Peter Phillips (editor), "Censored 2001"
This is part one of an eleven-part story about Kaua�i. Part six of the story is here. The rest, you�ll have to find on your own.
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Time to try to finally lay down what happened with Kaua�i � The sequel. From how I feel right now, I highly doubt I�ll finish writing about the whole trip tonight, but I may as well get started on it.
As a warning, since I already talked about a lot of things Hawaii-related last year, I don�t want to repeat, nor can I avoid the allusions to what happened last time around. In other words, there is no happy medium. When in doubt, check with last year�s entries. And if that doesn�t help, I would suggest drinking.
It works for me.
Due to the events at the Oakland airport last year (see? I�m already referring to that!), I have decided that I will never, EVER step foot in the Oakland airport again. Still, despite routing through a different airline and a different entry point, this trip was doomed to fail.
It was only obvious, as my flight dates were changed do to my not having the energy to fight the system after their website freaked out on me. So I�m now routed through the San Francisco airport, albeit four days earlier than my sister is scheduled to come.
That�s fine as I think of it, though � My sister and I may get along now after years of being at each other�s throats, but we�ve also never been around each other for a week at a time. We may be tempting fate spending three days in a row together as it is.
Still though, my flight once again leaves early in the morning, meaning I can�t think of any person who would be willing to take me. I think about utilizing the same plan as last year. After all, my friend runs a bar in SF, so if I go see her and take a taxi at closing time, I would be at SFO just in time for check in. But I remember what happened with my brilliant plan last time around, and I instead call a supershuttle from San Jose to SFO.
See, ladies and gentlemen? He can be taught!
Still, with my precautions, I can�t seem to get to sleep. I�ve always dealt with this before taking any kind of big trip. Some people can�t think of anything but the day they�re about to leave. I go the opposite way and barely think about it. The philosophy goes that I�ll try to enjoy my time wherever I am while I�m here, and when I go somewhere else, then I�ll be excited to be there.
It sounds romantic, and very, very zen, but it really just means that I�m lazy and unimaginative.
Anyhoo, as I said, I�ve always been like this. So I didn�t even bother to pack until about eight hours prior to departure, which is about the same time that I realized all my clothes were dirty and I don�t know where any of the things I need are; things like contact lens solution and my wallet. I spend the rest of the time running around trying to get ready. All of this means I got no sleep whatsoever.
The first time I went on tour with PTL, I stayed up all night packing and washing clothes, and still couldn�t sleep, so instead I called everyone I knew at six in the morning, only to say, �Hi! I just wanted you to know that I�m leaving very soon for three weeks, so I thought I�d say goodbye, and wake you the fuck up. And if you�re pissed about me calling at six in the morning, too bad, as I said I�m just getting ready to leave so you can�t do anything it.�
Of course, my old co-worker Blake, just one of the people I did this to, hopped in his car, drove all the way from the East Side of San Jose and punched my in the stomach when I walked out the front door to leave.
I don�t do the phone calls anymore.
Anyway, I finished packing, managed to get three hours of sleep, and got in the supershuttle. We arrived at SFO at the exact suggested check in time, and after dealing with security, I had just enough time to by one very overpriced and under liquored Bloody Mary from the airport bar. I boarded the plane and read this book half-heartedly, thinking this entire beginning of my journey was going much too smoothly, and waited for an engine to flame out.
That didn�t happen either. Oh well, the sequel is always not as good as the original, no?
The flight was totally uneventful, and I disembarked, collected my luggage, and waited by the curb. My father wasn�t there. Now I thought it would get interesting. After all, last year I spent 25 hours in the Oakland airport. Now I could foresee spending at least 12 stuck in the baggage claim of Kaua�i. But then I saw the car that could only be a car my father would rent; after streams of new, bright, new, shiny convertibles and SUV�s, an old, loud, rusted Toyota, rumbled in the distance. That must be my ride.
My father jumped out and stuck his finger in the spot where there used to be a lock mechanism for the trunk, finally popping it open. �Oh man, what a day I�ve had!� he said. �I missed the first bus, then the next bus was late. Then I snapped my sandals walking to the car rental place, so I had to walk to Salvation Army to find some new ones, only they didn�t have ANY that we�re in my size. Then the rental place didn�t have a car for us, and they got this one, but the guy wanted to fix the trunk, so I was there for over an hour while he tried to fix it...�
I now know what side of the family I get my luck from.
