"You're going to love it. The islands are so relaxed," everyone said.
On the plane from Denver to Kona a Hawaiian man reached his seat, stowed his luggage and then took off his sweat pants. "This is Island styole," he grinned. (He was wearing shorts underneath, we were pleased to note.)
Another man gave up his seat so Sophia and I could sit together. "This is the Island way," he smiled.
When we landed in Kona eleven hours later the first thing we did was collect our bags. Then we dragged them towards the rental car shuttle.
Next thing DIH knows a grown man is screaming in her face.
"HEY! HEY, YOU!!! YOU THINK A RENTAL CAR IS WORTH GETTING KILLED FOR? CROSS AT THE CROSSWALK!"
There were a) no cars in sight and b) several others dashing for thier buses. But the man's hat said "Police," which I guess grants him certain privileges, not to say hallucinations.
Needless to say, this was not exactly the "aloha" DIH was expecting. But she did not spend all those years in Queens for nothing. She knows when to keep silent and deprive the hostile force of the pleasure of an argument, save for the loud and obvious chewing of her Chiclets. And the withering look. At least she hopes it was withering.
She proceeded to her bus. Where the driver, in shorts and loud Hawaiian shirt, decided to take up the refrain.
"You shouldn't cross the street like that. Cars are dangerous." etc etc.
The lecture continued until I felt compelled to point out I was from New York and knew all about cars. The shuttle driver was undeterred. "I was in New York once. Long time ago. 1964 World's Fair."
"It's changed," I said.
"Yes? But CARS STILL HURT," he said triumphantly.
"Yes," sighed DIH. "And cops are still jerks."