The restaurant is on the beach, no floor, only sand. We order some drinks and look around. It’s amazingly beautiful. There is a little man-made island out off the perfect beach. There is almost no one here since it’s the low time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. What a beautiful hotel.
We get some fish sandwiches. The mahi mahi is cooked perfectly, which it better be given they cost $18 each. Right as we finish up our sandwiches and second round of drinks I see a bit of a black glow near us and it starts to rain. Everyone on the beach scatters. As we drive home it’s pouring, but it’s over by the time we get back to the house.
I can’t really describe how magical the Kahala resort was. I don’t know anyone who can afford to stay there, but do go have lunch if you can.
When we arrive back at the house, we learn that the homeowner has hired a plumber and a priest, both of whom are there trying to prevent any more goo drama. It appears that something is lodged in the pipe in front of the house about 10 feet out. I suspect a plastic bag full of white powder from Connecticut, or a small baby goat, but I just say, “Tannis anyone?”
Later Mark and I head into Honolulu for dinner at Nobu. Every other time we have been here we were staying nearby and walked over. Tonight we have to park. We cannot find a valet. We circle and circle and finally decide to pay to park in the parking garage for the Waikiki Parc hotel. The sign says it’s full but we can’t really figure out an alternative. Eight floors up we find the one open parking spot.
Nobu is basically empty. The kitchen crew and the waiters all yell at us in Japanese when we walk in. I think we did something wrong but it turns out to be some kind of a greeting. I have been here several times and have had fantastic service. Not tonight. The waiter is some kid who doesn't really know what he is doing.
We order Omakase, which means that we’ll get a multi-course meal and just let the chef decide what to make. We ask if it's OK not to have beef because we don’t want to hurt any cows. We've done this before, so we know it’s not a problem but the waiter has to make a big production out of this and “go ask the chef”. He comes back and asks if it’s OK if we have all seafood and maybe some duck. I think of those laughing ducks that keep waking me up and agree that this will be fine.
We start with sake martinis.
And then...
Sake in a bamboo bottle that looks like a sandworm.
And then...
Monkfish livers with black fish eggs and a mysterious red Japanese peach. So small!
And then...
Raw kampachi in a Yuzu reduction with jalapeno slivers.
And then...
Ahi poke with micro greens from Kula on Maui and hearts of palm from the Big Island.
And then...
King crab tempura with cilantro Yuzu reduction and magic super-hot purple onions.
And then...
Duck breast with a vanilla bean sauce made from local orchids, gill-shaped miataki mushrooms, and foie gras.
And then...
A simple mushroom broth with Enokitake mushrooms from Kauai.
And then...
Raw beef. Some other waiter with glazed eyes accidentally delivers bleeding dead baby Wagyu beef to our table. Mark’s eyes also glaze over. He reaches for the extremely bloody beef and tries to eat it with his bare hands. Suddenly, a shard of silver energy sweeps in from the southeast. Mark drops the beef and gags. Our waiter, eyes wide with horror, runs over and grabs the plates, apologizing profusely.
And then...
Raw toro (tuna belly).
And then Raw fluke (the fish, not the worm).
And then...
Raw shrimp.
And then... Raw clam.
And then... Raw Japanese fighting fish.
And then...
Mushroom shaped coconut sorbet with chocolate stems and caramelized macadamia nut stones.
And then... Our waiter said they had a dessert sake. Mark wanted some so we said yes. Turned out to be sake with orange juice in it. So stupid.
And then...
No and then.
We have to walk up eight flights of stairs to get to our car, so there is no concern about sobriety by the time we drive home.
As I am driving home things finally all fit together. All the dark energy. The brown goo in the house. Me falling down. Us getting into the wrong car. The bird attack. The pouring rain at the Kahala in the sunshine. The raw bloody beef at dinner. Maui's constant warnings. Some ancient Sumerian demon must have inhabited a piece of artwork that Bimbozuula bought. The demon left the artwork and entered her body. But....then that would have been after she started her glass plate painting business. I just can't imagine how those plates weren't painted by a demon. Maybe she was just so evil from the start that that was what attracted the Sumerian demon to her.
Day 5
Today we are going to the Iolani Palace, the only royal palace in the United States. It’s gorgeous and impressive, but the whole story of how we stole Hawai’i from the Hawaiians is disgusting and hard to hear. I find it really odd that Bimbozuula and Boy did not want to go to this, but then I think of her history of imperialist American behavior. I am glad they did not come.
Later we hit Bailey’s Aloha Shirt Store and buy vintage.
Then we take Sherie and Lynnette to the Kahala for lunch because it’s just so cool.
We are supposed to have dinner at Alan Wong’s tonight, all six of us. I have told Bimbozuula and Boy that we have to be at the restaurant at 6:00, and that traffic will be bad so we have to leave at 5.
At 4:45 I get a text saying they are running late, 10 minutes late. At 5:00 they are nowhere to be seen. At 5:15 they waltz in and casually stroll to their bedroom to get ready, no apologies are offered. At 5:25 I pull the car out and sit in the street revving the engine like my father used to do when my mother was running late. Now I have an aura and it is red.
At 5:30 Bimbozuula graces us with her presence by walking out and swirling around in her too tight turquoise dress. As she spins, I can faintly see little black spikes of black energy shooting out from her. I feel like I am in Barcelona again with important dinner reservations and having my evening ruined by rude hateful women. I am so ready to pop. I just want to scream at them, leave them standing in the street, and tell them they need to be out by the time we get home. But I don’t. I am not sure why. I usually pop and scream at people on every other vacation so I don’t know why I am making an exception here.
The car is filled with uncomfortable silence and black energy as we drive into town. They seem unaware. While I didn’t see this with my own eyes, rumor has it that Bimbozuula is passed something by Boy something which she snorted up her nose as we drive on. I don’t think it was holy water.
We do call to say we will be late and the front desk is very gracious. Unfortunately we get a 13 year old waiter who has no dining experience, does not know how to read the table, and rushes us constantly. The wine and drinks lists come on an iPad, which is nice because the lighting in the restaurant is so bad I have to use the flashlight app on my phone to be able to see the menu.
Bimbozuula gets up several times during the evening to go white powder her nose. I pound two martinis, and realize that if I continue to do this the likelihood of my popping and screaming at everyone is going to increase exponentially.
We order wine, which of course the stupid waiter keeps in an ice bucket on the other side of the room so I can’t refill my glass.
We have some appetizers which are mostly OK, except for these stupid things called Poke Pines. Imagine taking raw perfect Ahi, coating it in shredded wheat, then deep frying it. A sin against humanity, and tuna.
The teenage waiter talks all of us into ordering this salad. It’s a tomato sliced up like some puzzle box out of a Hellraiser horror movie then doused in a mixture of ketchup, mayonnaise, and li hing mui. This is just plain disgusting. Everyone else seems to love it. I realize their eyes are all glazed over and they are glowing with a black aura. I cannot comprehend. I wrap my vile tomato up in my napkin and put it in the potted plant next to me. I feel like Mia Farrow.
I am mad. I cannot get to the wine, the food is terrible, there is a baby crying at the next table, and Bimbozuula and Boy are trying to swallow each other at the table on the rare moments she is not in the bathroom.
I pause, and think, “What the fuck?! I’m only 70 miles from the anti-hellmouth and yet there’s a demon sitting across from me? I’m like, really? Is this because I hurt the anti-hellmouth when I was astrally projecting on my last trip to Maui?”
Mark drops the stupid iPad on the floor. It doesn’t break, unfortunately, but at least I am distracted for a few minutes and my mood lightens. Finally the entrees arrive. Bimbozuula has gone to the bathroom again, but the fish is all pretty good when you can find it under the layers of sauce. At the end they deliver the flaming birthday dessert to my sister instead of my boyfriend.
I hate this place. The service is terrible, the appetizers are sins, the salad is from some hell dimension, and this all cost over $700. And there is a demon sitting across from me! Never again. Do not go to Alan Wong’s ever again! And most certainly do not go to his new restaurant in Maui. Oh, and note to self: do not travel with cokeheads. Or demons.
My sister has agreed to drive us home. She’s been drinking coffee. En route Bimbozuula is all coked up and in a good mood. We end up talking about the Californians skit on Saturday Night Live. This cracks her up and she laughs and laughs and laughs. And laughs. My poor sister has to be in absolute hell driving us home.
Day 6
We are off to the spa at the Halekulani Hotel on Waikiki today. This is very expensive, more so that the Grand Wailea on Maui, and not as good, but it will just have to do. I have many fine lines and wrinkles that need attention.
They start us off with a ritual foot pounding. Hawaiian women pound on your feet with some sticks in a thumpy beat. I explain that my toe is broken and that perhaps we should skip the foot pounding, but I am ignored and they pound away.
My facial is fine and I don’t snore all that much.
We walk around Waikiki for a bit and then head to the Mai Tai Bar on the beach at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel for lunch. I am still in a bit of a mood from last night. Everyone insists on walking 20 paces behind me. I can speed up, I can slow down, I can stop, it doesn’t matter. Mark, Sherie, and Lynnette all feel the need to walk behind me like little Geisha girls. This drives me insane so I finally lash out at them and make them walk in front on me.
My sister yells at me for being an ass and for not smiling and stopping to realize how beautiful the Royal Hawaiian Hotel is. She is right, I am being an ass, but they still need to walk closer to me.
After we order some drinks I get up to go to the bathroom. When I come back my drink seems to have a chalky undertaste to it. I know they have put a Xanax in there because they are all afraid of me now, as they should be, but I drink it anyway. Demons are stressful.
Soon we get $40 seafood salads and more drinks. I am now calm and friendly. We gossip more about Bimbozuula’s past and how she probably invented fire and electricity.
We agree we just can’t stand to see them at dinner tonight. What is a boy to do? After 21 trips to Hawaii I will tell you what a boy is to do. Call up Roy’s and make dinner reservations. I learned this lesson a long time ago. What Roy’s lacks in creativity is more than made up by consistency and well trained waiters.
The original Roy's in Hawaii Kai is right by our house! Our waiter is nice, well trained, and possibly fatter than me. I love him immediately.
Sake martinis, the canoe of appetizers, some Basque wine, and most of us have really good fish for dinner. Allegedly someone had beef at Roy’s, which is really quite appalling but I guess if you are paying for the house you ought to be able to eat whatever you want, I guess. No, that is mean. One should not judge other people’s food choices when they are being super generous and paying for the rental house. It’s not like you drank beer out of a can. Since you are paying for the rental house in Rome next May I want you to feel free to eat anything that makes you happy.
When we get home Bimbozuula and Boy are looking hungry and bit wired. They are drinking cocktails, talking kind of fast, and think I am cooking them dinner. It’s 10:00 PM. I encourage them to have some corn flakes and I go to bed.
Day 7
Today we are all supposed to drive to Honolulu early so we can meet at an art museum and then take a shuttle bus over to Doris Duke’s house, Shangri-La. Doris was the richest girl in the world in the 1920’s. Her father’s tobacco money allowed her to roam the world, where she fell in love with Islamic art. Eventually she built her home near Diamond Head and had the house designed around her art work.
I encourage Bimbozuula and Boy to take their own car
After the short shuttle bus ride we arrive at the house and are taken on a tour by a docent. The whole Doris Duke thing is mostly actually fine, mostly. Bimbozuula is quiet about her black market purchases of Islamic art, but she does take lots of pictures inside the house which is explicitly forbidden.
At one point we are walking by this beautiful mihrabm, a prayer niche, from the year 663.
My eyes start to itch. Bimbozuula is standing directly in from of the mihrabm, as if for a photo. She wheels around and gazes into my eyes. The light starts to flash. I think I am having a vision. I see a green statue. I know this statue. It’s Pazuzu! You know Pazuzu, the demon from The Exorcist right?
Suddenly the face of the statue changes. Now it’s Bimbozuula from years ago when she was painting plates. Then current Bimbozuula’s face. Then the statue again. Then scary demon faced Bimbozuula. This goes on for a while.
I close my eyes and think of Maui. When I open them again regular Bimbozuula is still standing there. She winks at me. She knows I know!
After the tour we head to the Diamond Head Grill for lunch. It’s kind of a hole in the wall place with really great grilled ahi plate lunches. It’s pretty hot out and there is nowhere to sit so some Beefeater wisely suggests we go over to nearby Kapiolani Park to eat.
Bimbozuula and Boy head off to...
I hate Whole Food at the best of times – it’s too many annoying people, too busy, too pretentious, but I love this store! They really are trying to sell local Hawaiian produce, fish, and meat. I’m impressed.
We head home and then it’s time to cook. Nothing, other than perhaps people following me like geisha girls, makes me crazier that people in the kitchen when I am trying to cook. Do not get in my way, do not stare at me while I am chopping, and mostly DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CLEAN WHILE I AM COOKING! Go outside, and have a drink, go for a swim, go volunteer. Stay out of the kitchen! Everyone who travels with me knows this. My sister knows this. My sister also likes to fuck with me. As I am cooking she comes through with the Dyson vacuum and attempts to vacuum the entire kitchen. I am running around with sharp knives and hot liquids and she is trying to trip me with the vacuum. Then, then, she comes back with a broom and sweeps in the corners! This is just so obviously a suicide attempt on her part. Just as I am about to explode Mark swoops in, plugs my nose, and pops a Xanax in my mouth.
Somehow dinner turns out fine, but oh my god these people eat a lot. Bimbozuula is grabbing huge piles of pasta and sucking it down like a Dyson. It’s not attractive but I can’t turn my eyes away. As she is slurping away she says, for like the 9th time this week, that she really is not a wine drinker, then she fills up her glass again.
Tonight is the last night. All I have to do is somehow get them out of the house tomorrow morning with no drama and this will all be over.
Day 8
There are no ducks laughing this morning, but I am awake. I just need this to be over.
We've made it clear that we have to be out of the house and the house has to be clean by 11:00 AM. Instead of helping to clean, Bimbozuula finds the number of the homeowner and asks to extend the 11:00 AM leave time. This of course puts our entire damage deposit at risk. To say I am appalled by this would be an understatement. This sense of entitlement just sums up Bimbozuula completely. For some reason the homeowner agrees to let Bimbozuula and Boy leave their stuff in the garage while they go scare fish one more time.
The rest of us just want to get away so we hurry up and pack and clean. Boy comes up at the last minute to offer up some cash for Mark’s dinner. I don’t count it. I know he cannot afford this. I also know Bimbozuula has made him pay for everything else they did all week. I also know she won’t be contributing anything for all the food and wine she consumed this week.
Boy was so consumed with Bimbozuula all week we didn't even really get a chance to talk. This makes me sad, but at least he got a trip to Hawai’i.
We drive away and find a nearby place to have breakfast. I order Portuguese Sausage one last time. We are not talking about this!
Soon we are at the airport waiting to catch a puddle jumper to Maui, then our flight home. I tell everyone we are flying through Maui because it is cheaper, but actually I just want to be on Maui for an hour or two. I need a thorough psychic cleansing.
The minute I set foot on Maui I am better. Bimbozuula’s evil power can’t reach here. I’m surprised it even worked 70 miles away on Oahu. I can tell the anti-hellmouth is fine. My little incident last May does not seem to have done any damage.
As I am sitting in First Class sipping champagne on the way home, I do have to ask why I love traveling so much given how hard it is when you are in the middle of it.
I have a trip to Los Angeles coming up next month with my parents. No potential for drama there.
Then in May it’s Rome. That does not seem real yet. I wonder if there are demons in Rome.
Yikes, how on earth am I going to pay for trips to Hawaii next year? I can’t go a whole year without being near Maui! I can’t even consider it.
Hopefully I can find a way to get back next fall or winter. Maybe I could fly coach. Ha!
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I was going to end this whole thing with that last sentence, but now I am back home and I am afraid. Bimbozuula’s evil powers were muted by the anti-hellmouth. I am now 2500 miles away from Maui. She is another 2500 miles farther east. Am I at risk? Can the dark energy travel that far and still be strong? She doesn't really seem like someone to give up easily.
Oh.
Wait.
The app. The Synchronicity iPhone app.
It must have been blocked on Oahu because we were so close to Maui. Clearly the app is part of her larger plan for world domination. I grab my phone. The app is still there. I have a choice. I can tap on it and see if it works here at home or I can delete it.
I delete it.
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