Hawaii Diary: Day 6

All the information we found about stargazing on the Big Island at Onizuka Observatory said that conditions are only unfavorable two to three days a month. Unfortunately, one of them was our Day 6. It was also rainy as ass and kind of cold, so we decided to drive into Kona and walk around. We started back at the Kona Brewing Co. for lunch. Still so freaking good.

Then we went over to Kona International Market, where we gawped at all the cheap, shitty t-shirts and island-y crap, but did pop for a bamboo tiki lamp for Glark and a pair of chocolate Crocs for me. We went on from there to Hula Lamps Of Hawaii, which was a mistake, because it was then that I learned that hula lamps actually do the hula: there’s a switch on the base, and when you turn it on, the lamp’s hips swivel back and forth, awesomely. A hula lamp then became all I ever wanted in life. “Why didn’t you just buy one, then?” I would have, dear reader. But for some reason they cost like $700. That’s a lot of money to spend on kitsch. They were rad, though. And if you were especially modest, you could buy little fabric bikini tops no bigger than your pinkie to cover up their scandalously naked boobies; Glark said they should be called “Ashcrofts.”

We made our way down closer to the shoreline, parked, and started walking. It didn’t last long, because…raining. But we did get to see even more crappy souvenir shops — and bought me a rather nice aloe-green hoodie with “HAWAII” on it. There was also an abortive search for a straw cowboy hat for me — Glark claimed his looks good on me, even though I have a giant head and therefore a hard time wearing hats — but it didn’t work out. One last stop at Jamba Juice, Starbucks, and Wendy’s (for salads to bring back to the room), and we headed back.

At the hotel, the tram wasn’t at the front lobby, so we set out to walking (about a ten-minute trek, even at our fairly brisk pace). All the traffic heading in the opposite direction consisted of men at the resort for some sort of conference of food packagers, and their wives, on their way to a reception, which treated us to quite the cross-section of middle American “business casual” dress. Not so interesting with the dudes — they were all in thin pants and loose-fitting short-sleeved buttondowns in drab, assiduously heterosexual colours; Glark imagined them telling their wives, while packing, “Don’t forget my best slackatinos!” — but the ladies were decked out in any number of light-coloured capris, sensible flat sandals, wrap tops, stretchy rhinestoned knits, drapey cardigans, just wave upon wave of it. A few of the guys who were clearly on their second, sluttier wives were in short cargo skirts and too-low-cut black tank tops, like Catherine O’Hara in the reception scene in Best In Show, in her scoop-neck top with her name tag stuck right on her chest. Awesome.