No thanks, I think I'll keep my seat...
Kona, Hawaii
December 23, 2007
The reason I’m in Starbucks today isn’t because I want coffee, but because it’s the only place on the island cold enough to dawn my wool hat. As the propellers of Island Air flight 1281 with non-stop service to Kona fired up this morning, the sky was a haze of grey with a hint of lazy Hawaiian warmth peaking out from behind. When the engines were all in and the wheels were spun as one with the ground a burst of tropical rain let loose from the sky and immersed the island in the stifling yet radiant brilliance of the most remote nearly divine paradise on earth. We flew across the island and as I looked out the window I realized that Hilo is but an extension of the infestation abound on the island. The mere truth of the matter holds that the place is set in the middle of the pacific ocean, absolutely separate from the rest of the world and inhabited by those who are part of the culture, but only because they work as a unit and represent the jungle which they are both of. In Hilo I ordered coffee from a woman who had worked and lived in Hilo for all her life save a short visit to Orlando. She was impressed by the portly nature of the place, as those without native blood are intrigued by an island in the middle of the ocean on a map. On occasion those who venture into the islands feel isolated, secluded and distant, when in reality it would take days, weeks, even months to explore that which is hidden deep beneath the Hawaiian jungle. Perhaps it is this idea, the misfit nature of the common man on a place so foreign and intimidating, that one would feel claustrophobic in a world built beyond the means of man. And so I dawn my hat and prepare my exit, back into the place where things make sense and seasons change with time.
December 23, 2007
The reason I’m in Starbucks today isn’t because I want coffee, but because it’s the only place on the island cold enough to dawn my wool hat. As the propellers of Island Air flight 1281 with non-stop service to Kona fired up this morning, the sky was a haze of grey with a hint of lazy Hawaiian warmth peaking out from behind. When the engines were all in and the wheels were spun as one with the ground a burst of tropical rain let loose from the sky and immersed the island in the stifling yet radiant brilliance of the most remote nearly divine paradise on earth. We flew across the island and as I looked out the window I realized that Hilo is but an extension of the infestation abound on the island. The mere truth of the matter holds that the place is set in the middle of the pacific ocean, absolutely separate from the rest of the world and inhabited by those who are part of the culture, but only because they work as a unit and represent the jungle which they are both of. In Hilo I ordered coffee from a woman who had worked and lived in Hilo for all her life save a short visit to Orlando. She was impressed by the portly nature of the place, as those without native blood are intrigued by an island in the middle of the ocean on a map. On occasion those who venture into the islands feel isolated, secluded and distant, when in reality it would take days, weeks, even months to explore that which is hidden deep beneath the Hawaiian jungle. Perhaps it is this idea, the misfit nature of the common man on a place so foreign and intimidating, that one would feel claustrophobic in a world built beyond the means of man. And so I dawn my hat and prepare my exit, back into the place where things make sense and seasons change with time.
posted by Tom Peterson @ 3:11 PM
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