As I sat at the Maui airport waiting to fly to Kona, I found myself having a conflicted reaction to the remarkable moment I am experiencing in Hawaii. I am sure I’d hate this voyage under normal cookie-cutter conditions, but right now the scarcity of traditional tourism is creating a nearly personalized visit. But also: guilt. People are dying of COVID. Everyone I know is suffering from exhaustion and the mediocrity of familiarity and routine. A form of prison for people used to a bit of daily novelty.
And here I am living with only moderate concessions to Pandemic World. My biggest inconvenience is my work day starts at 7.
The vistas are achingly beautiful here, but on Maui, even the few tourists create unpredictable situations. Just one mask-denier causes problems for the tour companies and vendors still operating. The open-air restaurants full of diners terrify me, and I only get carry-out. Sitting on the shuttle to Haleakala worried me too. And getting a COVID test for $125-$150 every time I move islands is more of a pain in the ass than I expected it to be.
Still, my experience here is unique and almost warms my jaded backpacker’s heart. I didn’t even jump down the throat of the Oklahoma guy who said how brave I am for traveling alone. I just said “Well, I’ve been around the world alone,” instead of pointing out Hawaii is a state and god, what a provincial take on women, tourism, traditional lifestyles, etc. Is that even still a thing, not being in a traditional family unit, women on their own?
Maybe it is wherever that guy lives in Oklahoma.
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