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11/24/2004: "Hawaii Day 1"
NOTE: The pics will be here in a day or two. Check back.
**
I hate flying. I hate airplanes. I hate flying. The French suck too. And they make
airplanes.
Somehow, this simple mantra is the only thing keeping me sane. My fiance, Wood Nymph, and I are 36,000 feet in the air, somewhere over New Mexico, about three hours into this eight and a half hour nightmare called a plane flight. It's Wednesday, October 13, 2004. We are going to Hawaii to be married at a private estate on a beach in Waikiki on Friday. It's going to be the most wonderful event ever, a beautiful joyous occasion filled with family, friends, and love. If we don't die in a fiery crash on the way there.
Nymph is happily enjoying the melodrama that is The Notebook, and eating whatever ridiculously nice food they serve up here in First Class. Me?
I hate flying. I hate airplanes. I hate flying.
The cabin itself does seem to help. Nice big leather recliners, leg room to spare, and let's not forget the drink service. Why yes, I will have another glass of wine. Could you maybe mix some Bourbon in there? My central nervous system demands a little respect when flying. Respect the Bourbon, Tame the Flying.
The individual movie screens are a bonus, too. The Greatness and I once had individual screens on our first trip to Japan, but that was in coach on a brand new British Airways plane. This is a beat-up old Delta 747. It's impressive that it even has a movie screen for the whole crowd, much less the individual ones for First Class. Well, at least it's not an Airbus. Those Frenchies - make a damn plane outof plastic and then get all confused when the tail breaks off mid-flight. Brilliant!
Wood Nymph had brought her Wedding Dress and my suit (not a tux, a casual but elegant black suit) in the cabin with us, so that if our luggage was lost, the wedding could still proceed. She asked one of the gentlemen up front where she could hang the garment bag, not knowing that he was a co-pilot (the wings on the lapel were not the giveaway you might think thay'd be, not to my love!). This interaction turned into our first of many wedding freebees - the flight attendent later brought us a bottle of Merlot as a gift from the crew.
That Ryan Gosling guy is still on the screen. He's not too bad. He should make a real movie instead of this crap. I bet he took this role just so he could make out with Scarlett Johanson.
The Notebook. Shrek 2. Dodgeball. Something else I can't remember right now. It takes four movies, two meals (including one with names I can't pronounce, much less spell), and a freakin' hard right vector at the edge of the runway to get us down. The flight patterns at this airport are for psychopaths. Like those people who enjoy flying.
But hey, we're down. Counts for something.
The Honolulu International Airport is actually a very nice airport. Some of it is outdoors, in traditional Hawaiian fashion. Wood Nymph's family came in on the same plane (stuck in coach, the poor souls) and we meet up with them and procure our luggage. From there, we catch the bus to the car rental place.
At the counter, we find that the stereotypical "California Dude" has migrated to Hawaii. I angle for an upgrade, but the Mustang is too much, and we are not interested in the Sebring Convertible that he offers. I later discover that Nymph and I are the only ones on the island that are not interested in the Sebring. Something like 20% of the cars in Hawaii are Sebring convertibles. Frankly, I'm surprised you can get them on the mainland.
The Dude attempts to get me to sign up for some $18 a day insurance plan. The credit card covers almost everything anyway, but he's really pushy. I decline. We head to our fabulous, bright blue 2004 Dodge Neon, with 4 cylinders of pure, unadulterated power. Top speed: 19.5 mph. I mention to Wood Nymph that it was really strange that the guy kept pushing that insurance so hard. I figure it's a commission thing. I mean, surely there aren't a lot of accidents in this tropical paradise.
Great Jumping Billow Beasts! These drivers are crazy! The twenty minute drive to our hotel makes the plane flight look like a swedish massage. Approximately every seventeen seconds, another Hawaiian nut job takes aim at our Neon. Driving a Neon in Honolulu is like wearing a sign that says, "Hit Me, I'm a tourist!" Of course, it could be worse. We could be driving a Sebring Convertible.
The roads are so bad and the traffic so horrendous that this year's mayoral race in Honolulu was based entirely on one issue - the traffic. I haven't checked, but I'm guessing the incumbent lost.
We manage to make our way to Waikiki and we get to our hotel - The Sheraton Waikiki. It's a luxurious place, and we got some kind of loopy deal because Bill Shatner over at Priceline had dropped some X in his kool-aid the day we got our reservations. On top of that, the awesome lady at the counter said she would do her best to hook us up with a better room, since we were getting married here. As it happens, half the hotel was either getting married or on their honeymoon, but she came through the next day with an awesome upgrade.
The room is nice. Wood Nymph is staying here and I'll be staying with my parents until the wedding.
We take a quck look around the downtown area near our Hotel. Every six feet, another ABC Store. Literally, seven locations in a one block radius from our hotel. And all of them doing insane business.
I see Hawaiian Collector's Edition Spam. I've been looking for this, because my friends and I have a bit of a Spam collection. It's $4.25. I think to myself, I'll get it cheaper somewhere else. This is a big mistake that will cost a fair amount of money to remedy, but I don't realize this until the last day of the trip. Stupid me.
They also have Spam Musubis. It's some sort of rice cake with a piece of Spam on top, like Sushi. It's served warm, unlike Sushi. It's not bad, but the Hot Dog Musubi and the Barbecue Chicken Musibi are probably better, particularly if you can't handle the Spam. Mmmmm, Spam.
We meet up with Nymph's Dad and Sister for food. But we are so tired from the travel (our body clocks are now at about 3:00am on a very long day), so we can't decide on food. It literally takes almost an hour to make this simple decision. Finally, we decide on Pizza. The cool, long-haired Asian guy looks a lot like the jackass guitar player in my high school band, but he's much nicer and not so much a jackass. We tell him that we woke up in Georgia and we are getting married on Friday. He gives us free beverages, because he is cool and we are worthy. The pizza is good, but the food in Hawaii only gets better from here.
After this, Wood Nymph and I can barely walk. We are soooooo tired. She goes to the room and I whip out the Mapquest directions and make my way to the house that my parents are staying at. My mother is putting together some things for the Rehearsal Dinner tomorrow. My father is fiddling with his laptop. I left mine at home.
I eye the couch warily, and then lie down. My mother wants to talk. As I drift off to sleep, I think she says something like, "So how was your flight?"
I hate airplanes.