Day 18

 

An easy drive through the lush countryside past the city of Lihue, up the coast, to the Kauai Coast Resort at the Beach Boy, commonly knowns as the Beach Boy. For this one night stay I had booked a studio room. We requested the first floor, but settled for a second floor room, near the stairway. Dave found a “Dave Mercer” parking spot right by the door, and so we had a short walk to our room.

The room was the worst one we have ever had at the Beach Boy. Smaller than some motels, with a teenie bath. This room was badly in need of updating and not too clean, either. All the usual surfaces were clean, but I always notice the dusty corners and behind the furniture, plus mildew on some of the bathroom tile. Nevertheless, we were allowed into our room a couple hours early and so I had nothing to gripe about, did I?

Another Shell member told me that this property was scheduled to be completely renovated, i.e. torn back to the walls. And so, next time we make it to Hawaii, this should be a spanking new place.

 

We had a lanai, with a peek at the ocean surf, overlooking the lawns and gardens. Nice. We had some lunch from our leftover groceries, took our books and headed for the lounge chairs next to the ocean, for the afternoon.

Still undecided about whether or not I wanted to buy a ukulele, I asked Dave to drive me up to the town of Kope’e for a look around.

Next day, we had a bit of time left before our plane’s 2 PM departure. The ukulele store opened at 11 AM, and so we were at the door when they opened.

I explained to the nice man that I was a retired classical guitar teacher who had lost the use of her thumb joint, thus making it necessary to give up the guitar. “Is there a ukulele that would serve as a substitute?” I eyed the large array of ukes, suspended around four walls and stacked on every available surface. “There is simply no store on the mainland with this many ukes.

“Oh, but we supply music stores all over the states,” he insisted.

“Not like this,” I countered, waving my hand. “I’m here and I want to try them out.”

“I know just what you want,” he said, picking up a beautiful model on a nearby counter. “This is one that my son designed. It picks and sounds like a guitar. He strummed a few chords as I nearly swooned.

“Oh my,” I nodded as I bent my ear near the sound hole. “Listen to this, Dave,” I said. To the salesman I asked, “But can you pick it and play melodies, like a guitar.”

“The ukulele is a melody instrument,” he instructed me, as if to a child.

“No-no,” I said. “I mean to play pieces, like a guitar. I don’t want to just strum songs.”

“You’re right. Strumming songs gets boring,” he said as he broke out in a Bach classical guitar piece that I had played many times.

“How much is it?”

I thought I heard him say, “One hundred fifty-nine dollars. Normally it sells for three hundred.”

“Do you have others like this?”

“Yes,” he indicated another uke standing in the next holder.

“Please play that one for me,” I said.

He played a little on the other one.

“I’ll take that one,” I pointed. I picked it up sighted along the neck like a rifleman, and scrutinized it, head to toe, to make sure it was straight and true. “Do you prefer a check or credit card?”

I was confident we could carry-on the instrument, but Dave was a bit concerned about taking the ukulele on the plane. And so, we agreed to have it shipped, adding another thirty dollars to the price, which had, somehow, turned out to be one hundred, ninety-seven dollars, plus the thirty. Oh well…worth every penny, if it works out as hoped. Flexibility, as always.

Happy, and beaming from ear to ear, I left the shop on Dave’s arm, still confident of making the two o’clock flight. As it turned out, our timing was perfect. Luckily we had allowed lots of time, as the lines were long and noisy in the confusion of checking in and going through security. We had planned to check our large bags straight through to Grand Rapids, however, there is a stopover time limit of twelve hours. Anything beyond that prohibits checking them through. We were over the limit by thirty minutes, and so, we would have to collect our bags in LA, and drag all four of them to the hotel for the night. After what seemed like an hour in line, we arrived at our gate as the plane was boarding.

With no time to sit, we walked right on and all the way back to row 33. This time, we had regular seating, no special “comfort” seats were available.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll never understand why electronic devices are allowed on some flights, but not on others. But, this time, I had to content myself with reading a real book, not a keyboard. Turns out the book was an airplane thriller, complete with a prolonged crash scene, which I read just as we were landing in Los Angeles, CA. As a seasoned traveler, it bothered me not...well…maybe just a little.

Even though the terminal(s) at LAX are huge and sprawling, it seemed to be less confusing than Lihue. Still, there was a long wait at the luggage carousel, and an even longer wait at the Hotel Shuttle station, as bus after bus fumed by. We watched in vain for one with the Marriott logo. Finally a Marriott van coasted by on the outer lane. I waved and shouted, “Over here, Marriott.” The van seemed to be deaf. And then I noted a “Bus Full” flashing sign. “Rats,” I thought.

We began to get acquainted with the tired passengers beside us. “We’re going to Marriott, too,” they said.

That was all I needed to stir me into action. Having made a note of the hotel’s phone number before we left home, I remembered right where it was. Digging my cell phone out of the depths of my bag, I booted it up, dialed the hotel and handed the phone to Dave. How he could hear anything above the din, amazes me, but he managed to convey our distress to the Marriott desk. Snapping the phone closed, he looked up and announced, “They’ll be here in less than ten minutes.”

Sure enough another bus drove up, this one with no insignia, but for a small lighted screen saying “Marriott Lax.” Clearly they had pressed a generic bus into service.

The restaurants were closed, but the bar had food service. We ordered one plate of fish and chips with cole slaw and split it between us. Did I mention, at our age, we never order more than one meal in a restaurant? Serves us perfectly and avoids the doggy-bag routine. We scarfed up every last French fry.

When staying in a motel, I particularly enjoy a warm bath, knowing that I do not have to clean the tub afterward. This tub was nice and clean, too—no dark spots between the tiles. Finally, ensconced in our comfy beds amid soft pillows, I spent another hour answering email.

It’s a rare vacation when I am not compelled to deal with problems and requests having to do with my position as president of two corporations, and this one was no exception. Twice during our time, I received emails requiring my attention. In addition to that, there was the occasional friendly letter from family or friends. I always answer. Thus, it was 1:30 AM local time before I turned out the light, knowing the wake-up call would be at eight. Not too bad.

I was reminded of some sage advice. Before we left home, we ran into our friend Bill H. while standing in line at WalMart. He had wished us a great vacation, but left us with this advice, “Leave all your phones and electronic devices at home.”

“Not easy,” I replied.

“Just do it,” he laughed.

Great advice, Bill!