Reflections on Waikiki During the Holidays
This trip had been interesting. Simultaneously moving at a blistering pace but with a languid posture. This night I decided to go out shopping for gifts to bring home to the lady. I’d visited my local friend down the street again, went for another beach walk, and for a while there my eyes were pretty dry and red (forgot the drops from the other night). It’s always interesting hiding among people, trying not to subject them to your particular idiosyncrasies and decisions. Whenever there’s something about your face you’d rather not make a spectacle of, take advantage of cultural differences and congregate among Japanese. They have a wonderful cultural custom of not looking you in the eye all the goddamn time. Duck through from the beach to get out of the sudden tropical drizzle, choose a hotel known in Waikiki to be patronized mainly by those from the far east, and you’ll move through it’s lobby like a spectre. Just don’t mess it up by getting cocky or obnoxious. Don’t do that— be responsible. “Be good to the game and the game will be good to you” is what Filmore Slim always says.
As I walked through the lobby, listening to the Japanese people speak their beautiful, geometric language, I was struck by an interesting thought. I’d gotten so used to understanding another language (Spanish) at home, having that new dimension of understanding, that the unintelligible nature of the language I was hearing was more prominent than ever. I missed Spanish. I wanted to speak it. I speak it with my lady, with my friends, and a bunch of people around town, even at work I admit it’s fun to watch yourself get better at something which is a decidedly large undertaking. Defeating shyness is a daily battle, though.
In Hawaii, you can count on hearing the song Brown Eyed Girl at least twice in a week from different places…usually more like four times a week— the Haoles love it. It beckons the sunburned tourists off the streets and into their respective bars and grills, to be lulled into a rum-soaked swoon, giving them, if just for a second, an escape from their worries, their emails, their daily grind. Cocktails, acoustic/electric guitars being played by white guys with pony tails, the clinking of forks on dishes and plates on servers’ arms, laughter, bad dancing, good times.
Meanwhile, out on the streets, the hookers were out. It was Sunday and the shops were closing. The hookers, however, still had ten toes down, beating up the turf trying to have’em something. I may be a square, but I’m no trick, and so when the work comes out, I go in. Stay outdoors and get a stretch-marked pair of boobs (with an ace of spades tattoo on the left side) shoved in your face. I almost got checked into the wall by a particularly aggressive working girl and decided that was my signal from the “game”, the deities of pimpin’ had decreed that I find my way to my hotel, lest I pay to play. “It’s best I get indoors,” I thought. “They frighten easily but they’ll be back…and in greater numbers.”
The beach really is beautiful in Waikiki. The trade winds blow the trees in slow motion; the sound of the wind in the palm fronds mixes with the sound of the waves into a constant whisper: “Sshhh” like a mother calming her child or a concubine calming a warlord in his opium den. I love the thought of being in the islands during the holidays. The small price you pay is that, although you’re on vacation from your usual life, you can’t escape that goddamn, unceasing Christmas music. Now, I don’t hate Christmas music because of the “Christmas” vs. “Holidays” issue. I’m a Buddhist but please, cut the shit and just call it Christmas. Trust me, I won’t get mad that you’re calling the holiday by it’s actual name. It’s like trying to be nice to single people by calling Valentine’s day “Jubilous Greeting Card Day”. No me chingues guey. Fuck off with your “holiday tree,” “holiday presents,” “holiday cards,” and your “Holiday Gift Delivery Technicianperson” (If they ever actually call Santa Clause by that name, I’m starting a cult and moving to Thailand). Please, just be nice to people about the traits they can’t control, and call it a day.
No, It’s not because the idea of “Christmas” offends me that I hate Christmas music. I hate it because it’s always there. Wherever you go. Public bathrooms, malls, coffee shops, holding cells, everywhere. Oh look, Miley Cyrus wanted to sing the Christmas hits. I wonder if her version is better than Rosanne’s haunting rendition of “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland”? Plus, when was the last time you saw a traveling minister named “Parson Brown” who marries couples in small towns without churches? Irrelevant. Seriously, how many ways can you sing the same 9 songs?
Well, after leaving the islands, you’ll know that there are a least 200 more ways to sing them, and they all have an island theme: slack key guitar, ukelele, and smooth falsetto vocals. Usually that’s the recipe for sinking into a reverie of beautiful island bliss but when it’s used to sing about a one-horse open sleigh (in Hawaii, useless), it’s a recipe for a headache. And, for some reason, Elvis’ holiday music makes me suspicious, as does his Hawaiian shtick. Sorry to be so Scrooge-ish about it because I know some people who wait excitedly all year just to hear Christmas music. If you like it, more power to you! I wish I had your perspective but I don’t. I love Christmas, just not the music.
But, for now, like all other gripes, this gets washed away in the “Sshhh” of the trees and ocean, and if you take is slow enough, you might be able to let the beauty outside turn you inward and give you a chance to look at your true soul, which is probably in the same condition as the cracked, maroon seats in the retired “limo” we took from the airport to the hotel. For once, though, your inner-self can breathe that warm, liquor and flower scented sea air and get back to zero. People go back to their normal lives and perhaps can take a step without tripping from the step before it. Sometimes that’s all you need.
Thoughts from a couch, in front of a “Holiday Tree” in a hotel lobby, Waikiki Beach, Honolulu, Hawaii.
