The Vacation's Over

I woke up and headed to room three – where I had spent the most of my time here, and got to know the people. That's the room that costs a bit more, and the travellers there were more to my speed, less about the being drunk all the time. Note, I say all the time. I have no problem with the odd drink or seven, but when morning to night the booze flows -

Well, it was nine in the morning, and they were drinking in room three, but it was just a, “breakfast beer,” they'd not be screaming on the streets later. And this much is, i swear, true. The party kiddies in yellowish room six? Well, I guess I'm just getting older. If I ever was young at all.

I hung out there, and said my goodbyes, grabbed contact information, and promised to get in touch if I found myself in their part of the world – which I may just do in the coming months. Then it was off to breakfast, after which I sat myself down on the beach. Once more, I would content myself with doing nothing. Everyone around me way laying in the shade, it seemed like as good a plan as any.

Then the rain started. A welcomed mist at first, which grew little by little. Girls in stars and striped bikinis ran for cover, as guys in their red white and blue board shorts ran from the ocean, looking for a place to stay dry – I didn't question the logic of this, opting instead to salute their swim wear displayed patriotism.

I headed fifteen or twenty meters down the sand, where the rain had not yet reached, nor was it going to. It was simple a small cooling localized shower that added some respite from the heat.

At lunch I had my last Teddy's burger (I may have called this restaurant by many names over the last week, but I assure you, Teddy's is the correct one – probably.) I also grabbed a pineapple shake. Wonderful.

And then? Then it was just back to the hostel, were I had to buzz myself in – surrendering my key when I checked out this morning. Three fifteen in the afternoon. Four hours left to kill before the shuttle bus would whisk me away to the airport. What to do, what to do, what to do?

It's kinda strange to watch people move in, as you're moving out. Especially when they're just starting their trip, all full of joy and happiness, an excitement – planning for the months to come. You know, I remember that. I also remember making a point of telling myself back in Iceland, that soon it would be my turn to be finishing up. Much sooner than I could ever have imagined from though pre-erupted shores.

This whole excited to travel thing – I thought about it yesterday, when a Finish couple climbed aboard the hummer for the LOST tour. They were smiling ear to ear, looking to all the world as if this would be the most exciting thing they could ever do – which, to them, it probably was. They had come all the way from Scandinavia for this, and it showed. And they were delighted.

I wonder what it's going to take in the future to get me that amped up about travel. It's just a thing to do now. This attitude has been growing more and more as the months have worn on, and I know that I still enjoy getting out in the world, and I still have a great time – but that level of excitement? What's it gonna take?

In other news – POG? Remember POG? Those little cardboard caps you'd flip with 'slammers' that died back in the mid nineties? Well POG was invented here in Hawaii, and the company still goes strong. I drank POG juice today. True story.

A one hour skype with a buddy back home was a good way to kill some time. One more hour until the shuttle to the airport. Might as well see if anyone I've been hanging out with is around – you can never have too many good-byes.

My final parting gift? Some KFC mashed potatoes topped with their delicious gravy. Eating it, watching a brief section of Empire Strikes Back, and then questioning how NCIS can be the most watched show if no one knows anyone who has ever seen it, I grabbed my pack and headed for the bit of sidewalk outside the hostel gates.

When the airport shuttle came to pick me up, I hopped on, and off I went – apparently passing Obama's high school and the hospital where he was born, so said our driver. Who can say? Then into the airport, getting my bag scanned for department of agricultural stuff, self-checking in, and heading off for food – being Delta air, there is no free food on board. It's one of those fun airlines where checking your bag costs extra.

For dinner? A pizza and salad combo – with soda. So much soda. Help me get off soda. I don't want anymore. No more. Never. Juice, ok. And water? Yes please. But soda... still when free refills are offered who can say no?

The meal was twelve bucks, about three dollar more than the average fast food combo (I forgot how much we like to jack up airport prices in North America. I've grown use to the NZ / Oz way of things.) but the portions? Truly American. A big pasta salad, and a medium pizza. Not knowing if I could take left overs on the plane, I forced it down, and it was delicious, but full – so very full.

And on the plane? Turned out I had the exit row, which was fantastic – lots of leg room, stretching out forever. In no time I was asleep. Time zones be damned, I'll figure all that out when I wake up again.

LOST in Hawaii

One more day on the island. But today I'm off to do the final thing I felt the need to do here – there will be, I am told, no future full of regrets where I find myself screaming, “we have to go back! We have to go back to the island!”

Just before one I would be picked up by the Kos Tours hummer. Until then, however, there was time for food and chatting and – well to be honest, there wasn't all that much time. But I did grab the 3.95 breakfast meal, which had me worried, being only 3.95 for pancakes, bacon, and eggs. The bacon? Like rawhide. You've never had such tough bacon. Who knew it could be like that? But the pancakes had IHOP beat – not that that's all that hard.

The thing about eating in sit down restaurants is that they quickly cost more than you'd think. First I needed a drink – orange juice was 2.79, but it was two for one, and I've been without orange juice for so long. But then you add tax, and then you add tip, and suddenly your 3.95 special is running eight bucks. But food is food, and on a day when I need to spend five hours in an off road hummer, Taco Bell is not an acceptable option.

When we headed out, we first drove by three locations not on the tour – a hotel where Hurley shot Sayid with a tranquilizer dart, and a few gas stations used for various reasons. As it turns out, most of the show was filmed on this island. Which is impressive when you think of how many different situations, areas, and countries were conveyed in the show. Indeed there was more than just an island, some jungle, and a long beach.

Our first stop was a few of the jungle scenes. While looking deeply hidden within the trees, most of the shots are done about two feet away from the road. This, of course, makes sense in a world where filming requires many a vehicle, and set spotting is done from a similar vehicle – normally someone driving around being paid to say, there's a tree... we could use that tree! We also drove by Locke's father's house.

Our first real stop, at a building and everything, was a place which represented three different countries, once two at the same time, with two windows being dressed differently. Saudi Arabia on one side, and Korea on the other, I do believe.

The sub dock that Whitmore pulled his boat up against was docked here, although the submarine you could see above water was simply a plastic shell. All the interior shots were taked on the Bowfin at Pearl Harbour – had I known that, I would have paid the eight dollars to wander around. It's hard to say if they should advertise the fact that it was a LOST film location. On the one hand, tourists – on the other hand, Pearl Harbour may be too 'real' to try and pull such a stunt. Once more, my lack of research foils me.

Right now the area in front of the dock was being dressed for a wedding. Not only is a filming location, it also happens to be a very beautiful area. At the welcome centre down the road you could tell the guests from those more interested in kicking through the muddy fields. They were the ones in the formal dresses. It's possible that they too wished to romp through the mud, but as much as I wish it were so, it probably jut wasn't the case. Something about people n ot wanting to destroy their clothing.

After one year in five shirts, five boxers, and two pairs of pants (and down to one from two pairs of shorts) I'm not really sure what nice clothes are, anymore. In all fairness, I don't think I ever did.

Into the Kualoa Ranch, our hummer drove. And the car? It wasn't just for show. A lesser vehicle could not have travelled the paths we travelled. ATVs and horses are the main way to get around. Now, there must be normal flat roads that go from point A to point B, as I doubt production companies transport their gear like we were transporting ourselves, but really – what's the fun in that?

After a good rain the tracks were muddy, and there were puddles full to the brim, ready to splash the window with liquids, unclean. And oh the unclean liquid window splashing there was, as we tore across the paths, leading us to an open field. An open field with two logs in it. But these weren't any two logs, no – they were two logs that the actors sat on, and walked past in a recognizable scene. Ohh. And then there were some straw huts. These huts? Also important, because one of them was touched up to fill the role of Richard's house before he came to the island years and years back.

On the hill above was a temple created for the filming of a sci-fi original movie. Apparently a T-Rex would come and eat those sacrificed on the alter. Not only the best of films have been created on in this park.

Beyond, another prop was left by the creators of LOST to add a touristic interest to the ranch. The tower which held the nuclear weapon, Jughead, still loomed large on the landscape, an walking up to it it seemed to grow with every closing step. What looked relatively small from afar was mammoth from up close. We were advised to not climb it. It wouldn't do to injure myself at this point in my travels. The advice was taken as soudn.

Pressing on more and more we reached Hurley's golf course. For the most part, this was just a flat bit of grass, which recognizable peaks in the distance. What was more impressive were the three large footsteps leading up to the course. These were not made by any smoke monster, but rather the awkward American re-imagining of a truly ferocious beast: Godzilla. Created for the film which somehow managed to take a tried and tested formula and screw it up, these footprints were to scale. They had to be. In the film, there were all number of actors walking around deep within them.

While they still exist, they are no longer the dug deep. The reason for this? Cows could fall in and find themselves trapped within the giant indents. Or, you know – more likely – they would just die.

Rare steak indeed does walk these hallowed grounds.

Bumbling along the road, we reached another log – sacred to LOST fans – for being the location where the Man in Black and Jacob sat and discussed their individual plights. Then we were at a slope. Again, not just 'a slope' but a 'the slope.' The slope that Hurley pushed the van down. Well, if it was good enough to push a van down, I had no choice – emptying my pockets, I lay on the grass, and log rolled down as long as I could, before veering off course, and ending up in the thick.

Standing up hopping once, twice, three times, before regaining balance, I looked back up to the top of the hill, proud of my accomplishment: “no one has ever done that before...”

That didn't sound quite so complimentary.

My shirt was now dyed with the red mud of Hawaii. People pay good money for shirts dyed this colour, with this dirt. Fools – if only they knew they could do it for free, right here.

A few non-essential locations were shown next, where a plane landed in You, me, and Dupree, and where the wee little penguin was almost crushed by Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates. An awkward confession: I kinda like the latter of the two, though I completely forgot who the male lead was, until shown a clip.

Every site we saw was given context by a clip from the movie, or by a still image from the TV show, proving the authenticity and also making the location far more exciting than if we just had to recall from memory. Ahh, those are the same peaks, are they? But no – shown the still we could look to the image, and then look to the reality of your current position, excited that they were the same peaks, in the image, and before us. Amazing! (Like finding a tombstone commemorating a Nazi dog in downtown London. Man, people love dogs.)

Pressing forward, there was one more site to be seen, and this was the one I had been waiting for. To be honest, I dig LOST to an extent, but my one true love, ever since my father took me to see the Midnight showing, I want to say seventeen years ago: Jurassic Park.

I knew the scene immediately. It was the location, sure enough. The trees were there, both grown and fallen. This was where the veggie-saurses flocked towards Grant and the kids. I could stand by the log they hid behind, and look out to the fields full of dinosaurs. Imaginary, though they may have been. Costa Rica holds an appeal to me, only because Jurassic Park was based there, and I assume it must be beautiful – but here is where the movie was filmed, even if only this one small part. Most of the film was created on another island in the Hawaiian chain – suitable reason as any to return some day.

With this, I found myself quite ready to head on back, but there was, apparently, one more stop. On the way out, a museum of sorts houses movie posters, and memorabilia from the projects filmed here. The museum was the inside of a bunker created by the Americans during World War II when they appropriated a section of land from the ranch for national defense purposes. The bunker also featured briefly in the film Pearl Harbour. More importantly – we were later told – it was used as one of the hatches from LOST. Everything had come full circle, and as I looked out at the ocean, watching the waves crash against the shore, I knew it was time to move on.

Not just from this ranch, but on with my journey. I had enjoyed my time here, but this was only a brief vacation. A small peaceful interlude in the deluge of travelling. Tomorrow, American Independence Day, I would by flying out, and returning to the mainland – eventually landing a scant two hours from my home town.

It was time to shift gears, shift perspectives, and start movin' on once more.

Good-bye room with the red balloon.

Sweet Sweet Hawaii

Waking up at eight o'clock, for some reason seemed like sleeping in today. It could have something to do with our American Submariner, newly retired, who was yet to realize he from free of order and regulated activity. At six, he was up, and running. Literally running, around Hawaii. When he got back at eight? Well, I figured I'd spent enough time sleeping.

Not that this meant I would do anything useful. I had some scrapbooking to do. Now, I've mentioned this a few times, I don't want anyone to get ideas about scissors that make interesting cuts, or little pieces of ribbon, and expensive paper fitted inside plastic sheets. Because that's not my style of budget travel scraping. No – basically I take a map, or a brochure, and I paste it into a book of lined paper. Memories contained, book scrapped. I'm on number three right now. Every three months I off load them, and I'm about due to do that again. Right now it's the object that takes up the most amount of room in my pack. Imagine, first, a pretty large journal. Now imagine stuffing it with every pamphlet you've come across in the last three years. Just because I glue them in doesn't make them take up any less space.

I'm sure I'll be glad for these in the mysterious unknown future. And it's more organized than the bag of random stuff I brought back from my first trip to Japan in 2008.

When the last of what I consider worthwhile is glued in, I grant myself the delight of throwing out all other pieces of paper I've been carrying around on the off chance that I might decide to keep it. Now, garbage tossed, my load is lighter, and the weight of should I, shouldn't I, is lifted off my shoulder.

Who knew cutting and pasting (and by cutting I mean ripping, as I have no scissors here) could be such an effort.

With that done, I tell myself it's time to do something with the day, so – of course – I walk down the beach. Seems to be an acceptable way to spend some time. And ultimately it leads to food. Or the promise of food. There was no food at the end of this rainbow, but there was a place to sit in the shade and finish reading my book.

The way back also ran me by the apple store. In my pocket I had a brochure for Kualoa Ranch tours. This is where a number of movies were filmed, and the tv show (former love, now bitter enemy) LOST was filmed. The tours are ridiculously over priced. Especially for Hawaii where getting around, doing things, seeing things, are actually quite reasonable. But – when would I be back this way again?

Using a demo iPhone I made the call, but no one answered. Oh well, I told myself, I'll just have to go explore on my own. Tragic that I'll save all that money. But rather than leaving the store, I played a wee little game of Doodle Jump, during which the phone in my hand started to ring. And vibrate. And make all sorts of awkward noise.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Kos Tours, I just missed a call from this number?”

And thus the tour was signed up for anyway. And tomorrow, though I now wept monetary tears, I would be taken through all sorts of spectacular locations – or so the glossy brochure promised. It was this gloss that first tipped me off to how terribly over priced such an experience was to be.

Back at my hostel I sat around chillin' not noticing a sign on the door. This sign would soon be brought to my attention. Due to the fact that they had overbooked when I first checked into this hostel, they tossed me into the room I'd been staying in. But now that they were finally starting to get back in order, they needed me to move out, an into another dorm. Being ousted, tragic. But – in all fairness, the other room was pretty much the same as the one I was in, except for there being two extra beds. Also – instead of blue curtains that gave the room a fresh and free look, these were yellow which did quite a lot to detract from the overall ascetic. Let this be a lesson for all those who doubt the power of colour.

I quickly went back to the other room, and continued to hang out with them, once my gear was moved, and my bed had been re-made.

One of the pluses of having moved was that wifi could be connected to from my bed in this new room, a meter or two closer to the office. Though you wouldn't have known earlier in the day, until there was an employee shift. The girl on duty in the morning had no idea how to reset a router, or really any desire to do anything at all. One of my room mates describe her as follows (though I edit for the children in the audience): She may be a distressingly attractive female with a couple of great features, by lord is she not capable of doing things properly. Still – she does have those great features, which makes it difficult, if not impossible, to be angered.

Once it was up and running I was able to surf around the interweb in my room, and start to add backlogged pictures.

It upsets me that Facebook has changed their photo uploader to a flash based program, which, as I'm using this precarious linux system, means I will no longer be able to throw pics up that way. How can I show off to hundreds of people I haven't talked to in years, without the photo uploader? I guess this just means I'll have to cull my friends list down to people I actually like, and who I'm actually friends with. Imagine that.

By this point I was convinced that my day was at an end. Though it was only seven, I was ready to concede that I would be calling it an early -

“Fireworks! We're going to the fireworks!”

Oh, well maybe not all that early then. If there were fireworks to be exploded I'd be there to see them. We walked twenty minutes for what amounted to a five minute show. Then another twenty minutes back. To be honest, I didn't even really watch them, but looking at the photos I recorded during the momentary festivities (perhaps practice for Sunday night?) you'd not know. It all looked rather spectacular in the end of it all.

Then I thought my day was done, until the American submariner's voice was heard outside – having just returned from the military base out at Pearl Harbour (not to see the ships, or visit the memorials, but to buy cheep adult beverages at the base store.) I went out, and for hours we, and a growing collection of his fellow employees (many secrets, and codes, and clearances were held in this circle – it was somewhat daunting.) kicked back and talked, and watched music videos on his iPad. This is a good was to while the night away. And, the fact that his music tastes (despite the more than ten years difference in age) was the same as mine? Perfect. For me, it was like living through high school all over again. Why 1994 – 1999 would have held such strong memories for him as well, I do not know. But it was good to watch No Doubt videos back when they were edgy, personal, and free of an insane Gwen Steffani. Sublime? Also a treat. Poor Annie.

Midnight, a hostel employee (if you have watched Stargate Universe think of the black soldier who fills the token 'off the handle, I'm a little crazy, so watch out!' role. Well – this is the hostel employee. He looked like him, moved like him, talked like him, and paused in all the right spots, shooting his crazy eyes around. If you've not watched SG:U, that description is generic enough that I'm sure you get what I'm saying.) came out to tell us, “the party is finished here! You don't gotta stop, but you gotta take it out of here!” The seamen all looked at him, saying, “no problem. Thanks for telling us, we'll move.” The employee replied, “that's right! 'cause if I come back,” shifty eyes, “and you're still here – there'll be trouble.”

It was almost comical. Like when one of those little tough guys in a movie starts a fight he can't finish, or bites off far more than he can chew. It's for reasons like this that I try not to mouth off when I'm in a strange place. You never know when you're surrounded by, and chastising four military, who could probably end things before they began. I wonder how they felt about being talked to in such a nonsensical manner. But, for the most part they all seemed to understand that if you have a job to do, you do it. “He just could have been nicer, is all. And he really didn't seem to like being thanked.” was all they said.

Those guys all went off to a bar, or a club, or who knows where they finally ended up. Myself? I'd have to wake up for the tour – so I headed back to my room. It was another hour before I could finally sleep (the hostel owner's underage son provided beer for all) clearly there is some discrepancy about when the party really does end.) Oh Seaside Hostel, Waikiki.

Stress Free Hawaii

Sitting in my room at Seaside Hostel, Waikiki, it hits me that I've almost learned to relax. Ten months, in two days, and I'm almost at the point where I can completely shut down and enjoy – enjoy.

I'm sure this has nothing to do with being in Hawaii, where the wind blowing through the open window slats, causing the blue hanging blinds to dance in the wind, has nothing to do with it. Offset against pristine white, where the cerulean sheets line each bed allowing more to keep the six aye em sun out of your eyes, than acting to bestow a modest sort of privacy, the day simply is. I haven't looked at my watch all day, and just lying down, allowing the cooling air to brush over me, well it's just perfect.

I attempt to read my book, but not wanting it to end, I put it down. I'd rather savour the breeze than rush to the end of the sailing tale. And anyway, it's much better read on the breach where the world described appears right before my eyes.

Across of me another world traveller lays sprawled out, slowly flipping through the pages of his own text. There's no rush out here, and no feeling of need-to-do which has plagued me at so many other passes. The world calls, and I listen – though only half heartedly, mostly lost in a trance all my own.

For nine years the guy across sailed submarines for the British Navy, spending months at a time under the oceans surface, without ever coming up for air. For queen and country, he did his service, and he did it well. Until, at twenty six, he realized there had to be something more. Something like life along the beaches of Australia. He'd worked as a cook in a small galley under the waters edge, skills easily transferable to the land above, where ingredients need not be stocked and saved for ten weeks at a time.

And for a time, it was good there. With winter calling, he abandoned their shores for New Zealand, walking the same streets at the same time I was. There he found the same chill – and without any thought at all, he pressed on here to Hawaii where the sun was still early rising, and late setting; the beaches were still tempting, with sand far too warm to walk on for long, without heading into the water breaking on the golden beach. And here he plans to stay – for a while, anyway.

His plan? From here to San Francisco, where there is magic to be found, and then off to New York before he finally returns to a life, nearly forgotten, back in England.

I can't help but think that my own trip is coming to an end. My daily hostel jumping, and planning for one man alone, will soon be replaced with compromise, shared living, and an understanding that doing what I want when I want will no longer be an option.

My ten months around the world is at an end.

In three days I'll be boarding a jet for Buffalo to meet up with my charming compatriot, Katherine. And while I very much look forward to seeing her, and I very much look forward to the new style of travel that awaits me, I can't help but feel slightly saddened by the loss of that which has been so much a part of my life.

It's true that over the last few months, really the whole trip, I've never had to go very long before packing in the solo life and heading off to see friends, or family. But those were just islands in something all my own. Welcome reprieves. But now, now is truly the end.

September: I travelled on my own. However it was during this time travelling through Europe that I met all number of people I would soon call friends, and meet up with later on.

October: I met up briefly with my friend Shirley, in Paris. This would be the beginning of hardly ever spending more than two or three weeks without meeting someone I would consider a friend.

November: My friends came and travelled with me through Prague and Germany. As well I met up with a friend I'd met in Helsinki.

December: I visited Katherine, and family, in Florida. In Africa I would meet many people I'd later visit.

January: I stayed with a buddy down in Johannesburg, and later met with a girl I'd met back in Bruges came to hang out for a day at a hostel in Bangkok.

February: February was spent in South America – where I, shockingly, travelled alone once more. (It's possible – though hard to tell, as my dating has been not so good in my entries, that I hung out with the girl from Bruges at the very beginning of February.)

March: In San Francisco I would, again, see Katherine. I would also meet up with a friend from Africa, and a buddy who had long left Canada for the warmer climate, and better paying jobs.

April: All month I went from travelling with friends from back home, to hanging out with a buddy who now lives in Japan.

May: I met up with a friend of my parents in Beijing, and then hung out with a friend down in Singapore.

June: The girl from Bruges, once more, showed me hospitality in her home town in New Zealand. I also stayed with a girl I'd met in Prague. All number of people from Africa, and Antarctica, showed me around their home towns in Australia.

And, without a doubt, I've forgotten some entries – not due to malice, but due to just having found so many kind hearted people out and about. And I should note, this all happened through passive travelling. I know people who have set out to meet people, and never pay for more than one night in a country. Me? I just take it as it comes – being myself, and not trying to act any way differently than I otherwise would.

So – as you can see – there have been so many times that I've been travelling with others – but, I always knew that eventually I'd have the trip to myself again, that it would be my trip. And that is no more.

What starts on July fifth is Mike and Katherine's road trip across America. And I'm honestly not sure how I feel about that. Without a doubt there will be fights, and angst, and - compromise – but there will be things that make up for it as well. It's possible all will go swimmingly – strangely Japan went down without any real fights, but Japan had enough people to break off into groups, and do our own things. It also only lasted two weeks. It also didn't take us in a cramped car through one hundred and twenty degrees desert.

Still – to know there will be someone else to share memories with, experiences, with and – most important of all – take pictures that don't put my head in the middle of the frame, or merge me with the background – will be phenomenal. I can't help but feel, though, at the end of these however many months we travel for, I'll need to set myself off to some exotic location for one last hurrah – just to end things on my own terms once more.

But, as the heat pours in, at times, beautifully offset by the cool air, nothing really matters. It's possible there is no future – just an ever stretching now, away from the concept of time, and the abstract idea of place being anything more than where I happen to be at the moment.

Hawaii...

I rolled out of be this morning an hour before noon – just enough time to get me showered, and down to Tommy's burgers by noon. That I will walk an hour, round trip, for a burger is a testament to how tasty they are. I wonder if Tonia would agree. When I think of these burgers, I hear her voice describe them with a giggling lilt so present through Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka, all those months. ago.

With a full and happy tummy I head down to the beach, where I find some shade, under a close grown group of palms, and just sit. For a while, I do nothing, only sit an look out into the water, watching the blues coalesce, wondering where one shade ends and the other begins. Given a large enough spectrum, there is no change between colours, though the run the whole rainbow. Things just are, defying definition.

I open my novel, and read once more, picturing myself seated onboard an ocean going sailing ship, rolling with the waves, understanding what it is like to be free of routine and obligation. I then set up my tripod, in an attempt to take a photo of myself, here in this spot, on the beach, and toes in the water – a memory, that for if only one moment, I could shut my mind down.

With Yellow Canada t-shirt and maple leafed bandanna, todays date will forever be ingrained in the experience. July 1st, 2010. Canada day.

And then I'm reading once more.

It would be unfair not to say that completely tuning out to the world around is a near impossible thing on a Hawaiian beach. There are far too many pretty girls around to ever fully be at peace. I say girls, but that term has come to describe people ranging well up to fifty years old, over the years. One can only guess at the age of those I describe, and looking around – there are white girls who seem to have been born and bread for the breach, island girls, skins tanned dark, the odd flower in their hair, and Japanese tourists riding their Asian wave – I can only guess at their ages. Somewhere between twenty, and potentially early forty.

But for the most part, I just sit, and read, my thoughts suddenly pulled astray by a flicker of shocking pink, brilliant orange, or a deep blue – the artificially enhanced colour that exists far off shore.

The photos I take never find themselves shot in those directions. In fact, were it possible, I'd clear away all people, as I aimed to shoot nothing more than the sand hitting the surf hitting the horizon, or just a spectrum of the waters visual noise. This may come as no surprise – most people wish for an empty beach, with nothing but their own footprints in the sand as proof that it ever existed. But for me? I crave the peopled scenery. It's proof that there is life, and love, and joy, and fun, and – all those good things, often overlooked in solitude.

It is only in photographs that I wish to present the illusion of peaceful tranquility – a world apart. As I sit, and let my mind wander away, I am glad for those passing by, even if they are mostly men weighing a good stone or two more than me, or women matching them in volume, if not weight. This is proof of a holiday experience, and a moment in time where no matter how bad things get back in the real life, there will always be a memory here to Waikiki beach in Hawaii where all around me can think back and say, “remember how happy we were there?” And it's true. During the day, here at the beach, everyone is blissful, and everyone is in love with just being in love.






A Third Enters the Mix

Later in the day, a third person checks into our room. He must be in his early forties, though he doesn't look it. He'd spent the morning trying to sell his car up at Hickam. What followed could only be described as Mr. Toad's wild ride. Getting in the passenger seat with an old American man, whose right it will be to forever drive, is never less than thrilling, shall we say. The high speed turns, the rapid changes in direction – but, apparently – it's all part of selling your car.

On the way back, despite the bus being standing room only, he had the seat beside him all to himself. At one point an Indian woman sat beside him, only to be loudly chastised by her husband, told to, “watch out,” and was made to stand again and move away.

“Apparently, I'm the big scary black man. Who knew?” Later, he went on to explain that if you're black, and over 220 pounds, that's just how it is. Though in the touristy areas – such as Waikiki – it's worse.

After twenty two years in the navy, he'd just retired and is staying in the hostel until his flight out – back to the real world (with a brief stop in Las Vegas first, of course.) It turned out that he too was a submariner. What are the odds here? That I would be sharing a room with two ex-navy, who also happened to be submariners? There's some desirable about the extra padding on the pay check, apparently.

The differences between British boats, and American boats were discussed. While I tried to follow along, this is what I ended up gleaning from the conversation – American boats have soft serve ice cream machines, and a soda fountain stocked with five different flavours. British boats have orange drink.

At the end of the day, both of them sleep with their heads twenty meters away from a nuclear reactor. That's what really stood out in my mind. I'll have to check and see if they glow in the dark.

I was told that submariners on nuclear rigs only have girl. And while both said it's probably just nonsense, they started adding up the children of all their buddies. There did seem to be an unhealthy (80 – 85%) of female children being born. There's a study to be done here. You can't test the effects of radiation on childbearing by subjecting your average citizen to these standards, but with these naval officers, who unfortunately need to remain in close proximity as a job hazard...

They also talked about how both the British and the America military were going to soon be allowing females on the boats. Just like in Down Periscope. To be the only woman on a boat that remains submerged, for three months, with one hundred and fifty guys. I'm not sure if that would be awesome, or terrible for the woman. Time, and future studies, will tell. Apparently the Aussies have been doing it for ages.

The retired American runs down the plan of his day, “I was gonna go get some beer, get drunk, go to the internet cafe, stream some Stargate.”

“Stream some Stargate? ...Universe?”

“Hell no! That's crap.” [Authors note: no one likes Universe but me apparently.]

Here we have a Naval officer, an his plan was to go watch SG1 all day. I wonder if it's a show that is big with the military, or just with him. I could see it go either way. My five second layman hypothesis – and why Universe doesn't come off well – is that SG1 may be military, but it's also fun, and funny, and very light hearted. An escapist fantasy. Where as Universe is trying to be dark, and gritty. There is no light hearted fun to be had there.

Mr. Toad's wild ride, robbed him of the time to do that, however. Still – he rocked his iPad playing a game where you launch rocks, and fire, and ice, as castles to bring them down. Then he said I needed to play it. Once more, I'm glad that I don't have one of these things. So much time would be forever lost.

As the night pressed on, I accepted that I'd need some food. Heading out to the food court, I made a wrong turn, and suddenly saw police cars, and soldiers standing all around. Something had gone wrong at the club, I imagine. Press on faster. Next was the row of prostitutes. It's strange how they give off an air of prostitutiness, despite the fact that some of them are wearing far more, and less trashy, clothes than those just out for the clubs. I imagine it's something in the nonsensical posture that forces their breasts too far out, like men in drag trying forty percent too hard to overcompensate. Mind you, this is not consistent with all men in drag. Those in Thailand? Those in Japan? They have the art down.

When I passed the fifth professional, I decided that I was not headed the right way, and should turn back, make my way past the police – military vehicles now joining them – and then grab a few quick pastries at the local ABC shop.

Food eaten, and people crashing back in the dorm, I fell asleep in my clothes – not really caring that much, at all.

I love this place.

Pearl Harbour, Oahu, Hawaii

December 7, 1941. A day which will – well you know the rest.

I woke up at seven. You have to get up early if you want to get to Pearl Harbour, and do it right. Not Shanghai World Expo Chinese Pavilion, early – but early nonetheless. And for the same reason. There are tickets to be handed out and only the first many will get them. At seven twenty I was jumping on the bus which dropped me off at eight forty five. I checked my pack, and made my way in by ten to nine.

Step one, head over to grab the free ticket for the Arizona. Mine was timestamped with 12:40. I had three and a half hour to spend before I could grab the ferry for that monument. Next, I went over to watch the half hour video detailing the events of Pearl Harbour's bombing. The video is played with English and Japanese subtitles. Rumour has it that the Japanese does not match up with the English, they know where their tourism dollars come from.

With the movie over, and myself a little shocked at the amount of truth in the film, I made my way back to the ticket counter. The film addressed the fact that Japan was almost forced into attack by America cutting off their oil supply. This also indicated that America was selling Japan oil during their war against the Allied forces. Now, it was phrased in such a way that you'd have to put that together, but it wasn't just glossed over, as if the United States had nothing to do with the success of the Japanese war machine in the early years.

This was no stars and stripes forever, propaganda video – what I was expecting – it was actually well presented, and informative, without making either side look like some sort of devil acting out of pure malice and evil.

From the ticket booth I bought (only the Arizona is free here) a pass to get on board the Missouri. This ran twenty dollars, but is completely worth it if you happen to be in the area.

From the parking lot a shuttle bus runs you over to the Missouri where you'll then walk on board. There's an option of taking a free tour, or just wandering on your own. Take the free tour. It's free. It's only half an hour. You'll learn things such as, “two of the guns on the ship weigh more than a NASA space shuttle,” and other fun facts. The tour will also show you where a kamikaze plane hit the ship, leaving but a scratch behind. In a controversial move, the captain decided to hold a full military funeral for the pilot. You'll also have pointed out to you the exact spot where World War II ended – where the surrender documents were signed. Mind you, the boat was in Tokyo Bay at the time, but the spot on deck is where the people sat.

There are also replicas of the two documents. If you look at the Japanese copy, and care enough to check out all the signatures you may notice that there is no name on the Canadian line. Interesting, but then then below you will see the Canadian's signature. Yes in deed, our country did screw up one of the most important documents in history. All of the country names on the form were scratched out, and changed to accommodate this new error. New Zealand had to draw themselves their own line, down at the bottom.

The Japanese tried to claim that this invalidated the document. That didn't really go over well with everyone else, and the point was soon dropped. It was made sure that, for the Allied copy, the Canadian knew where his name was to go.

Once the tour is complete, you are left to wander around below decks. I paused for a moment, as a naval retirement was in process. I listened as he told stories of working with NATO (No Action, Talk Only) and his time served on board a Russian vessel, “teaching them how we do what we do.” He was presented with a uniform, and a flag. Before he requested permission to disembark, I headed through the metal door, down the stairs, into the kitchen. The facilities on board the battleship were quite impressive. They had Coke machines, with Sprite, Crush, and other flavours. They also had ice cream machines after a hard day of lobbing shells at Iraq.

It's interesting to note that while used in the forties, the ship saw action up until 1991. As ships go, it's still capable of some of the most destructive barrages of projectiles. They just don't build them like they used to. With twelve inches of plating, this was a ship created to take a beating.

The bunks were we tiny things, and it was hard to imagine how so many people lived together on board without losing their minds. The officers, however, had much nicer digs.

Once you've been below, you can walk up to see the missile launching equipment where the first Desert Storm Tomahawk was fired from. As well, you can view the navigational room, locked off behind metal plating, with no view of the outside world. This may seem contrary to logic – where the one driving might need to see ahead, but this was to protect him and keep him alive. There would be another yelling orders at him, from the unprotected deck, shielded only by some very basic glass.

The boat was mammoth, and yet, compared to the Ronald Regan, in port for Rimpact (international war games held in Hawaii) it was but a small little thing. The Ronald Regan is an American Aircraft Carrier – fully loaded with fighter jets, helicopters, and an assortment of troops.

When I'd returned to the main area, and boarded the ferry to the Arizona the true size of the carrier was brought to light as we made our way past it. Near one end, there is just a huge opening that goes from one side to the other. That opening alone could pass all number of other boats through. It's said that America has some of the biggest carriers in the world, and looking at this beast, I wouldn't doubt it for a second.

Though I knew it was the Regan, in my heart and mind, I couldn't help but think I was seeing the USS Flag.

The Arizona memorial is a white structure built with a dip in the roof, signifying the morale of the country during world war II. At the beginning they were gung ho, ready to take on all invaders, but with all the loss of life, there was a drop, a falling back. However, their spirits were raised once more at the end, when the final push was being made.

The Arizona lays on the bottom, hundreds of corpses still inside. Earlier in the day, survivors from the ship were here visiting. It's hard to imagine how anyone could have survived the blast. Strangely – it was the religious that made it through. Being on deck for Sunday morning service at the time of the bombing is what spared them, over all the others, still asleep in their bunks below.

Oil still bubbles to the surface, creating rainbows on the water's surface. Some asked about the environmental impact that would have on the surrounding sea life; some need to get their priorities straight and stay silent.

A wall has all the names of the dead inscribed on it, with some dying as recently as 2009. The reason for this is that when a survivor, or one who should have been on board at the time – but for some reason was not – passes, they can request their ashes to be placed within the boat below. Rejoining their shipmates.

It's a powerful experience, and an important one for me. I've now seen the beginning and the end – Pearl Harbour, and Hiroshima. (True that Nagasaki may theoretically be the end, but Hiroshima was where all knew that the change was coming.)

There is also a submarine that one could walk around on, and a number of different torpedos, including one nuclear torpedo, no longer used and highly controversial. Due to the range, the blast could destroy the ship firing it, as well as the target. The idea was to fire off on an angle, in front of the target, keeping as much room between your ship and the enemy. It is for the best that these no longer find themselves on board the underwater boats.

One thing that shocked me – that I'd never know about until this was – was a Kaiten. How the Americans got hold of one of them is beyond me. It is a Japanese suicide submarine. Not unlike the kamikaze (divine wind) the Kaiten (rapid change of fortune) was a one man craft stuffed with explosives. The pilot of the boat would be sent on a one way mission to ram it into an enemy vessel destroying all parties.

To be a pilot on a suicide run would be terrible, but over in an instant. I can't imagine slowly plodding through the seas, knowing your fate was sealed the second you stepped inside.

If I do nothing else the entire time I am in Hawaii, I will be fine with that. This experience has made the journey more than worthwhile.

Lazy Day in Hawaii

Woke up at six, as “Jack” and his girlfriend headed out. Woke up again at eight to drop their key off for them, once the office opened. Office was still closed. Woke up at ten, and dropped their stuff off. At noon I finally decide to take a shower – that would be a good idea, yeah? My back right wisdom tooth is also hurting, as it tends to do once a year or so – this time I wonder if it might, for real, need to be pulled – only because this would be a most terrible time to need such a thing. At two thirty I finally begin my day.

And my day doesn't even last that long. Two hours outside? A slight recap of yesterday? But you know what. I'm on vacation – and there are two things to know about vacation, one.) you can be lazy, and two.) (most importantly when in Hawaii) “You don't have'ta clean yo' room WHEN – you – on – va-CATION!”

Well, I'm not in a hotel, so I do have to clean my room – but moving on.

Before I went out from noon to two thirty, I lounge around in the room, the breeze blowing through the slated windows, reading my Hyper magazine. Finishing it up. And it was a great use of time. A real piece of down time for which I didn't feel at all guilty, nor did I feel like I was doing it because it needed to be done (as I sometimes find myself thinking when writing about the day.)

I just was. It was wonderful. It as a great feeling. Then I read a book someone had left about the worlds worst kidnappers, and murderers (top 501 – not as fun.)

Outside, I walked down to the burger joint in search of a Root beer shake I'd seen advertised the day before. It wasn't very root beery (why is beery not a misspelled word? Where's the red underline. I know beery is not berry, so what does it mean?) – but it was a giant glass of thick ice cream, so that had its moment too. The burger? Still good.

Then I hung around on the beach, in the shade of a tree, trying to read – but finding myself more than anything just wanting to pass out and fall asleep. Surrounded by people this didn't seem like the best action for me to choose and so I headed back, stopping in once more at the Apple store, because I could. With nothing new, it wasn't as interesting or as fun, but it was a break of air conditioning before I set out once more. At five I was back home, and I was doing all of nothing. I can't even recall how the time as spent. An hour went by without notice. By seven thirty I was thinking about dinner – but that seemed like more of an eight thirty or nine type thing. Lets just see how things progress – maybe head down to the International Food court again and try out some Korean food? Food budget be damned. I'm on vacation.

It happened again – I found myself waking up, without ever agreeing to actually falling asleep. But this was good. I was rested, I had an excuse to shower, and then I headed out for a bite to eat. The International Food Court was ahead of me.

Now, sure, I didn't actually know where it was – but I had a pretty good idea where I was headed. I knew it was away from the ocean, and that was a start. There was also a tourist market near by. One turn, two turns, and down the street things started to look familiar. There was a food court. A food court, you must note, not the food court. Some how I had screwed myself up and wandered directly towards the ocean, and I was now facing the mall's court. Hungry, and still exhausted, I was in no mood to search any more. Down I went into Taco Bell.

I don't actually like Taco Bell, at least I didn't think I did. Tiffany's girl kept going on and on about how she only ate refined, classy food – but would casually drop her love of Taco Bell, which I just noticed, trying to reduce down to initials is almost as awkward as claiming you love Dr. Pepper, when also reduced to its two letter abbreviation.

This, mixed with the line “I love hospitals! / No you don't! You love Taco Bell!” taken from Basketball kept the fast food eatery in my mind. There was no resiting. And while I was picking up food, why not grab a pan pizza from Pizza Hut for breakfast tomorrow?

I would be waking up early to head out to Pearl Harbour – if you get there too late, you'll miss your chance to get to the USS Arizona – and will not be able to get any food for breakie. So, two missions accomplished, I headed back, did some reading, and passed out once more. I briefly woke at three when the lovely lady sharing the bunk returned from her late night Twilight movie watching. Apparently, “it was good.”

I wouldn't know.

June 28th - the second

The plane lands, I get off, and make my way to customs. Somehow I'm the head of the pack – breezing off the plane before all others. Perhaps they stopped to use washrooms in the airport hallways, but whatever the case is, aisle 30 newly opens before me, and I am the first through.

“Hello, how you doing,” the customs officer asks me.
I tell him I'm doing great, and when he sees all the countries I've been to, I wait for the usual question of what I was doing there, why I'd been to so many. Instead he looks up and asks, “were you hosteling?”

Sweet lord. A customs agent who knows about hostels? And one who talks about his days, wondering what the prices are like now. One who seemed to have travelled in his own time? With surprising ease I am stamped into the country, without a date telling me what I get to make sure I was good and gone from behind their boarders.

As I walk out into the terminal I can't help but question – did I really just enter America, or was it a trap?

I ask a girl holding an airport shuttle sign where to go for the shuttle. She rolls her eyes at me, blows a bubble, and points across the street to an area with no discernible markings. The disdain in her eyes that I could be so stupid as to need to ask is clear. I am, indeed, back in America. I love it.

On the shuttle I make my way to the hostel, and am let out right in front. This June twenty eighth seems much more interesting, than yesterday's June twenty eighth.

Into the hostel I go, ready to check in – knowing I'm early, but perhaps something can be done? No. Nothing can be done. At ten o'clock I have paid, been assigned a room much nicer than the one I paid for (as the one I was supposed to be in had been double booked) and then told to come back at four. At four I could finally see inside. Could finally shower. Could finally nap.

Strangely I am not well rested after the Baby on Board flight. Once more I think of how children should be thrown in soundproofed sections at the back. With six hour to kill, and a brand new environment surrounding me, I head off to explore.

I make my way down Seaside Ave. Well, actually I make my way up. Which isn't north, and it's not south. Nor is it east and west. Here, in the greater area of Honolulu directions take on a different spin. There is Mountains, Ocean, and two others. And, of course, they're pronounced in the Hawaiian language. I can't find my informative brochure that lists the words, as that's for the best. I would end up seeming like the tourists who say Aloha to everyone. It's fine for the locals, but it's best you just stick to English if you travel here.

My first point of interest was to be the beach. Walking down the road to the ocean, I hit Kalakaua Ave. Here there was a shopping centre which would offer me food. As I refused to pay Jet Star fifteen dollars for breakfast on the flight, I was a tad hungry. Downstairs I found a Subway which had a breakfast sandwich combo for 2.50. I ordered the sandwich, and was about to be charged 3.49 for it. I said, no no, I want the combo. Ahh – she replied – grabbing me a 21oz soda cup. With this added to my purchase the price decreased by 99 cents. I tell you, it's strange things these fast food restaurants do. And apparently, after Australia, it's world wide.

With belly slightly fuller than it was, I once more head off in search of the beach. A sign points the way through the stores to the waters edge. As I break through I think one of a few things – first, there are a lot of people here. Second, there are a lot of tourists here. Third, it is really – really – hot.

And it was really hot. Having spent the last month in winter, I was not prepared for the wall of heat which I had just stepped out into. With no shade over the sand the sweat began to drip – in no way helped by the fact that I was wearing my day pack, filled with two novels, camera, and netbook.

As I made my way down the beached I watched people standing on surf boards canoe paddling out into the water, reminding me of the poling expedition in Africa. Kids splashed around, girls sun bathed, and guys – they watched their girl sunbathe. There was a whole lot of nothing going on, and I continued to press on down the beach. Each step, I became drowsier and drowsier. Then, from nowhere, there was a grassy park, with trees providing the perfect shade. I sat down, then laid down, then I started to read. Next thing I knew I was waking up.

Only ten minutes had passed, but it was enough to make me feel as if I could carry on with the day. After some more reading, no longer needing to imagine the crystal blue waters and the sailing ships described in my book, I set off again. I had reached the Hilton near Ala Moana Blvd. This was the extreme left side of my Waikiki map. Surely there would be no better option for me than to walk to the extreme right, taking in all that which this town has to offer. Time passes, and while I'm sure I mus have seen some interesting things, I don't register a thing, in my newly arrive haze, until I reach Tommy's Burgers on Kapahulu Ave.

There I am met with a giant refillable cup of soda, and a huge delicious burger. It does take time for the burger to be made from scratch, and by the time my giant circle night club pager ring vibrates, I'm ready to eat my fist, but then – then it is a most magical sandwich of ground chuck.

At this point the world becomes a brighter place to live in, and the walk back to the center of the map, where my hostel is doesn't seem so terrible. I pop into the Apple store on the way back. How could I resist?

Playing around with the new facetime feature on the G4 iPhone, I hear a man beside me talk about how he just got a girl pregnant. Is he talking to me? He is worried about how her mom will react, and what will come from it. Why do I need to know this? Wait – he's not talking to me, he's talking on the iPhone. If he can make a call, can I?

1, 905, and then seven little numbers. All of a sudden I'm dialing long distance back to Canada, and I realize that I can make as many free long distance calls as I want from here. Sadly – I have no numbers on me. And those I once had have been lost for a second time. One call goes through, and I am just shocked that I can do such a thing. It doesn't last long, as I can barely string together three of four words – while I may have food in my belly, exhaustion is still threatening. If this was The Sims, I would have fallen down in the middle of the store, with Zs coming from above my head.

Retaining dignity, I walk back to the hostel, thinking about how poorly planned my flight out was (I leave July 4th – I bet a big blow out on the beach of Waikiki with fireworks lighting up the sky just like in The Sandlot, my favourite fictional memory of all time, would be stupid and boring anyway, right? Who wants to see that.)

I get into my room, eye my bed, and am out cold.

Two hours later, I wake up, a girl rummaging through her clothes. And then in walks her boyfriend, who you would swear was Jack Black, with a shaved head. Once he starts talking, the mannerisms and the voice also completely match. I say nothing though, as I'm sure I'm either wrong, or he gets it all the time.

As we talk about what there is to do on this Island, it comes out that people often call him Jack. I feel vindicated. For the next few hours, I listen to terrible things said that I could quite picture said celebrity saying and doing. Really, it as he matching of the mannerisms that creeped me out the most.

Deciding not to be an anti-social hosteller this run, we all go out for food at the “International Foodcourt” down the street. Inside there are dancers performing to traditional Hawaiian music, or so I am assured. That the girl gyrating her hips and dancing on stage is a white America only slightly destroys my cultural experience. Still – I am glad to have seen something like this, in the quest of good Greek food, rather than having to have seen something like this by going to see something like this.

Touristic experience? Check.

After dinner we all hang out, with a new girl from the bunk above me, and talk about the great art of Spear fishing (complete with spear gun in case demonstrations are needed – not at all terrifying) and the magical wonderland that is working at Tiffanie's (Fun Fact (“Fun Fact!”): Many people in California will talk to a local employee and get all the details, discussing for weeks, a piece – only to then screw them out of commission by heading to Oregon, where there is no sales tax, and buying it there.

I'm not saying I wouldn't do the same thing – but you'd think since Tiffanie's takes down the customers name when they're being helped, and when they buy, they'd have something hooked up to get at least a partial commission to where it belongs.

The convenience store next door is dangerously close, and dangerously well stocked. At three in the morning, we all proceed to pass out.

The girl above me, dreaming about the midnight showing of the new Twilight movie she'll be seeing tomorrow.

Thus ends June 28th. Again.

Werein Time Does Not Exist

In an airport, there is no place, there is no time. There is only the possibility of future transition.

Peaceful Protest at Queen and Spadina, Toronto, Turns Ugly
And as I transition, plugged into the internet, I am again brought up to speed with news from
home. Again there is protesting, though this time it is without violence. This time a full riot squad charges those in the street.

It's like the beginning of the graphic novel Transmetropolitan. The police decide to charge a group who are doing very little to resist – in fact no laws were broken this time in Toronto. Just like in Transmetropolitan, it seems as if nothing would have been noticed, as the area was blocked off, if not for one person watching from on high, recording the incidents. It's times like this that I'm disgusted with our police force.

It's true they are tired, they are cranky, and they have been baited over the last twenty four hours. I will not deny this. But they have to be better than that. They have to rise above. As a teacher it's something that I have to deal with. When a student tells me to, “go fuck myself,” I do not scream back at him. Or her as the case may be. If a desk is thrown at me, one day, I do not wait until I see that student enter class the next, and then throw a desk back at him while he is singing the national anthem.

it seems obvious. It seems only right. As one in the position of authority, we rise above. And yet, that whole desk throwing during the national anthem? That's exactly what has just happened back home.

The video is making its way around the internet. People have gathered in the street to sing our National Anthem, Oh! Canada. Right as the song ends, the police charge – first those in riot gear, then the calvary – our horse backed officers, who normally carry around collectible trading cards of each officer to give to children. I do not envy the job these men and women have before them, but my god – was this really the correct choice?

As I've said before, it's the voice of irrationality that cries out which scares me most. The comments for the video have people saying it, “wasn't a peaceful protest, because it didn't take place in an approved zone.” You either know why this is one of the most terrifying things to read, or... Well, I just don't think the people posting this understand the whole concept of protest. Penn and Teller would back me on this – try to find their episode where they are protesting the right to protest, and getting people to agree with their strange backwards logic. It's brilliant, and sad. Mostly brilliant. But mostly sad.

The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms (section two) allows the right to assembly and peaceful protest. Hanging out and singing the national anthem would fit in with that quite nicely. But no – the police have decided that that right does not exist.

It's true that that right can be revoked, it does not stand for all times in all cases. If a group of people stood in the streets lambasting the Jews, while dressed in full Nazi uniforms, they would be shut down. If a group had signs showing homosexuals being murdered were burning rainbow flags, they would be shut down. But this is just people singing a song. A song that means something to us – no matter how many times we're forced to hear it in school (about 2500 times for those who didn't skip first period in high school.)

Now the police have been granted special powers, which is also in our charter. But should they have covered this? I do not think so. It also is starting to spread that the police may have set one of their own cars on fire the other day – other officers have come out saying that there was no way a protester would have been able to get around the barricades to access that area. It's also not uncommon for plain clothes officers to try and bait protesters. But even if this is all just rumour, with no truth to it, charging a number of people for singing Oh! Canada... well, it's just wrong.

I had friends there, running through the streets. When you cause panic and create a stampede, you are not solving things. You're only causing more harm to the individuals, the citizens you're supposed to protect.

I understand that police are under appreciated – I know they have a tough job – I do not envy them.

All I'm saying is I want my collectible card dispensing buddy officers back.





Passing Through The Gate
I remember that I'm flying to America when it comes time for the additional security screenings. As I show my passport, and flash a winning smile, I make my way down the gauntlet of officers on either side. There are areas off to the side, behind artificial walls, where people can be sent to have themselves checked.

Eyes straight ahead, I march – not wanting any problems getting out – stay calm, I tell myself, and then I'm through. A weight lifts off of me, and I suddenly realize just how screwed up that is.

Other people probably just make their way down the line without ever worrying about anything. Well – other white people, anyway. For me, every time I have to deal with American immigration routines I have to endevour to maintain my calm.

And to be fair, I'm a white male. A middle class white male. All I have going against me is my beard. I know that these feelings will return when it's time to enter America in Hawaii, and I know I will probably be searched for an hour or so, but that's just part of the game. It's those moments of wondering if I'll get pulled or not that causes the strange subtle stress.

I can't help but wonder what it must be like for someone from, or who looks like they're from, the middle east. They have far more reason to fear being pulled – and when they are, they are detained much longer than the one hour I have to wait. Not only that, but if there was ever an issue with translation – well, I just don't want to think about it. It's strange to look around an airport – normally a place where you feel pretty happy, pretty calm, and pretty at ease, and realize that everyone here is travelling for their own reasons. And who knows what's gong through their head.

To be aware - in the most real sense – that we are all individuals and unknowable to all, save perhaps ourself, is a truly strange and powerful thought.



Little Blue Folders
Getting on the plane, I think it's cute how everyone has these little folders, normally bright colors, and translucent. All their important travel documents are kept inside, so they don't get lost. What hotel they'll be at, their ticket, and all that fun stuff. It is normally the people travelling for a week or two that have these.

I know there are long term travellers that neurotically carry around all their information too – and I used to once upon a time.

Now I'm lucky if I have my copy of the ticket receipt, crumpled up in a pocket somewhere, or hidden in my pack – long since printed out, and now potentially needed. Not that they ever are, mind you. Just show your passport, get your ticket, and off you go.

Now? I have the directions to my hostel – and that's about it. No mighty folder here. If anything does go wrong, I'm sure I could track down internet and grab the emailed information from there – but nothing has ever gone wrong, and I've been out and about, in all sorts of places for a long time.

Those bright little folders. They're so cute. I wonder if their mothers made them do it?

Over the Ocean I quickly went to sleep – woken hourly by a screaming baby whom, I do believe, the whole plane wanted to see tossed out the nearest hatch. With a parachute, of course. The mother could go too if she wanted – her choice. Not forced.

But then I was landing, landing, landing – oh not landing, that was another Hawaiian island, there's ours – landing.

Welcome back to the morning of June 28th. Time to start all over again.