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.
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.
posted by kyle at 9:53 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home