Living Aloha - It's Expensive

          Stuff in Hawaii is expensive.  Not just purchases that visitors make like gifts or hotel accommodation or fancy restaurants, but general, every day, ’got to have it to live’ type stuff.   For instance food immediately comes to mind. 

          Shopping for the family, weekly, bare essentials at a grocery store in any town or city on the mainland might cost you somewhere in the vicinity of $70…the same shopping list here would easily amount to double that.  But hey, you live in Hawaii, so suck it up…and do that with a smile.

          Of course the reason for the additional cost on everything from food to petrol to clothes and furniture is because very little is made in Hawaii.  Perhaps the odd surfboard, or a macadamia nut or conch shell, although those, unless they’re plastic and made in China, are usually picked up off the beach somewhere...everything else is brought over from the mainland or the aforementioned China.

          Living here you get very used to hearing:  ‘oh, we don’t have that in stock.  We can order it for you…it’ll take six weeks to get here.’  Why we can put a man on the moon in eleven days but it takes six weeks for transport to get from California to the islands is a mystery to me, but there you are.

          So, locals get very good at saving a penny or two wherever we can so we can lash out on a few luxuries from time to time.

          This saving thing actually came to mind when I received my last electric bill.  It was nearly double the usual monthly ransom I was required to pay and left me gasping.  The electric company’s explanation was that it was my fault not theirs.  I was simply using too much electricity on non-essentials.  Hot showers and a grilled chop apparently fall into this category.

          A day or so later, while watching TV I was mesmerized by the electric company’s advertisement extolling the virtues of solar, wind and geothermal and the advice that we should all investigate these as ways of saving loot on our electricity bills.

          Well, apart from the fact that six or seven heavy solar panels on my roof would quickly convert my timber two-storey townhouse into a one-storey shed, solar panels are jolly expensive.  As to windmills in my backyard?  Well, I guess I could tizzy them up with crepe paper and pretend they were palm trees…but, not a really sensible way to save on electricity for me.

          Still, for several weeks I ran around turning off anything and everything that even looked like it might be connected to a power outlet.  I didn’t go so far as to read by candlelight nor cook on a camp fire in my yard, but I’m sure power usage, much to my discomfort, was substantially lowered.

          Imagine my surprise then when I received a nice little note from the electric company advising that, in the not too distant future, it would be increasing electricity rates across the State because…wait for it…the company was losing too much money due to so many people going solar!

          It seems that we simply can’t win.  But that, my friends is the cost of living in Paradise.  I am now seriously considering those windmills in my backyard; I already have the green crepe paper left over from Christmas.

         

         

                   

         

Loving America

          Most Australians have always been madly in love with America and anything American, particularly the accent.  Before jet travel closed the gap between the two countries and travel became more readily available to everyone, Aussie’s based their idea of life in America on the movies and magazines.  Often stuff that was featured in one or the other was unavailable in Australia and therefore became a source of speculation and desire. 

          Young girls poured through the pages of hard to find American magazines like Seventeen to establish how they should dress and look.  They styled their hair into flips and shortened the legs of their pants so they could sport ‘capris’ and therefore more closely resemble their American cousins.

          Anyone lucky enough to spend a vacation touring around any part of California or even further East, arrived back in Australia with an American accent so thick it was easy to assume they’d been born and bred in the US of A.  Well, for at least a week or two until the accent slowly disappeared.  But for that week, they felt special and were often treated as celebrities.

          ‘Wow, you’ve got an American accent!’

          ‘Really?  Ya think so?  Well, I have just returned from the States.  I guess I must’ve inadvertently picked it up.  The Yanks sound like this all the time ya know.’ 

          This said with much rolling of ‘r’s and the chewing of gum to emphasis the point.

          I mentioned this love affair to an American I worked with in D.C. some years ago.  He had been debating spending a few days in Sydney on his way home from a business meeting in Singapore but was hesitant because he didn’t know any one in Sydney and would feel lost.  I must explain here that despite his business acumen, this man was extremely shy and the fact that, unfortunately, he looked like a run-over tennis shoe as well didn’t help matters.

          But knowing how Aussie’s adored Americans I told him that if he followed my instructions to the letter, he would meet some lovely, friendly people and have a ball in my favorite city, Sydney.  He did and he did.

          These are the specific instructions I gave him.  They can be used by any American visiting Australia and will have the same result.  Trust me!

          Start by standing on a busy, city street corner clutching a map of Sydney and look confused.  Within a few minutes an Aussie will stop and ask if you’re looking for directions to any particular place.  Tell him or her that you’re hoping to visit (insert name of place).  Make sure you string enough words together for the Helpful Aussie to hear your accent. 

          The HA will immediately brighten and ask:  ‘Oh, are you an American?’  A quick affirmative response and the doors are open for you to be the recipient of some overwhelming hospitality.

          Having established that you are indeed a ‘Yank,’ the HA will offer to drive you to your sightseeing destination, and will play tour guide for the duration.  Also, noting that you are alone in the city, he/she will invite you home for a backyard ‘barbie’ and to meet all their friends and neighbors.  This invitation is not as noble as it appears at first glance…having an American as their guest elevates them into special neighbor status in the eyes of everyone in their street and surrounds.

          If it happens to be the weekend, you’ll be invited to join your host/hostess in a game of golf at their club the next day, or if you’re not into sports, the offer will be to pick you up at your hotel and take you for a lengthy drive around the beaches and gorgeous suburbs of the city.  If there’s time in your schedule you’ll also be taken to a wildlife sanctuary so you can cuddle a koala or feed a kangaroo.

          And if you’ve made a real impression with your ‘Americaness,’ at the end of your stay you’ll be driven to the airport for your flight home with lots of ‘do write and come back soon’s.’

          But you don’t have to take my word for all this.  Let me know when you’re planning to visit Oz and I’ll make sure the cheering squad is waiting at the airport for you!  You’ll be glad you did.

         

           

Walking Through Doors

          I walked into a half open door yesterday.  Today I have a black eye and a slightly bruised cheek to show for it, not to mention all the other stuff that goes with being so clumsy.

          My encounter with the door was entirely my own fault.  Walking into the grocery store…one of those where the door opens automatically…I was concentrating on the shopping list in my hand and didn’t notice the door had stopped opening…wham, bam!  I saw thousands of very pretty little stars and while the grocery store clerks who were privy to my collision rushed around enquiring whether I needed medical attention, all I wanted to do was quietly die of embarrassment.

          I could just imagine how I was going to explain my lack of coordination to my friends.

          ‘Howdja get the black eye?’

          ‘Walked into a door.’

          ‘Yeah?  Why?’

          ‘Ummmm.’

          But it did remind me of another incident that took place between me and a door some years ago.

          I had rushed home from my job to be able to do a quick change of clothes and generally tizzy myself up for a date with a promising new chap.  We had arranged to meet at a little restaurant not far from my house.

          At the time, I lived in a small apartment building:  six units on three floors.   The entrance to the building had a miniscule lobby with stairs up to each floor.  Directly in front of the stairs was a glass door.  The glass in the door had been vandalized months before and had never been replaced.  What remained were the wood frame and the door knob.  Actually, to the residents, the lack of glass was quite a handy feature.  No one had to struggle with packages while trying to turn the knob.  Entry was a simple matter of stepping through the frame.

          So, on this lovely summer’s day, I stepped through the glassless frame of the lobby door and ran upstairs to my apartment.

          How long does it take to brush your teeth, run a comb through your hair and retouch your makeup?  Ten minutes?  Fifteen?  Apparently it is long enough to replace glass in a door.

          Ready to make a stunning impression on my prospective new beau, I ran down the stairs and straight through the newly installed glass in the lobby door!  It is only because the putty holding the glass in place had not had time to harden that my injuries were not more serious.  My head and right knee hit the glass in beautiful unison.  Then, as I reeled back in shock, the whole thing became a slow motion movie.

          The glass broke at the point of head contact and turned into a guillotine.  The top section scraped past my nose taking a chunk off the tip and continued down to my knee, putting a gash in that, while the bottom section bounced off my big toe.  And the blood flowed.  Down my face, onto my dress and over my best pair of sandals.

          Needless to say I missed meeting my date.  Instead, I was taken care of at the Emergency Room and, hours later, allowed to go home.

          What upset me more than the actual accident was the result of my hospital visit.  After checking me over for more serious injuries, the Doctor discharged me with a pink band-aid over my nose, another across my kneecap and a third wrapped around my toe.

          Now I ask you.  How could I convince anyone that I had been badly hurt in an altercation with a glass door when all I had to show for it were three band-aids!  In which case, perhaps the black eye I got yesterday is a better result.  At least that can garner a bit of sympathy.  Well, can’t it?

                   

           

         

Love is in the Air

          Gorgeous red hearts are fluttering everywhere.  On cups and saucers, on balloons and pretty cards; and on cookies and cakes in my bake shop window.  Even I have been the recipient of some lovely cards.  Admittedly they are from my dentist, my doctor and my insurance agent who wants to make me even happier with a new car/home plan, but why quibble.  It’s the thought that counts and a card is a card, isn’t it?

          The florists too are having a wonderful time making up vases, pots and baskets filled to overflowing with bright red roses to offer their buyers.  It will soon, after all, be Valentine’s Day, the day when men, young and older alike, can make their intentions known by delivering a card, a rose, or, if they’re feeling fairly flush, a gemstone trinket to the girl of their dreams.

          Of course not everyone follows tradition.  There are some who think Valentine’s Day is a dreadful commercial enterprise thrust upon an unwilling public by the Association of Rose Growers and Red Paint Owners.  Perhaps they have a point, for pity the poor man who didn’t send (or simply forgot to send) a posy of flowers to the office of his beloved.  It is after all an unwritten law that the more elaborate a Valentine’s floral arrangement sitting on your desk happens to be, the more loved you are by your husband or boyfriend/admirer and therefore the envy of the rest of the office staff rises exponentially.

          While in Paris with my granddaughter last year, we happened to be walking across the Seine along one of the smaller bridges from the Left Bank over to Notre Dame.  A bridge made of cyclone wire fencing rather than bricks and mortar.

          It was my granddaughter who pointed out the odd appendages fastened all over the bridge completely covering the cyclone wire.  We stood open-mouthed and amazed.  Hundreds and hundreds of padlocks with names painted or scratched onto the face of each, completely covered the bridge.  The padlocks were of all sizes and shapes, and of all colors, some had ribbons or tiny cards tied to them too.  What could they mean?

          The concierge at our hotel filled us in.  Apparently newly weds or starry-eyed lovers fasten the padlocks onto the fencing material and throw the keys into the Seine.  A testament to their everlasting love.  I can’t help but wonder though…what happens if or when, the ‘everlasting love,’ is no more?  Do the people concerned hire divers to search for the key to their padlock?  Do they appear on the bridge with wire cutters in hand and with one clip remove the now offending padlock? 

 

          I’d like to think that all those who placed padlocks on that bridge will indeed experience a wonderful and everlasting love.  Hey, this is Paris after all…the city of romantic love.  Where else if not there?

          Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone…enjoy it with your loved ones.