The Good Life

Life on the island...

I wake up each morning to the sound of birds forcefully chirping in my ear. It is a nice change to that of the annoying alarm clock we all dread. I roll over from my most comfortable side-lying, fetal position and peek one eye open...slowly followed by the other. Rays of sunshine beg to filter through the blinds and I suddenly realize I am being bathed in a pool of golden beams. I gaze outside to see whispers of clouds dance over the hills, sneaking from one side of the island to the other. I take a few deep breaths and watch the trees bend to the rhythm of the trade winds, enthralled that their limber limbs don't snap in half. Both my smile and arms stretch as I race out of bed to greet the sunrise and the fresh morning air.

I sit on the front porch and lace up my no-longer-supportive sneakers promising my knee and ankle joints only a few more miles on these bad boys and then I will replace them. The walk down the hill pales in comparison to the agony that is endured when making the ascent, but nonetheless, it is taxing. I walk down backwards, forward in zigzags, and sometimes I eve

n bear crawl so as not to wear down my joints and plummet face first to my death. It is all worth the struggle because this is where I go... 

Mana Road...for miles and miles

Mana road winds and curves and turns throughout breathtaking country landscape. It is a labyrinth of incredible views that border the mighty Mauna Kea. I could easily forget that I am walking...as I inch my way farther along this half-paved/half-dirt path that leads into a fantastical wonderland. One day, I walked (without a single pause) for four straight hours, fearing that if I turned around prematurely, I would miss out on a sight even more stunning, even more brilliant. I wanted each bend in the road to offer more so that I could open my arms and cradle it. It feels so real as it lays right in front of me...but still fake enough...with its untouchable dignity. Finally, my hips give in and I am forced to make the trek back to civilization. Even the thirst in my throat and the uneven tan lines from my t-shirt can't get me to turn around...it is always the ache in the joints that force the return. The hundreds of roaming cows silently stalk my walk, I am sure they are confused and bedazzled at this bandanna-wearing speed walker they see each morning...

And of course I have the ascent to look forward too.

I stand at the bottom of the hill, level with the stop sign. My body is steady but my head is arched up in order to see the top. If I don't think about the pain, if I muscle through the fatigue, if I breathe in and out in sync with my strides, it really isn't that bad. When I concentrate on the burning in my lungs and the stitch in my side...I notice I slow down. So, without further ado, I jolt light a lightening bolt. I stare at my feet and focus on my breathing. 

Hundreds of seconds pass and I glance at the house I want to buy....

FOR SALE

...and I tell myself that as soon as I can stay working for longer than three months, I will start saving some money to make my first down payment...and I will paint the trim red maybe?

Each day I count my progress in mailboxes. The first green one, the second green one, the third black one, the last gray one, and finally, all at once...the blue house and the fence made of lava that marks the official end. I will defeat this hill in one long stride...even if it takes me all December long. I stumble back into the house and gulp some water as I try to suck more oxygen into my bloodstream. I brew some tea and sit in the African Hut that stands like a palace in the front yard. (I hope Susan and Marius don't mind when I sneak away the blue prints for my new house down the street...it will be a neighborhood of African Huts.)

I have really good friends and one really good cousin so during my month long stint here on the island, I will have three sets of visitors. The first pair...The (soon to be) Fords.  Ashleigh, one of my closest friends from Northwestern...a fellow baby deliverer...and her fiance Ben came for a little post-engagement tropical getaway. Here you see us posing in front of a very weak Rainbow Falls. So weak, that I decided to sit right in front of the trickle that leaked down the mossy cliff. We all need to be honest with ourselves and realize that Ben only asked Ashleigh to marry him to get closer to me...it has never been a secret, we have known it all along. So from the whole Ford gang...Happy Holidays! This is our family photo.

Just moments before this snapshot, the three of us ducked our way into a 25 mile lava tube that stretches across the dormant lava field just north of Hilo....with only one single flashlight. Ashleigh flicked the light off to give us a taste of how it would feel if the batteries were to go dead. Pitch black, stale air blanketed my skin and a chill ran down my spine. Had the light really died on us, I was certain I would never see the sun again. Oh, but it didn't stop us from going further. We wanted to see how far back we could get and were blown away with how incredible lava tubes are. It is a coal colored tomb of  kryptonite.

Just in the mood to climb everything these days...

Much to Ben's dislike, Ashleigh and I had our noses deep into the Twilight series, a four book series that tells a story of vampires and star crossed lovers. For a Mormon author and high school level make-out scenes, it really does have me in a tight head lock. I have been roped! I told myself that I would allow for the guilty pleasure of reading the first one on the long flight over here, but not a second longer. I had intentions of diving right into the plethora of National Geographic magazines that Susan and Marius collect. I even tried to convince myself that studying for the GRE would happen. Butttt, we got lucky and found the second book New Moon on sale for very cheap. So much of our beach scenes looked like this...

Edward...I would love it if you would just bite me already.

A week came and went and The Fords hopped a flight back to snowy Chicago while my good friend Annie was making the exact reverse commute. She was leaving the freezing Midwest heading towards the best vacation of her life.

Annie and I are good friends from my days at DePaul University. We laugh at the same things and enjoy ourselves a good blueberry smoothie, but our ideas of vacations differ greatly. Where as I love to hike down into things, only to be excited about hiking back up, Annie likes to drive to them leisurely. And where Annie thinks nothing would be cooler and sexier than getting a lounging tiger colorfully tattooed onto her left thigh, I couldn't be more frightened with any other activity. So, our worlds of vacations meshed and this is what we came up with.

Playing in tide pools and watching sea turtles glide through the silky water. Forgetting towels at the beach thus drip-drying in the hot sun while observing an obese family from Texas fight over the one shower. One day, we saw this tiny little surfer and I told Annie that I can't wait to have a daughter so that I can make her be cute and make her surf. Annie asks if we can go to a luau and I tell her no because the first (and last) luau I attended was when my Dads' 1918 Knucklehead Harley Davidson was stolen from the cane fields on Oahu. The Mai Thais are weak and they rarely have vegetarian options. "But I want to see Hula Dancers and Flame Throwers," she whines.

Tiny Surfer

I ignore her while I strike up conversation with a very attractive local, who is carrying a long board and a paddle. He explains this hobby of 'paddle boarding' to me (where you stand tall on the floating, elongated plastic and paddle, sort of like the canals of Venice) and my intrigue extends beyond his perfectly sculpted biceps and brown wavy hair. In my head I ponder how he would be a perfect addition to my tiny surfing family and just the essential ingredient for my soon-to-be surfing children. In a bold move that only humid air can induce, I write my number on old receipt and slip it under his windshield wiper. (workin' it...you go girl) I hope that he calls me for a lesson on the open seas. Annie hopes that, on the side of extreme sports, his job includes dressing in hula skirts and tossing balls of fire, so that maybe he could sneak us into one of his weeknight showings.

The clouds part ways and Thursday marks a perfect night for star gazing on top of a world famous Observatory so we head toward the moon. Mauna Kea beckoned for us to reach its peak while the sun slowly disappears into the grasp of the Pacific. This was one hill Annie didn't mind climbing. The reward was worth the later felt butt cramps. 

The rooftop of the Hawaiian Islands

Eventually I broke down. Tis the season I thought. When else would Annie get to see her tribally tattooed men squat while bravely juggling sticks enfuego? To the luau.

We did some research and found one that apparently claimed to be worth the $60. Set on the beautiful Kona shoreline, we stood in line behind old men donning Hawaiian shirts, mid-calf white socks and sandals. I scanned my fellow audience and noticed that we were perhaps the youngest attendees...by at least 20 years. Hope your happy with your stupid Luau Annie. How will we ever drink spiced rum and flirt when these are our options?!

We filed in and were lei-ed with the typical shell necklaces that were more plastic than authentic. We were shuffled towards a man wearing a Santa Hat who snapped a photo awkwardly posing. "People think we are lesbians. Especially because of your yellow dress and short hair," I whisper. We head straight for the 'open bar'. 

Ross, short for Rosbel, was our stout Samoan bartender for the evening. He told us that he would intensify our drinks if we wanted. I quickly slid my dixie cup in his direction knowing that they would have to be a bit stiffer in order for me to make it through the ultra-70's out Japanese M.C. We double-fisted our sweet, pineapple infused cocktails to our table and nestled in next to our retired Tommy Bahama-loving crew. After a long day in the sun, and a bit dehydrated, and pretty hungry, I found myself slurping the sugary drinks at rapid speed. Twenty minutes into the annoying "Alllllllooooooohaaaaaa!", I was slightly drunk. I needed food.

The crowd gathered around the Imu, which is the traditional Hawaiian pig roasting pit. After the slaughtering and slicing, the corps of meat is dumped into a hole, covered in banana leaves, and covered with burning lava rocks. It is left to slowly simmer. Two men in red Ferrari mumus unearthed what would be our dinner. I sat and watched as they unburied the porkster, completely gutted and spread eagle. People clapped and cheered while my stomach churned. At this point I had loosely wrapped my shell necklace around my forehead, Rambo style (maybe the effects of rum?) because I was bothered by the long droopiness of it. Looking nauseous and very grossed out by the pig picture I turned to find a 70-year old man winking and smiling at me. Ugh, luaus suck. I felt the gag reflex nearby. 

But then the flame throwers came out and everything terrible vanished. My eyes wouldn't dare blink in fear that I would miss something amazing. It was mesmerizing. The dancers were graceful and, if just for a second, I stopped thinking about what a waste of money this was. I was happy for a few moments...with my coconut-desert thing and my tropical entertainment.

And as if on cue, when the show was over and the curtain drawn, my stomach felt the effects of the pork that I forced myself to try. It was all crashing down on me; the sugary rum, the faux coconut, the meat that hasn't touching my stomach in years, the lack of water in my system. At first the spasms were light and sporadic, but as we walked to the car, they increased with both intensity and frequency. I knew betttttter, I thought...as I hugged the porcelain throne that night. Annie wasn't feeling so hot either. Luaus = not a good idea.

The views of Mauna Kea brought us back to life though and my love for all things Hawaiian was reinvigorated. I could get used to this.....

A sweet life...