Prop Preparations

I spent this morning in the very heart of the illusion of Hawaii: at one of the upper-end resorts for breakfast.

My dad gave me gift certificates to the place at Christmastime, which I happen to know a friend bought for him because the friend and I chatted about it. Why has it taken me this long to use the gifts, and why did my dad give them away in the first place? Because the resorts are at the heart of the lie about what is paradise.

Breakfast: I ordered lilikoi iced tea (passion fruit juice and tea mixed) and a fresh fruit plate with yogurt. The waitress and waiters were all in their attire, in the attitude of servility, but the illusion was falling apart all around them. Like watching magicians expose themselves, I watched as this resort maintained its smoke and mirrors. First, the tea was foggy (rancid), so I ordered coffee (hey, I'm using gift certificates… and may want to use them up on one trip.) The coffee came French Press style, but I could sense that we were dressing up Maxwell House. Sure enough, it was as I predicted. Just north of Kona, for $8 a cup you cannot buy good coffee.

The fresh fruit plate came, and because of rising fuel expenses, it was (AT LAST!) a combination of fine tropical fruits. Typically the resorts bring in melons, berries, and bananas from Mexico. This time, I got fresh mango, papaya, and pineapple in a generous portion. It's the first sign that the fuel crisis could bring positive change. The fruit plate was supposed to be served with yogurt. My waitress was busy using a plastic bar cup with soapy solution and a toothbrush to scrub off bird and gekko poop from the woven chairs. I interrupted her absorbing work to ask if maybe they were out of yogurt. She came back with a plastic container of Meadow Gold and put it on the table for me with much apology. Nice. And no spoon.

To my left, tree trimmers were dropping fronds with bases wider than the worker's hands, crashing to the ground with a whack as I sat there with other visitors, a few feet away.

Apparently, the sound system had been giving them trouble as well, since a variety of old standby Hawaiian music drifted off and on, in and out of the milieu. At one point, a song about ancient warriors conquering the islands and "what would the Alii think of the islands now?" came into play, and I wondered how it all got this crazy. A song written to question all that presently surrounded me was being used to test a sound system for a Disney production of "Day in Hawaii." My head was spinning.

So, I paid for my $25 fruits, took my leave of the restaurant, and headed for whatever was next. I ended up in a lounge in the same resort, Koa floors and railing surrounding me. The art on the wall was made by a friend and printmaker in town, and I'm sure that many of the elements in the work came from our shop. At last, some sort of human connection came into form. The music playing as ambience, "Kohala", is what I would call Hawaiian massage music. Very mellow and idealistic view-inducing.

I watched as a man stood on a ladder and polished the copper tiki torch housings. As the mowers, weed eaters, and frond shredders whirred outside the elevated and empty lanai, I wondered about what we're polishing. I thought about the illusion. You can't really trick people with a dirty mirror. What are we trying to hide? What do we want to see? Why don't we want to see things as they are?