Of Pineapples and Rip Tides

In honor of all you East Coasters buried in snow (and by buried, I mean, no snow whatsoever in Boston), who continuously remind me how much you despise me for being in Hawaii, I decided to spend your big snow day eating pineapple and chilling at one of Hawaii’s most famous beaches. Snark, snark.

It was not my first time at the Dole Pineapple Plantation. For those of you who’ve read my blog posts from last year, you all know my feelings on mazes. There’s something deeply creepy, a little Victorian gothic, about winding your way through one and at nearly 2.5 miles, the Dole Pineapple Plantation lays claim to the largest outdoor maze. And while it is constructed from local flora like hibiscus plants and such, it is not constructed from pineapples, because pineapples are freaking sharp.

Did I say local flora? Oh, I did. Well this time I visited the Plantation, I decided to do some of the educational stuff. So against my better judgment, I bought a ticket for the Pineapple Express (insert stoner jokes here). The gaily colored little train takes tourists on a half hour tour through the actual plantation and provides a historical narrative. And also, some of the worst local music ever created by a group called Aloha DNA or something grossly cute and family friendly like that. The narration of the history of the Plantation would play for about 10 minutes, which is still 8 minutes longer than the average American’s attention span and 9.5 minutes longer than the average Japanese tourist’s, and after this time, Aloha DNA would play. Now I understood why the conductor and other train employees looked so pained. If I had to hear this twice an hour for 8 hours a day, I might end it all by falling on the sharp end of the pineapple.

Which brings me to the noble pineapple. Did you know that the pineapple isn’t even indigenous to Hawaii? The Hawaiian name for pineapple is “Hala Kahiki” (yeah, I had to look up the spelling, so what?) and it essentially means, foreign fruit. Pineapples come from Paraguay. And Hawaiians aren’t exactly certain how the pineapple came to Hawaii. The most popular theory is that they ended up here on a shipwreck of sorts. I like that theory best because there’s something random and a little romantic about that. And it’s better than giving the Spanish explorers credit, because we all know what they liked to bring to a new country was small pox. Zing.

(pineapple roadkill)

 (Stierman, I decided to skip cankersores caused by eating too close to the core & went girly pineapple souvenir cup)

And then I found five dollars…

After that I headed further north to Waimea Beach. Waimea Beach is a small sandy bowl of a beach park tucked in between sheer, jagged cliffs. It is one of my favorite beaches for the simple reason that the waves here are high and dangerous, and as a result, tourists go out of their way to endanger themselves. In the winter months, the swells can reach over thirty feet high. So not only can you lie around and tan for hours, you can watch people put themselves in unnecessary peril while ticking off the lifeguards to no end.

The last time I was at Waimea the lower beach was roped off and there were signs that prohibited swimming because of the swells and riptide. Ask yourself, did this deter people from trying to swim? Of course not. So the poor dogged lifeguard team had to keep getting on the microphone and continuously remind people not to go swimming. It’s an uneasy line to walk because the lifeguards want to make the beach fun enough so people will visit, but they must also protect people. From themselves.

This time, there’s a new breed of lifeguards at the tower. They’re deliciously snarky. They ridicule the surf perpetrators from atop their cream-colored tower.

“Hey man, maybe you could get your girlie surfboard out of that surf before I send my sister down there to haul you out.” Ouch.

“Hey dude over by the rocks, yeah you! You better get back to your girlfriend on the beach or I’m gonna go over and show her what a real man looks like.” Ouch to the second power and extra points for good delivery.

Now occasionally, not even snark prevails and one of the lifeguards (probably the one who lost the rosham contest) has to crawl down the ladder, get in the beach buggy and head down the beach to extricate some jack monkey from the surf. Then the lifeguard left at the tower narrates:

“Well it’s a close one guys, neck and neck. Oh wait, hey idiot, you’re swimming against the tide now. Here comes JC from the beach, he wastes no time, folks. He plunges into that surf with reckless abandon [I swear to you that the lifeguard said reckless abandon, I laughed so hard that I snorted sand. Honestly.], and he’s making his way out. He’s got the guy by the neck and he’s bodyslamming him! No, JC! Don’t do it!” In reality, JC has just browbeaten the guy into coming in from the ocean and then he puts him in the buggy for a ride of shame back to the tower. But it sounds cooler the way the lifeguard tells it.

Now where am I in all this? Clearly, not in the surf. But interestingly, I’m closer to the roped off area than is prudent because I wanted to take some pics of the surf for you, dear readers. No matter, the sun is shining, people are being reckless, and I’m neatly laid out on my beach towel, lathered in Maui Babe, and engrossed in a really funny audio book by Neil Gaiman. I’m pretty much oblivious to all errant noises except the lifeguard’s bullhorn, which easily pierces through the i-pod narration.

Let me say this again, I’m oblivious to everything around me.

The next time I hear the lifeguard on the bullhorn, he bellows the following:

“Hey, hot chick! You’re too close to the rope. You’re gonna get wet, chica.”

I ignore this, it’s not worth sitting up for.

“Hey girl in the rainbow bikini, did you hear me? You’re gonna get wet, girl! The tide’s coming in!”

The beach isn’t overly crowded, but surely he doesn’t mean me. And then it hits me, literally, water splashes over my feet, towel, beach bag, i-pod. I snap up to a sitting position. The surf having swelled up the beach is now sinking back down again. I look around me in shock, people are laughing at my surprised reaction and I notice that most of them have noticed the incoming tide and have moved up the beach. FML. My stuff is all wet.

But wait…he called me a hot chick. SCORE!

I don’t care how vain that is, how ridiculous I looked now all wet, it was like this guy had yelled, “Hey, attorney of the year! Hey, Pulitzer prize winner!” It doesn’t matter if the lifeguard is 300 pounds with no teeth (he’s not, he’s on the short side, completely jacked with an unfortunate faux hawk). It also doesn’t matter that we’re all modern women now and this kind of remark is supposed to have no effect on us. I don’t care how militant of a feminist you are. We all want to be called hot chicks in our bikinis. I’m counting this one as a win.  And I'm not even remotely embarrassed to admit it.  So there. 

But seriously, there’s a moral to the story here: Spend February in Hawaii.

No, no, I mean, if you’re gonna lie around on the beach all day and snark on people being idiots, don’t be one yourself. Mahalo.

PS.  And then I booked it home to catch the sunset at the beach park outside my condo.  This one was a particularly good one (made even better because I grabbed take-out fajitas from Senor Pepe's):

Birthday in Hawaii, Part Deux

My birthday started out a whole lot like last year, woke up in tropical paradise and applauded myself for not being somewhere snowy.

And then I went off in search of Hula Pie. 

Hula Pie is an island tradition.  It’s a massive hunk (think 1/4^th of an actual pie) of macadamia nut ice cream with a cookie crust, mounds of whip cream, hot fudge and some sort of hard, chocolately malted top.   In a word: heaven.  And the best place to get one on Oahu is at Duke’s Waikiki.  So I head over there, order one for breakfast, wolf it down and then wonder why it is that my heart is racing at 9 in the morning.  Go figure.

Then I head off to buy myself the same present I bought myself last year on my birthday: string bikini.  It’s becoming something of a tradition and yes, I still feel like a total rebel buying one.  And keeping in tradition, I’m posting the pic (and please keep your comments to yourself, I just went house on enormous ice cream pie dessert.  Mahalo.)

As if it’s not awesome enough I’m spending my birthday somewhere tropical, the Super Bowl falls on my birthday this year.  Now this is 90% a good thing.  It’s only bad if the Saints don’t win.  But unless you live under a rock, you already know the Saints wiped the smug expression right off Manning’s face.

And I did my part too, to wipe some smug expressions off Colts fans faces.

I headed to Tiki’s, a rooftop bar with excellent TVs, drinks, and Superbowl food specials.  The problem was, the only really good seat available at the outside bar was right in the middle of a bunch of guys (and a few ladies) decked from head to sandal in Colts gear, most of them wearing Manning jerseys.  Now, do I sit down and watch the game in the vipers’ nest or do I take a seat far away from a TV?  I think we know how this goes.  I am no shrinking violet, so I made friends with Colts fan and pretended to be vaguely indifferent about the game.  In reality, I'm a bitter Patriots fan and I hate the Colts on principal alone. 

For the first two quarters, things were okay.  That was until this guy, I’m going to call him Drew.  Drew is one of those Guys Who Doesn’t Get It and I’m pretty sure he’s modeled himself and his wardrobe after “The Situation” from the Jersey Shore. At some point early on, he tells me the Colts are heavily favored and that the spread is 10 points, that’s a touch down and field goal, he adds helpfully.

Drew is full of crap.  The spread is 5. 

Here is a pic of Drew in a rare, quiet moment.  It's a Manning jersey.

Then Drew begins explaining the rules of football to me, starting with what a first down was, because I wasn’t cheering every time the Colts touched the ball.  I ignore him and order another beer, but he’s very persistent that I understand the rules of football and also that I know he played football in high school.  He also critiques every play, every coach’s call, every referee’s call, in addition to all of the commercials.  I make a game-changing decision: I’m going to have another Bud Light and then throw myself off the balcony at Tiki’s.  Into a firepit. 

During half time, I sneak over to the restaurant side of Tiki’s where I find a pair of old people, Tom and Wanda, who clearly want to adopt me.  They have great seats and they let me sit with them and their adult son, Kevin.  They are from Minnesota (which is a whole bag of football worms in itself), but they’re rooting for the Saints.  They have fun accents and tell me I remind them of one of their granddaughters.  So I’m good for a quarter with them. Aren't they cute?

I head back to the bar side of Tiki’s during the 4^th quarter and thoroughly enjoy myself as the Colts fans get more and more despondent.  This translates into alcohol-fueled belligerence and the introduction of silly string.  Question: who brings silly string to Hawaii and then to a super bowl party?  Apparently, Colts fans.  And for the record, these kids aren’t from Indianapolis.  They’re actually from Jersey, which makes it even worse they’re rooting for the Colts.  That and I hate silly string.  It’s unnatural.

Unfortunately, I don’t get to see the ultimate soul crushing moment because I have to leave the game two minutes early to make it on time to my big birthday present to myself: sunset cruise on the Na Hoku, but a certain someone is nice enough to text me the score (thanks again), so I know as I’m stepping on to the large Catamaran that the Colts have lost. 

Sorry, Drew.  Maybe next year. 

Also, because this is a booze cruise, Captain Mike, First Mate Miles, and Master of Ceremonies, Randy have checked my ID and now know it’s my birthday.  Randy gives me a huge hug. Here is a pic of Captain Mike and Randy.

We get on the boat and Miles gets the booze going immediately.  In ten minutes we’re all friends.  This is how it worked at Sam Adams.  Give people booze and they bond.  It’s just nature.  Don’t fight it.

Of the 25 people or so on the cruise, 15 of them are from Seattle, so I make friends fast.  Soon we’re all on a first name basis.  Everyone is friends on a booze cruise and people think its adorable I’m all by myself on a booze cruise and it’s my birthday.  And they start spilling drinks on me, that’s a sign of friendship for sure.  Or the fact that the boat is rocking something fierce.  Good thing I wore black.  They also let me on the secret that half of them are not wearing underwear (which is a little weird, these peeps are all in their mid to late thirties).  So I spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out who has gone commando.  The wind helps with this process as it lifts a few skirts.  This is a pic of the Seattle crew taken from A-Deck.  I tried to get their attention, but again, how do you get the attention of people who don't wear underwear?

Then there are the boys from Australia, who are adorable with their accents and pronounce my name “Jezz-ee-ka.”  They’re both surfers and they have shark stories to share (Snarky = smitten by shark tales of any kind).  They ask me if I know any good island hikes and I’m come off looking like solid gold because I’m able to describe three (and that’s all I got).  Thank goodness they didn’t ask for anymore suggestions.  I’ve just used up all my coolness.  

Let’s not forget the two pilots either, guys in their fifties, sucking down Coors Light and making the standard “be glad I’m not your pilot,” joke as they get drunk.  When one of them empties half a can on my sandals, I am sincerely glad they’re not my pilots.

Finally can’t leave out the quartet of cougars who shanghai the Aussies into a corner for awhile.  And one of them takes a body shot off Randy.  I’m just saying.  That’s an unforgettable sight, seared into memory. 

So once we’re out a little bit, Randy calls for everyone’s attention.  “There’s a birthday girl on board,” he explains.  “Let’s all sing happy birthday to her.”

Oooh!  That’s me!  (Okay, so at this point in the cruise, I didn't look this demure, but whatever.  I'm cute here as the birthday girl.  Deal with it). 

For the record, Happy Birthday sounds really good when you’re in the middle of the ocean holding a Mai Tai.

But Randy isn’t finished.  Afterwards he says, “that was just awful.  But don’t you worry, Captain Mike and I have composed something a little special for you.”

And then he busts out an ukele.  S**t just got real.

Randy and Mike serenade me with an absolutely hilarious rendition of “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz.  Everyone joins in on the chorus.  Okay, all snark aside for a moment:  I feel incredibly special, like a little drunken Mai Tai Princess.  Alcohol-fueled or not, everyone is being so nice to me on board and I’m 3000 miles from home and celebrating my birthday alone, and now, well now I don’t feel alone.  First I got adopted by cute old people in the bar and now I’m being serenaded on the high seas. It's enough to make you a little misty-eyed.

Snark back on.

Captain Mike calls for me to dance in the middle of the song.  I’m standing on A-Deck at this point (that’s the top of the boat where I come from, I’m sure it’s called something else) and since I’m an obliging kind of girl, I break into my best hippie dance imitation.  Arms twirling, spinning the black dress around (and yes, I’m wearing underwear.  Do I look like the kinda girl that channels Britney?).  It’s awful.  I move like a drunken walrus that’s been gored by a harpoon.  I cannot dance, and I know it.  But nobody notices or seems to care, everyone is singing along at the top of their lungs to “I’m Yours,” and this night now reigns in the top 3 of best birthdays ever.  And no, there are no pics of me dancing.  You all know what a drunken walrus that's been gored by a harpoon looks like.

But wait, there’s more.  As we sail out further we see giant mint colored sea turtles and in the distance, a whale breaching and not the mild mannered blow hole spouting stuff.  No, this whale is out of the water, shaking his tail for all he’s worth.  The sunset is brilliant and clear, the bright orange orb sinking so fast over the horizon that I can just get one click of the camera off before it’s gone.  And no, that has nothing to do with the Mai Tais I’ve been drinking. (You can see the whale just in front of the sailboat)

After the cruise,  the Seattle peeps decide to adopt me, even if I am wearing underwear, so we head off with the two Aussies in search of general debauch and drinks with umbrellas in them…

Another birthday for the books.

One of the worst pick up lines ever laid down...

It’s Saturday night and I decide to be less nerdy than the previous evening. First I head out to my old stomping grounds, the hotel I lived in at the Ohana West Waikiki. They have a surprisingly decent roof top bar there with an odd mix of locals and tourists (since it is a bar within a hotel). I show up and the bartender, Mike, recognizes me. He even remembers my name. I feel like I just walked into Cheers and I’m grinning like an idiot. He even remembers my drink. This is the best bartender ever. We get to talking and he says, “I know why you’re here. He goes on at 8.”

He is Josh. Josh plays classic rock covers every Saturday evening at the Ohana and he was hands down, the best part of every Saturday night back when I lived here last year. I would listen to him play from 8-10 every Saturday night, wine in hand on my balcony (lanai) before going out and meeting Travis at some sketchpad night club.

Josh comes on and he opens with a Dead tune and I’m musically smitten all over again, the night air is warm and smells of fried food and hibiscus (well it does, and that smell is just fine by me). Even though I don’t live in this hotel anymore, I feel like I’m home again. I even walk over to the balcony and check to make sure the ladies of the night are still in front of Denny's. They are there in full sequined regalia.  Excellent.

At the break, Josh comes over to the bar and I say shyly, “I bet you don’t remember me.”

He looks me up and down and says, “I cant’t remember your name, but I remember your favorite song.”

I can’t help myself. “Prove it,” I say. “And don’t play Jason Mraz or I’ll vomit.”

And the first song he plays after the break is “Ophelia” by the Band. Okay, he’s proved it. I hang around the Ohana bar until 11, about an hour after Josh has finished and then I’m starting to get a little tired. I’m trying to wait up so I can meet my buddy Travis’s new girlfriend at some bar, but I’m kinda tanked and still seriously jetlagged. I bid Mike, Josh, and the locals good night at the Ohana, promise to come back next Saturday, and then I head out, not really sure where I’m going, but I’ve got some time to kill. Enough reminiscing. It’s time for a swanky drink.

I end up at Rumfire. Why Rumfire? Because if you thought Waikiki was on fire, Rumfire makes Smokey the Bear cry. This bar has huge fire pits like kiddie swimming pool size fire pits and some of them are at foot level. And it’s a bar which means there’s always the element of danger that someone drunk will fall in one of these pits and be burnt to a crisp. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s right on Waikiki Beach, it’s open air so you can see and hear the ocean, and the drinks have snooty names, but are decent.

The bar isn’t particularly crowded tonight and though I’m underdressed (jeans, black Bob Dylan T and sandals, fine for the Ohana, not so much here), I cozy up to the bar in the back corner and order a cucumber Mojito. I know that’s touristy, but they’re very, very good at Rumfire.

And then here comes Rodney.

I get it, I get that I’m a lady alone in a bar. I get that it’s really hard for a guy to come up and talk to a girl he doesn’t know. But I would like to point out that first of all, I’m not dressed for guy attention, it’s not like I’m lounging around in a do me halter dress or wearing hooker heels. I’m dressed a little scrubby to be honest and I’ve chosen a seat at the bar away from everyone else, pretty much sitting where the servers have to come and get their drinks. I really just want to be left alone, drink my mojito, watch the ocean, kill time.

Rodney apparently misses all of these signals and sidles up next to me and immediately starts to touch me, first on the shoulder, then on the hand. I’m not a fan of this whatsoever. Then when he turns full body to me, I notice his button down shirt has an enormous golden tiger painted on it. It’s undeniably Ed Hardy. Now I’m just trying to stop from smirking ear to ear.

(Oh hey, Seth, while I'm on the subject of Ed Hardy, this one’s for you, pal. Saw this at the Ala Moana mall. This will have to do since I couldn’t get a picture of Rodney’s golden tiger. PS. Ed Hardy is every where out here. Apparently, love kills slowly all over the place here in Hawaii).

In my personal space and wearing a garish golden Ed Hardy tiger? That’s two strikes. So, I try to be polite and plan my escape plan to a different bar. Rodney and I trade mundane details and pleasantries. He asks what I’m drinking, I tell him and ask what he’s drinking. He swills around his drink in a snifter, it’s light and caramel-colored, looks like cognac to me. I happen to be right. Score one for the former bartender. He tells me it’s cognac mixed with something something. Then he raises an eyebrow, “surprised you haven’t heard of this, it’s named after you.”

I think I know where this is going. “It’s called a Jessica?” I ask hopefully and brace myself.

“No, it’s called a Beautiful.” He arches that one perfectly manscaped eyebrow. "Just like you." He raises the snifter to me and drinks deeply.

I make a noise that's somewhere between a snort and a sigh. Whatever it is, it's not lady-like nor polite.

Look, you can’t use that line in a bar and think that might actually get you a woman. The only guy in the whole wide world that might get away with a crap line like that is Daniel Craig, and only when he’s playing James Bond, is sporting a tux and has just totally housed two South African drug lords with his bare hands and then maybe, just maybe would you get away with a line like that.

I finish my drink quickly, decline the Golden Tiger’s offers to buy me another and skedaddle from the bar with a bad taste in my mouth. I’ve heard some bad pick up lines in my day but this one is hands down one of the worst for both content and execution.

But on the positive side, as I’m trotting down Kuhio Avenue, I see this:

Now, I know we have rules about when and where you can put people on teams. But I feel like since I’m out of state, I get a pass this month. So Stierman, this one’s for you: Yes, she’s actually wearing a tail. I watched it swinging as she walked and all I could think about was Sonic the Hedgehog and his little buddy, Tails. I had to follow her three blocks out of my way just to make sure and get a pic.  In my defense, I was not the only person who did this. 

So Stierman, your team.