So. The mouse. It lives. We seem to have achieved a mutually satisfactory arrangement with our rodent roommate; to wit, it comes in through the dryer vent when it rains and if it knows what’s good for it, it does it long after I’ve gone to sleep. We’ve seen no evidence that our home is its permanent dwelling–no droppings, some granola stayed in the sticky trap for several days without results, etc. So I’ve decided the best course of action is “Better living through denial” and pretending it’s not around. That seems like the smartest option for my blood pressure and extended life expectancy.
Animal and insect visitors are just one of those things one has to deal with when living in Hawaii (that and the price of milk, holy CHRIST), but it’s really a pretty good tradeoff for living in a tropical paradise. We do love it here. So when Geraldine’s friends Jason and Christine said they were coming to Maui for a visit, I embarked on a relentless peer pressure campaign to get them to come visit us on O’ahu. Normally there is a hesitancy connected with meeting “internet people” but I had already met Geraldine, enjoyed her company immensely, and figured if she liked these two they were probably good people. I’m delighted to say she was correct because we insisted they come on an early flight and leave after 9pm, and that would have been a ridiculously long day to spend with people who were insufferable.
We liked them immediately, mostly because they were willing to strip down and jump off a big-ass rock. Quite sensibly, Jason made Tom go first. I would have been offended that he waiting to see if my husband would plummet to his death in Waimea Bay, but I knew our life insurance premiums have been paid and I am nothing if not practical.
It was a good time, full of manly blinding white flesh. (All photos are theirs and shamelessly stolen by me from Facebook.)
With the guests we’ve had in the last three years and our restless itchy feet, we feel we’ve perfected a circular island tour that hits a number of O’ahu’s highlights in a single day. Maggie performed admirably, though she needed quite a bit of run-around time (which we build into our day). I’m not saying Maggie can take credit for Jason and Christine’s future possible second child…but I might say they loved her and she loved them back.
Wouldn’t YOU love that face? Blech.
Our tour, if run counter-clockwise, terminates at Kona Brewing Company. We had drinks and lots of chatting and bonding. I can’t speak for them but after completing this course of beverages, we were shooting the shit like old friends:
The one thing I might have done differently was dinner. We made the mistake of introducing them to a Hawaiian sushi dish called “poke.” Poke is, quite simply, the most delicious food ever: Maui onions and ahi tuna tossed with spicy chiles, sesames, scallions and occasionally a type of seaweed. It is also nearly unheard of outside the islands; I’ve never encountered it in a mainland restaurant, nor did I see it in Japan. (I looked.) The tragic thing is that I gave them a little tasted, got Jason addicted–like, heroin addicted, needs a fix or will cut you–to poke, and then sent them back home where they promptly moved to Kansas and eliminated any chance they might have of recreating that sublime dish. I apologize. That was a dick move, albeit a very tasty one.
Anyway, O’ahu is often overlooked on the so-called Hawaiian dream vacation packages; many people prefer the wilds of the Big Island or the posh luxuries of Maui. But I love this island and we really relished the chance to show it off to new people. And Jason and Christine, well…they were exceptionally awesome, curious and literate and full of interesting questions and tidbits and a shared propensity to laugh inappropriately at the phrase “fish taco.” We adored them.
So for the three or four of you reading out there, if you can shoot the bull about Irish history, tell hilariously dark stories about your extended family, and worship at the altar of good coffee, you’re welcome to come out and we’ll give you a hell of a tour*.
*Cooperative baby not guaranteed.