Pre-Pandemic In Paradise

Right at the beginning of the mega-virus scare, back before any of “this” had really happened when people were talkin’ pandemic but still traveling, grabbing burgers, and swapping spit like innocents, Mark and I burned halfway across the Pacific Ocean on a plane bound for Hawaii.

The trip feels like a million years ago. We landed at Lihue on Kauai and spent the next 4 days dodging rain clouds, stomping through red mud, ocean swimming and sun roasting. In Kauai it’s always kinda sorta raining but actually really hot and sunny too. 

The days got better and better. We ate scenic sandwiches on all manner of beaches and scoped the blossom-scented switchbacks of Waimea Canyon. Snorkeling in front of the fancy hotels at Poipu, I brushed paws with a sea turtle as he lumbered out past the breakers. The afternoon felt charmed. A benediction on our spring vacation. After high-octane daily doings, we’d always end up lounging by the pool in the late afternoon, drinking homemade margaritas and Mai Tais that got you tipsy in three sips.

This was my first time in Kauai and I liked it too much. The locals were nice—too nice. If I were them I’d tell the tourists to fuck off (which is more like the vibe on the other touristy Hawaiian islands). The older I get the more conflicted I feel about tourist travel. There’s something very problematic about clueless people arriving in hordes and claiming their piece of the paradise pie. I’m no different, a foreigner from a rainy land to the east coming to get mine. 

The rules I abide on the road: Be humble and be cool. Shut my mouth. I’m a firm believer in how much respect you can show a local culture by not being a loud-talkin’ kook.