The Color of Sunscreen

Is it reasonable for me to complain that I have been to Hawaii too many times? Even if it’s not, I am still going to complain; I have been to Hawaii too many times. Out of a whole planet of potential vacation destinations (Morocco, Iceland, New Zealand, Oaxaca, Toledo, Laughlin), why do I keep ending up on stinking Waikiki Beach? Enough already. I have experienced the International Marketplace with its seven dollar incredible shrinking beach towels and engraved Zippo lighters, and its booths where you can buy the chance to find a pearl inside of a poor sad oyster who is too young to say “ah.” I’ve been to Hanauma Bay and snorkeled in a solution of 60% seawater 40% sunscreen and snapped murky pictures with a disposable underwater camera. I’ve traveled the road to Hana (that one’s on Maui). In fact, I’ve been nearly run off the road to Hana by an angry Hawaiian in a raised up 4x4 with those round lights all in a row on the roll bar (the official truck of rural Hawaii). He was angry because there was a traffic jam on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; 36,000 tourists in rented Chevrolet Cobalts (the official sedan of rental car company fleets) all driving this two lane highway that he, an actual resident of Maui, also had to travel. Maybe he was extra cranky because of his low paying service sector job, or the astronomical house prices in his neighborhood, or the second-rate education provided by his public schools. I don’t know. But whatever the cause of his frustration, its result was the use of his four wheel drive capability to crush the roofs and hoods of these poor mainland schmucks, monster truck style. That’s a lie. But I am telling the truth when I say that I had (and have since) never seen such intimidating use of a vehicle and a voice to move traffic out of someone’s bleeping way. Not even in the Target parking lot.
So OK, I know that Hawaii is not all horrible tourist trap nastiness. I promise. I’ve seen Jurassic Park, and a few minutes of that show Lost on a couple of occasions. But when I flew to Oahu last weekend for my second equatorial resort destination wedding this year (I went to Panama in February, remember? remember? Didn’t you read my column on March 9th?), I was struck by the sad and ego-deflating fact that it is only in these tourist trap locations that I fit in. I think it has to do with the color of my feet. Or maybe it’s my face, arms, legs, torso and hands, all of which are impressively pale, even by mainland standards. But when I arrive at a Pacific Island, my Caucasiosity becomes my most defining characteristic by far. I am the color of sunscreen. I stop traffic. There is just no possible way for me to fit in. Even when I am eating a shaved ice with those little red beans in it, and I am wearing clothes that my Hawaiian friend has loaned me from his closet, and I am sprinkling key phrases from the guidebook into conversation, people still ask me if I am enjoying my trip. Where am I staying? Have I been to Pearl Harbor?
All things considered, this epidermal self-consciousness is probably a healthy experience for little old white boy me. But it is not exactly something I would classify as “fun.” And it is getting harder and harder for me to justify spending hundreds of dollars to obtain it over and over and over. I get it. I am not cool. I don’t belong on the beach. I have a fanny pack with spf 50 and sugarless gum. I am the stereotype. And the only solution I can come up with for my problem is this; if I want people to be wrong about the assumptions they make when they look at me in Hawaii, I am just going to have to move there - with a shipping container of Coppertone Water Babies Sunscreen in the pink spray bottle. That’ll show ‘em.

Goats

When you have a daughter who is almost three, your life does this funny thing where all of the stuff that used to be astonishing and crazy becomes normal, and all of the stuff that used to be normal becomes astonishing and crazy. Can you provide specifics please, dear bi-weekly columnist? You ask. OK, here:
Me: “Hello beautiful kind wife. How was your day?”
Beautiful Kind Wife: “It was nice. We went to the park. Your daughter swung on the swings and slid on the slides then she took off all her clothes and peed on the grass. After that we had lunch and…”
Two years ago, nudity and urination outside of the confines of a bathroom would have been cause for consternation, alarm, shock, astonishment. Today, I hardly even notice. Lying in the mud? Drinking it? Nothing.
On the other hand, things that used to go nearly unnoticed now result in Oprah-sized celebrations. Like for example, have you seen this fantastic machine called a “Dustbuster?” If you press the button, all of the Kix cereal on the rug gets sucked away like magic! Or spackle, have you heard of this? You put it on the wall. The wall. With a knife!
So the other day, we were all out doing our happy stroller family health walk in the foothills when we found something that nearly blew all of our minds right out of our skulls. There were goats! They were right next to the road and down there in the ravine. Of course we stopped next to the electric fence and entered into a lengthy dialog about the goats and why the goats were there and what the goats were eating and why we don’t touch the goats and the coyotes that don’t eat the goats because of the dogs that are with the goats. It was a sort of panel discussion with many questions coming from the audience, which consisted of a single 2.75 year old female who could not have been more riveted.
Then, as we were standing there beside the road, admiring the goats, all of our dreams came true. Jorge the goat man (he said it, not me) pulled up in his Subaru Outback with a “Jesus Saves” three-dimensional decal. He said hi and told us that he was Jorge the goat man (told you), and he offered to take us down to meet the goats. (!!) Come to find out, these goats are professionals. They clear brush and prevent fires. The neighborhood homeowners all pitched in to hire the goats to eat their poison oak (what must that be like?) so they can avoid fire department fines. Jorge’s friend Jose whistled the goats into the chain link holding pen, and along with Jorge, began feeding them alfalfa and oats, and something called “sweet licks.” The goats mobbed Jose and he had to kick them in their bellies to keep from being trampled. It was wonderful.
Jorge was not shy. In about four minute’s time we learned that he is a happily married Christian philosophical goat man. He told us that “the goats are like the world. They are selfish and petty and they’ll stab you in the back.” And I believed him. When I looked one of the goats in the eye, I could tell that he wanted to cut me. Jorge said that we were sheep, and up above is our shepherd. I asked him what the dogs were. He said they were Great Pyrenees. He made us smell the alfalfa. Meanwhile, just on the other side of the fence, there were 140 South African Boer goats and Spanish goats kicking the snot out of each other just to get a mouthful of something not poisonous. It was basically the best day ever.