Periodically, my business brings me to Waikiki.
On those rare occasions, as I am walking from one location to the other, I’ll come across a hula performance on a humble stage that has captured the attention of the tourist crowd. How enthralled they are to witness something so authentically Hawaiian. Or so they think. I never pause to enjoy the moment, mainly because one of the musicians might recognize me and then invite me up to dance. When that happens, I put my head down and I continue on my way. If I am recognized and my name is called from the stage, I wave and give a honi, but I don’t stop.While crossing from the corner of Kalākaua and Ka’iulani, I saw him standing on the opposite side of the crosswalk. Like me, he was out of place. His hair was dark and thick and cut in the '70s shag style. His sunglasses were the kind that the old stoners wore while driving their VW Van with surfboards balanced on the rack. He wears a terrycloth top with brown and blue stripes across the chest. The jeans were tight at the waist, but flared out at the bottom. On his feet, surf sandals. Here I thought I was out of place in my grey blazer, blue dress shirt, and jeans with loafers.
The walk signal came on, and we crossed. We made eye contact, and he raised his eyebrows in greeting, and I did the same. My meeting at the Ka’iulani hotel was with one of the managers, who wondered why I was bringing people through the property and telling them complete untruths about Princess Ka’iulani.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like how the princess was born in ‘Iolani Palace,” the manager grit her teeth. “Why would you tell people that kind of thing? Everyone knows that Ka’iulani wasn’t born in the palace.”
“Yes, I know that,” I replied.
“If you know that, then why are you telling tourists the opposite thing?” She leaned forward.
“I’m not,” I answered. “Did they say it was specifically me?”
“Well, no. They said it was a guy saying those things to a group of tourists on our property,” She said
“When was this?” I’m sure at this point that the manager was completely bothered that I was not reacting to her irritable demeanor.
“Today is Thursday, so that happened this past Tuesday,” she confirmed while checking quickly on her computer.
“I haven’t been on your property for two years,” I said calmly. “Waikiki is too crowded to walk a group of twenty people from one spot to another. No one moves aside, or they push right through. So, it's for that reason alone that we haven’t been in Waikiki for two years. Especially, here on your property. I know you got yourself all worked up and you were ready to crucify me for my cultural incorrectness today, but it's not me. It hasn’t been.”
The meeting ended with apologies from the manager, which, of course, I graciously accepted. There’s no reason to be angry; the misunderstanding was resolved, and all is perfect again. The offender of misinformation was found out and summarily banned from the property, leaving me the space to resume telling stories of the princess on the grounds of her former home if I choose to do so.
There I was standing now on the corner of Ka’iulani and Kalākaua. There he was, standing at the opposite side of the crosswalk, that same throwback from the 70s. The walk signal came on, and I remembered it was like the sidewalks in Japan, where you could cross anyway you want. So, I crossed diagonally to the left, toward the police substation. I was halfway to the Kapaemahū stones when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It's the throwback guy.
“Brah, you can help me?” He asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
“What happened to Spats brah?” He asked. “Our band is playing tonight, and we gotta rehearse, but the club is gone, brah. I'm tripping out!”
“The club has been gone for thirty years,” I told him.
“Every corner had one club,” he was bewildered. “What happened?”
A group of rude tourists suddenly pushed between us, and he was gone. There was no trace of him except for the aroma of Jovan Musk cologne. What in the blue hell was going on?
My visit to the Kapaemahū pohaku was cut short; I was too disoriented to enter the right mindset to offer a chant of aloha at such a revered place. Instead, I walked back to the Ka’iulani and waited in the roundabout for my wife to come and pick me up. It’s one of those stories that does not have a neat and tidy ending to send you home feeling warm and fuzzy. I will say that I would never have thought that Waikiki, of all places, was where you could find a slip in time. Yet, there it was for a brief moment in the form of someone from 70s Honolulu.
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