Sometimes when the sun at this latitude emerges after a dousing of rain that drips off banana fronds and Taro leaves as big as elephant ears, it caresses steam like a conjurer to rise from hot asphalt. Glistening Wet sidewalks and the shushing of cars spraying water as they pass seem incongruent with such warmth and sparkle, but that's Hilo. Literally at the end of the rainbow. I've seen double rainbows and triple rainbows here. Sights no camera can catch and no words can describe.
Inhaling early morning air from my room on the second story of the Pakalana Inn, I felt I was intaking molecules of sea air mixed with mown grass and the exotic spices Mr. Koji was cooking up.
The pecular coo of the dove and the cackle of the Myna Byrds gurgled up in an aural mix that drew me to lanquid musings over my half papaya. Squeezing my petite Hawaiian lime over the blaze of ripe fruit, I narrowly missed squirting myself in the eye, just as throaty "pidgin" english laughter rolled into the air below me. Hawaiian farmers hollered and bantered exuberant greetings as they carted their fresh tropical fruits, flowers, and vegetagles to the open air market below me. They communicated in a sort of "creole" tongue - a mish-mash of Hawaiian, English, portugese and Asian with deep resonant base tones, as deep and rich as the ocean they crossed a thousand years ago to get here from the myriad Islands of Polynesia. Though I could not discern what they were saying, their festive jokes and bustle were a balm.
Inhaling early morning air from my room on the second story of the Pakalana Inn, I felt I was intaking molecules of sea air mixed with mown grass and the exotic spices Mr. Koji was cooking up.
The pecular coo of the dove and the cackle of the Myna Byrds gurgled up in an aural mix that drew me to lanquid musings over my half papaya. Squeezing my petite Hawaiian lime over the blaze of ripe fruit, I narrowly missed squirting myself in the eye, just as throaty "pidgin" english laughter rolled into the air below me. Hawaiian farmers hollered and bantered exuberant greetings as they carted their fresh tropical fruits, flowers, and vegetagles to the open air market below me. They communicated in a sort of "creole" tongue - a mish-mash of Hawaiian, English, portugese and Asian with deep resonant base tones, as deep and rich as the ocean they crossed a thousand years ago to get here from the myriad Islands of Polynesia. Though I could not discern what they were saying, their festive jokes and bustle were a balm.
