“Get around that truck before someone flies off and lands in front of our van,” my father advised. “Can we get into the HOV lane?”
Yes we can, I decided after reading a sign that defined a high occupancy vehicle as one containing two people. Now that was different from California-not to mention the fact that the other cars here easily made way for us to merge into the diamond-marked lane. I was almost shocked by the courtesy. Perhaps this was an example of ‘Drive with Aloha’, a message I had seen on an electronic traffic message board a few miles back.
After passing the town of Waipahu, speed picked up. Most of the cars had defected to a north-bound freeway. The traffic jam was over, and there were fewer stores and houses along the freeway, just dry brown land marked with sparse trees, rocks, and the occasional large burnt-black expanse. There must have been some brush fires here, I thought, and then yearned a bit for the lush green north-east section of Oahu where most of my botany course had taken place. Uncle Hiroshi had been kind enough to undertake the search for our housing, but obviously he didn’t know that he was booking on the non-tropical side.
H-1 West ended, and I was now driving a one-lane road called Farrington Highway. Farrington was a big name on the island, that of one of the most influential governors of Oahu, and founder of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin newspaper. My reverie was broken by a hand-lettered sign propped on the right side of the road. It read, FRESH COLD LYCHEE. Twenty feet later, a second sign entreated, YOU WANT? followed by the final enticement: SO SWEET! I slowed slightly to get a look at a man hunched in the payload of a dusty truck sorting fruit.
The next signs I saw were official ones: Kainani, 7 miles. And on the left, there was a sign for Laaloa Street, and a postage-stamp-sized neighborhood of older, unmatched houses, the antithesis of the large, sterile housing developments we’d passed between Honolulu and Waipahu. As Edwin turned off to his neighborhood he stuck a fist out the window and wagged it, his pinkie and thumb skyward.
“What does he mean?” Hiroshi wondered aloud. “Are we doing something wrong?”
“No, no, Ojisan!” I explained to him that the shaka sign was a greeting that supposedly originated with a plantation laborer who’d lost some fingers in the line of work. People waved back to him making their own hand signals two-fingered ones, as a show of respect. Now the shaka sign was the standard wave used everywhere in Hawaii.
The exit to Kainani was hard to miss: a hibiscus-edged, Japanese-style arched bridge. As I slowly took the exit, which crossed back over the highway to the ocean, the yellow-brown landscape dissolved into a Technicolor golf course. To my left was a large pond where lazy black swans pecked around the edge; to the right was a gated community of grand, 1920s-modeled villas the color of orange sherbet.
We’d all rolled down our windows long ago, a reaction to the car’s non-functioning air-conditioning, and now trade winds gently rippled through the minivan. Trade winds, one of the prettiest phrases I knew.
“This place was built by a Japanese developer,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “It’s as pretty as in the Internet photographs, I think. Is it all right for you?”
“It’s lovely,” I said. Despite my belief in supporting native plant landscaping, I was secretly relieved that we wouldn’t be staying in the middle of a brown field. “You can’t always believe what you see or read on the Internet, but this looks postcard perfect.”
“Check out the golf course,” Tom said. “Eighteen holes, and the golf club is supposed to have one of the island’s top Japanese restaurants.”
“Top Japanese restaurants are expensive,” my father said. “Rei will be happy to cook; why, she’s been cooking for me this last month and I’ve lost five pounds.”
“That’s not much of an argument for my cooking,” I said, thinking that what had seemed like an act of love, feeding my father, might feel a little different if I was doing it non-stop for three men. “I just hope the kitchen has some pots and pans.”
“The kitchen is quite luxurious, I think. Would you care to see the photographs?” Tom started rummaging in his carry-on bag.
“Not now, thanks. Security’s ready to talk to us,” I said, because the cars ahead of us had all been cleared and now it was my turn to introduce myself at Kainani’s gatehouse.
After I’d given our name and the street address of the house we were renting, a handsome young man in a green-and-gold aloha shirt and trim khaki shorts handed me directions and an envelope with keys to our house on Plumeria Place. Plumeria was the name of the particular flower in the parking attendant’s hair, I remembered. Hawaii was coming back to me, fast.
I drove a half-mile farther, passing the Kainani Inn, a sprawling modern hotel on the beach side of the road. On the left was the fabled golf course, where a cluster of golfers had gathered to watch someone swing.
“Michelle Wie!” Uncle Hiroshi started thumping on his window, as if the star teenage golfer might wave. She didn’t notice, so I was forced to stop the car in order that Tom and Uncle Hiroshi could run to the golf course with a digital camera.
After ten minutes Hiroshi and Tom returned to the minivan, full of bubbly excitement over the young star. Finally we turned left at the small road cutting through the golf course that led to an elaborate iron gate with fancy pineapple designs and the name of the housing area, Pineapple Plantation. As the Aloha team member who’d given me the key had instructed, I waved the house key over a sensor and the gates parted to reveal a neighborhood of simple gray clapboard houses, each with a wraparound white wooden porch called a lanai. Another gorgeous word that had returned to my memory. Despite my intentions, I was really getting excited about being in Hawaii.
“Well done, Rei-chan!” Tom said, practically jumping out of the car when I’d pulled into the driveway. I slowly got out of the car, still studying the house. It was clearly part of a mass development, but its simple, well-balanced design was architecturally pleasing, albeit American. The only factor that made these homes feel Polynesian was the landscaping: vigorous shrubs like ginger, breadfruit trees, and several species of palm. Thick banks of orange- spotted lauae ferns lined the walkway to the house, not quite covering the sprinkler heads set into the ground. I smelled plumeria everywhere, its dainty white blooms on small trees that looked as if they’d been planted only recently.
Inside, the house plan was modern. The heart of the home was a high-ceilinged kitchen with granite counters and stainless appliances including a professional-looking juicer. As my father exclaimed over it, I looked past the pot rack hanging with anodized aluminum pans and across the neutrally furnished living room to huge windows showing views of the beautiful green lawns. So this is what you could get on the Leeward Side of Oahu for four thousand dollars a month-not bad, if you compared it to the cost of a Waikiki double.
Two bedrooms and baths were upstairs, one of which would be for Hiroshi and my father, and the other for Tom. I would sleep downstairs in my own bedroom, which was delightful because the room had its own lanai. Instead of using the downstairs air-conditioner, I could turn on the fan over my bed and open the sliding lanai door to the trade winds.
I lay down on my bed, intending to close my eyes only briefly. The ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead, and trade winds came through the sliding doors I’d opened to the garden. I heard the sound of a strange bird singing its evening song, and the laughter of children somewhere farther away.
Through my slightly opened bedroom door, I overheard my father speaking Japanese on the telephone, probably to someone at the hotel’s Japanese restaurant. Yes, he was ordering sashimi, rice, and of course, miso soup. In some corner of my consciousness, I remembered that my father shouldn’t eat miso because of the sodium levels. But I was too tired to intervene, too tired to do anything but lose myself in the soft purple twilight.
5
IT WAS FIVE-THIRTY when I woke-eight-thirty in the morning, California time-and I felt marvelous. I’d slept through dinner, and apparently everything else. And now, as soon as it was light, I would get to run.
I pulled on melon-colored shorts and a red running tank and my socks, and walked out to the empty, dark kitchen. After swigging two glasses of water and brushing my teeth, I went through my running stretches. I tucked a house key and a ten-dollar bill into the ankle-strap wallet I used for running, and then I was off.
The sun was rising, and already the pretty boulevards of Kainani were filling up. Elderly couples power-walked, young singles jogged, and fathers and mothers pushed strollers. Asian and Caucasian golfers cruised along in their
