Aloha O’e…Aloha Open the God Damn Door
5/13/2007 11:02 PM
I may or may have not been promising you a missive from the Sandwich Isles. Those of you that weren’t born on a 19th century whaler know it better as Hawaii. Put simply…I love Hawaii. Not for the beaches not for the Mai Tais but for the bliss of the constant roar of waves forming thousands of miles away that wash up on the lava formed with in the center of mother earth. Maybe it’s the Man tais’s.

We left late in the morning. From Mitchell Field…first class all the way. I wish I could say that I did something to deserve this. That my cache has escalated. But alas its thanks to my lovely wife…her cache has grown at a rate of 10 to 1 to mine. If anything I can feel my cache eeping away from me as I speak. Like a college student in the prospect of Spring Break I see the first days of my vacation as a license to cocktail without regard. Now entering the middle ages of this life I learn that its not so worth it. The hangover is not worth the bliss. I keep it in check through the Minneapolis airport. I encounter first class, spaciousness, glee; it’s like a long lost friend I embrace. The typical inane conversations I rage against in coach I now find lively and quaint. Then I declare it open season when I hear “Mai Tai?” In my mind I hear the Sean Connery, James Bond smoothness…”Why yesssh, my dear…”. While in reality it was “um…oh yeah”. We are skyward…I’m feeling so giddy I watch “Night at Museum” on a whim. Can you imagine? Me…watching “Night at the museum”. Oh, the jocularity.

2000 miles later…There’s not enough water in the Cumberland Gap to quench me. I’m cranky. Damn it…did I watch “Night At the Museum”?! The hell? We land in Paradise, USA…well not quite. We’re still Oahu. This is now known as “Little LA” and for those of you who know me…know how much I love LA. Our plane is just under an hour late meaning we made our connecting flight in an alternate universe. In the here and now…not so much. Our ticket agent is understanding of our situation. So much so that he socks us with a “Changing fee”. Aloha. We hop the next available flight to Maui, which is roughly 2 hours away. Swimming is briefly considered but rebuffed due to the coming darkness and the possibility that we may end up in Japan. I do have a love hate relationship with the airport. When things are going well and you’re hitting you’re flights. The airport is a symbol of modern travel. Your pace quickens…you have that “stride”. But when it’s not going your way…when weather, mechanics or the Quarters game in the Pilot’s Lounge is delaying you. You become a character from Dante’s Inferno. There are squabbles over food…huddled in the corner…growling. We’ve landed in Honolulu and hour later than expected. With modern aviation avionics, navigation, COMMUNICATION! Someone would have got on the intercom to let us know. My wife and I get off the plane trading looks at our watch. Looking at the plane. Walking to baggage claim…what the? Then the walk turns to brisk jog to frantic run. Our comfortable layover has now become a Lucy skit. Gasping we arrive to the HAWIIAN AIRLINES counter. Be sure I’m clear on this…HAWAIIAN AIRLINES. Careful with the pronunciation. Try it like this…

“The customer service for HAWAIIAN AIRLINES is horrible.”
“HAWAIIAN AIRLINES are known as the bastards of the South Pacific skies.”
Or even…”I’ll never fly on HAWAIIAN AIRLINES again.”

We get to the counter and explain why were late and if we could still make our flight. The desk clerk didn’t even give us the cringed look or the”I’m sorry rumple of the forehead.” “No I’m sorry that plane is boarded and pushing back soon.” As his fingers flashed over the keys. Of which I’m sure he is emailing his girlfriend

Dear Hawaiian girlfriend,

I am at work and some late passengers from the mainland just got in late. I see they paid discount fare through Expedia. I’m going to jack them on a “change flight” fee and they are going to pay more than they would have full fare to show what a big fucking man I am even though I wear a polyester blue vest.

Love,
Airline Counter Boyfriend

So in addition to waiting another 2 hours we get the privilege of paying double. Waiting in a Hawaiian airport is kind of like being a sick kid and the circus is in town. So close you can taste it. You can’t leave…there’s not a thing to do…So I’m forced to do a favorite past time people watch and it’s a bad idea because it’s not my whimsical typical. I’m cranky and bored. Pretty much everyone infuriates me on some level. One thing that gets me at the airport are the people that come out the jet way and stop dead in the doorway like a wide eyed fawn. They stand there like they are emerging onto a bright new world. And as they do the chain reaction back up begins. People start stacking up while Columbus discovers Gate 35. I’ve traveled quite a bit and I’ve seen it in airports across this wide world. It’s not like they are searching for someone or baggage claim. They usually plop their bags down standing doe eyed lost in the after glow of post flight exit. This is usually followed by the seasoned travels that give no quarter to the human speed bump that’s separates them from life outside the airport.

We finally make it to Maui. We figured we be arriving around 5 pm…Keeping that time means we would have had to be in Taipei, China. Instead in the 50th…it’s about 11 pm when we arrive at our condo. The condo, a secluded little spot…secluded meaning that the house numbers are completely hidden. So we take to wandering about the complex in loud whispers. “ssst…I think its over here!!!” “what I can’t hear you?” …”Shhhhh…we need to be quiet.” “what? Huh? I can’t hear you but well try to be quiet.” We stumble on our room’s door like a Tourette’s afflicted SWAT team. I the last of my patience was used up on some dude swaying about the jet way on our arrival. But we’re thwarted yet again. We were given instructions on how to enter the condo. Simple set of instructions listed in 14 steps and 3 subsections. We were working as a team and let me tell you the puzzles in “Die hard 3’ was easier. Several tries later my wife gives up saying she’ll return to the car and phone the agency. Seeing its 11 pm I’m sure they will get right on that. But its little separations like this that keeps a marriage strong and one you of out of a shallow grave. I sit and make quiet reflection. I’m still in my sweatshirt and jeans. It’s roughly the humidity level of James Browns hairline. I am contemplating either to just lay on my luggage or barrel through the front door at full speed and worry about the door in the morning. But in m y present state of jet lag I don’t have the strength. For that kind of rage I’ll need a property tax hike, Dave Coullier and a fifth of Jack Daniels. As the sweat cascades through my eyes…I have a moment of clarity. The locks are the type real estate agents use where you punch in the code and key pops out. Seems simple enough. But the code would never work, tried different combinations, click and hold. Then I thought…I must think like a real estate agent. What do I know about people in real estate? Hmmm…then it’s clear. Real estate agents are often wrong and they often lie. Giddy up. I rise with purpose. I try the first code in the second lock. Out pops the key... See they do lie and they are often wrong. We stumble in…collapse to the sound of the ocean roaring.

Oh…and the patio door was open the whole time.