Author: Gail

Hurry Up and Wait

Time to pack the suitcases, tuck the souvenirs into the carry-on bag, re-charge the electronic devices and accessories, grab the reading materials in preparation of a long flight, and keep the passport handy for check-in at the airport.  Then “hurry up and wait” for the rental car return process, checked luggage, security clearance, and one final stop at the terminal restroom. After all, the first leg of our return journey is a five-hour flight to San Francisco. 


(By the time we arrive in Indianapolis, after making connections all night long, jet lag will begin to set in. Although it is a natural process the body goes through, a simple guideline is expect things to normalize about one time-zone per day.) 

On the other hand, long flights give you the luxury of reflection and rejuvenation. I love thinking about the Hawaiian culture, the pace of life, the breath-taking scenery, the delicious food, the lively music, the new friends. It’s as though each experience opened another door in our lives.  I guess I’m ready to go back home. The best part of all is—the entire time my husband has been by my side, and we’re traveling this road together.  Mahalo!



The Cookie Monster in Us

Whether you’re addicted to Double-Stuff Oreos, Chocolate Chip Cookies, or Girl Scout Thin Mints, anyone can turn into a “Cookie Monster” after only one taste of these exclusive Japanese delicacies. BSBC, or more commonly known as Bite-Sized Banzai Cookies, are addictive. Ask my husband…..he’ll tell you. We brought home five containers of them. Yes, FIVE. Made with all-natural ingredients, these cookies boast a crackling sweet taste combination of Sake, arare, and furikake. (That translates to wine, rice, and seaweed.). Don’t roll your eyes! The crispy crunch is unbelievable! The Kauai Kookie website explains how they arrived at this unusual name. “Rumor has it that the inventor of this peculiar cookie flavor was so pleased with the taste that he privately paid homage by shouting a deep-bellied ‘BANZAI’, a common alcoholic toasting expression used in Japan (or maybe he was mildly intoxicated by the traces of sake!). Regardless of how the name was established, it has stuck ever since.”

While vacationing on Kauai, my husband and I discovered this unique little bakery in Hanapepe called Kauai Kookie. From the parking lot, the aromas were enough to make our stomachs growl. Never mind that as soon as we walked through the door, the hostess offered us a toasty warm butter cookie to munch on while we perused the shelves. She even offered us samples of their wide assortment just for the asking. One bite and we were hooked. The pink Guava Macadamia cookies and the Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip concoctions were a great afternoon snack, in my opinion. After all, you can’t go wrong with island macadamias. But the Banzai says it all. Cheers!

Calgon, Take Me Away

This morning I indulged in a true spa experience. The waterfall shower head covered me in a sea spray of raindrops as I nourished my hair and skin in a mango nectar organic blend of natural ingredients known as Mālie, grown exclusively in the Hawaiian Islands. The semi-enclosed shower area was a blend of cool mint sea glass with dove-grey stone granite from floor to ceiling. Soothing jazz melodies drifted softly in the background, helping melt away the stress of the past few days, removing me further and further away from reality. The thirsty white towels were fluffy and warm, the contemporary lighting compassionate. Using one towel as a bathrobe and another as a turban, in bare feet tinged with a subtle French pedicure, I gingerly stepped onto our private secluded oceanside terrace for a breath of fresh tropical air. It seems I wasn’t the only one enchanted by this hypnotic spa experience. Gerald created his own private collection of open-air discreet photographs; some imparting lustful images with a playful spirit for appreciating later on. Good Morning, Mr. Dorna.

Salt on the Rim

The shadows became long as the sun sank into the waves on the distant horizon. Candles flickered, chairs were stacked, and the last dinner was divine as the moon lit a lamp in the warm Winter sky. Across the table, with the ocean behind him, Gerald relaxed leaning slightly backward to catch the breeze that circled over him on its way across the beach. I love the color of my husband’s eyes. They remind me of intoxicating sea breezes and deep tropical pools. I am completely mesmerized.

As the waves come and go, the hypnotic rhythm clears the mind of faraway thoughts and personal loss. Contentment seeps in bringing appreciation of time standing still. I stare and stare, my mind totally blank in musing. “Do we really have to leave?”, I finally whisper. “It’ll be alright”, he assures me nodding his head. “You have me at your side.” Blinking back a tear, with a sigh of relief, I realize that thought alone puts me mentally at rest. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt this unencumbered. The water has apparently washed away the weight of losing my father. Feeling his love by letting go along with basking in the love of my husband brings tranquility to the soul. Rest in peace, my dear father.

In Search of Captain Cook

The tour book boldly proclaimed the landing site for Captain Cook was “located in the Lucy Wright Park and just across the Waimea River from Russian Fort Elizabeth.” Still, as we cruised through Waimea Town, our attention was drawn instead to the ridge where a couple of magnificent homes were perched on a bluff overlooking the most breathtaking panoramic view of the coast. As my husband made a right turn where the road steeply grades, we began the ascent of exploration. “What about Captain Cook?”, I inquired. “We can see him from up here,” he explained matter-of-factly. Now I’m not a fan of heights, let alone a winding two-lane road without a shoulder. It’s at times like these, where the view outside the passenger side window drops several hundred yards into the craggy canyon, that I get a little squeamish and lean toward the middle of the car. Don’t worry, I can still see the view of the town below at the ocean’s doorstep spreading exquisitely across the horizon.

Further north on Highway 50, we pulled over at a Lookout Point chosen by five other vehicles. As we grabbed the binoculars, the overcast skies released a light mist. Through the lenses a razor sharp image of muted canyon walls came clearly into focus. Murmurs of awe and steps of bravery set the stage for photogenic backdrops. One Asian man stood dangerously close to the edge coaxing his petite wife in Chinese to join him for the optimal extreme snapshot. Her gentle demeanor would have no part of it as she timidly took a step behind me. The more he cajoled, the more firmly her feet lodged into place. Finally exasperated, he struck a Superman-like stance and hammed it up for the camera. Then making peace with his elegant wife, he found an impervious point for immortalizing the moment. Minutes later, we did the same. Now where is Captain Cook?

Message in a Bottle

Look through those boxes tucked in the back of your closet, the ones marked “my childhood” and you’re bound to find a sea shell or two. Whether they were discovered along the sandy beach on the hike taken during that endless week at summer camp, or the carefully planned family vacation to a tropical paradise, the memory is enduring.

Especially when you follow it all the way back to the moment, as a toddler, you merely plopped down on the beach feeling sand between your toes as each wave tickled you to the point of unbridled laughter. These tiny treasures captivated the past and preserve the future. Need proof? The next time you go to the beach, watch the people on the seashore.

Check out that retired couple holding hands. See the fragile white mother-of-pearl clam shell cupped in the palm of her hand? Perhaps she felt healing of mind, body, and spirit within her grasp. Gaze past the sand volleyball net. The energetic teenagers chase each other before diving into the water to emerge with a treasured sand dollar. This is a “keeper” simply because it holds the energy of the ocean. Then spot the children building sand castles, while burying the feet of their parents. They pause to hold a spiral shell to their ear to hear the waves rolling onto shore.
Is it any wonder we covet these mementos to enrich our lives bringing beauty, wisdom, and balance into our everyday life? Perhaps that is the legendary Message in a Bottle.

Pizza Parlors on GPS

Every once in awhile, when traveling, you have to take a break from exotic hearty fare and hone in on comfort food. “To thine own self be true.” There’s nothing quite like it. That’s when we set the GPS for Pizza Parlors. Thank goodness for cell phone navigation. Never mind the fact that we practically attacked the tall lanky guy in the hotel parking lot when we saw him strolling toward the elevator with a pizza box in hand. But we wanted to find out where to get true Italian pizza. Oh sure, we asked around. Between the staff and the locals, no one pretty much had an opinion. And if they did, it was the same response. “You can’t”, they echoed. “There aren’t any on the island.” Essentially they couldn’t understand why anyone would fly over fourteen hours to get to a tropical island and then desire to eat, of all things……….pizza.

The guy at the burger hut asked if we were going to get fish or shrimp on it if he told us where to find his favorite pizzeria. “Think about Snapper, Ono, Tuna, or Mahi Mahi if you do”, he offered. “It’s so fresh, you’ll think you died and went to Heaven.” We were getting desperate, so I agreed to anything. “Okay, sure,” I ventured, “as long as I can get a crispy thin crust and a smattering of mozzarella-provolone mix.” In the end, our trusty GPS put us in the parking lot of a Brick Oven Pizza Parlor in Wailua. Inside our waitress, Shana, shook her head and smiled when I ordered the Bay Shrimp & Fresh Garlic combination. I could tell she was pleased that a tourist had listened to someone from the area. After dinner I sent a quick text to our Italian friend, Steven. “You could make a killing on Kauai with your Italian pizza culinary skills.” Since Steven learned how to make pizza dough at the age of five, tied to his mother’s apron strings, he promptly replied, “I am on my way!” Grazie, grazie molto!

It’s All About the Bass

The sound of bass runs deep in foot-tapping rhythm. Leaning against the nostalgic late 70s rusty red Mercury Cougar, a couple of gals wearing bandanas and smoking a Camel, have the engine turned off and the music cranked up. “I love this song!”, one of them squeals in between lyrics, body swaying in motion. “The 70s rule!”, the other responds making the peace sign with her right hand. The fisherman on the dock looks over and nods his head, reminding himself to make sure he gets his grandson back home before the crowd turns into a mob scene.

This is where they come at the end of the day. Some to fish, others to unwind, and a few to stir up trouble. The sun is setting true west of Nawiliwili Harbor casting ghostly shadows on the gigantic cruise ship nestled in port for the night. From time to time loitering gets a little out of hand on the strip as evidenced by a make-shift grave marker along the sea wall. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels, nicotine stained cigarette butts, and a shrunken deflated condom affirm it. Police make an effort to control the area for neighboring residents, but are stretched pretty thin between patrolling the harbor, checking bar traffic, and overzealous cruise-ship tourists. Everybody wants to have a good time.

It’s an age-old dilemma. Without exception, every town has had to deal with it at some point or another. Whether it’s the parking lot at the mall, or cruising the downtown strip, people gather for socialization. The only difference on this tropical island, in the middle of the Pacific, is the backdrop is gorgeous and the sunsets are breathtaking. The fishing’s not bad either.