Sky Watch Friday

Sailing Sunny Seas

Waikiki, Hawaii

The golden sands I stood upon to snap this gorgeous photo were imported from the “poor” side of the island — and so was I.

My favorite part of my weekend in Waikiki should have been the women’s conference, but actually it was lunch with my friend. We picked an upscale restaurant with tables on the lanai and a salad to die for. We ordered. We chatted. We sipped our beverages. We asked the waiter questions. (1. Was the canoe being used as a buffet table ever an actual working boat? Yes, and it was hand carved. 2.) We just saw — and heard — you blowing that conch shell. Is it hard to learn? No. Are there any tricks to blowing it you could teach us? Not really. Keep your lips taut. Don’t blow too hard. Blow in one long breath.) We asked him a couple more things — then we asked him for the check. As he waited for me to sign the charge slip he said, “You two are locals aren’t you?”

Maura and I were very surprised. We aren’t locals. She’s been here for just over a year. I have been here about six months. Just long enough for us both to clearly understand that we have years to go before we’re considered “local”. I answered cautiously, “We live on the island.”

Our waiter nodded his head and smiled. “I thought so. I can always tell. You weren’t all wide-eyed and gah gah. And neither of you said “aloha” or “mahalo” (words not said outside the tourist joints unless they are meant). And your questions didn’t start with, how do I get to, or is it true that.”

So, in the tourist district we are considered, locals, but in the neighborhoods, we’re still haole (pronounced how-lee).