Hawaii Four-O: The Tourists

Navigating this island with prolific “K” named streets in honor of revered “K” named kings has been confounding. More often than not, my GPS just gives up. While attempting to intuit directions, we doused the screams of my petite passengers with snack packs and Hawaiian radio, which is like entering a version of Club Med that features juice boxes, Crustables and Lil Wayne.

Cultural highlights included Germaine’s Luau during which Eowyn’s puritanical scrutiny resulted in the -not quiet- inquiry regarding the dishabille of the hula girls, “Mama, where are their shirts?” An early 19^th century missionary must also have posed this query, since hula dancing was summarily outlawed in an effort to salvage the pagan souls. Hawaii's tourist industry immortalized their gratitude to King Kamehameha for restoring the sensual swaying to its place of dignity by naming two distinct roadways in his honor.  In tribute to King Kamehameha and the proselytizing Christians, Eowyn and I did hula on stage. . . but were fully clothed.

 

Additionally, the Dole Plantation lured us like a tourist beacon on an uncommonly overcast day.  A two mile, serpentine train ride through the historic plantation of pineapples was an affordable attraction that would – most importantly- immobilize my toddler tag-alongs by sheer centrifugal force, if not by their own will. Within moments, Kincaid was singled out by the conductor as an “improper behavior on a locomotive” example. That’s my boy. Disappointingly, the ride was like touring a wasteland, since the pineapples had just been harvested.  However, the lovely military wife sitting adjacent to us was quickly (and perhaps providentially) accosted by mom and found to be informative and conservative -Not incongruous qualities.  She dispelled the myth that Hawaiian food was delicious and that lizards ruled the island with a webbed fist. It’s actually Geckos that do, which puts a prettier face on their tyranny thanks to Geico.  

After the less than thrilling tour de tourist trap, Kincaid escaped through a narrow passage in a wall of shrubbery, contoured for gnomes and mischievous toddlers into- wait for it- the WORLD’s LARGEST MAZE. seriously.  Thankfully, my wild shrieking like a crazy white girl from Philly seemed to do the trick and blessedly, Kincaid deigned to exit through the narrowest passage way into my angry arms. Since then, I have stuffed his chunky stubborn self into the Baby Bjorn. Yes, he is over the weight limit. Frankly, it was this or a leash and the leash provided him too much latitude for the repetition of behaviors like this and the ingestion of dog food. So, I ply him with Crustables and Lil' Wayne and he is in paradise.