On September 14, 2004, I was living in a pervy old Japanese man’s basement on a Honolulu mountain top. 24-year-old me wrote, as my first MySpace post:
When the old, fat, Mexican waiter, who owns the place, with tarnished silver for teeth and a belly bigger than my pregnant boss asks you if “Was good?” I mean, really, what can you say “Actually it sucked. I miss REAL Mexican food. California style. Where they don’t charge you $2.50 for extra chips and the burritos weigh almost 2 pounds. Oh, and your salsa blew my dog.” Nope, can’t say any of it, or wouldn’t, because even though I just paid HIM to make me a meal, paid him mind you for a service that dissatisfied me, I still wouldn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings and, after all, I still live in Hawaii. I think half the people popping Prozac in Arkansas or New Jersey need to have the doc’s write them a prescription for Red dirt, plumeria scented trade winds, and crushed crayola sunsets. Because even though cereal costs almost $6 a box, I wouldn’t trade all the Wheaties in the world for my panoramic view of Honolulu. At least, that’s how I’m feeling right now. Loving it here, hope you’re doing the same where you are!
And now, I say:
Yup still love Hawaii, even though cereal is now $8 a box. Having just got married there, I observed that Hawaii Mexican Food has come a long way. However, New Husband, who lies on the bed close by, with red wine stained lips, an open sweatshirt, a very hairy chest and even hairier white dog next to him, says, “I went to a Mexican place while we were there, and it actually sucked pretty bad.” But I don’t trust him. We have very different tastes in food, so I’ll just have to see for myself next time I’m there.
