Oahu

It was a Wednesday, and it was my first real date in almost two years. I was fantastically anxious, and quite unsure of if this experience was even something I was truly ready for. But he seemed kind, and interesting, and though the date quickly turned absurd and hilariously horrific—as was the rest of our short lived relationship—it did leave me with a memorable story to tell and lessons to reflect upon for the months to come.

I was still new to Oahu. I had only lived on the island about three weeks, leaving the hushed mountains of New Mexico for the slapping wash of the Pacific. I remember when flying in—also a Wednesday—fireworks peaked beneath the windows of the plane, for it was the Fourth of July, and Oahu was wide awake.

At first, I believed this to be a great sign; a welcome party; an excited hoorah as greeting. But unfortunately, for the three and half months I lived there, Hawaii was a trial which seemed to want me vanquished rather than celebrated.

Once again, another story to remember and reflect.

Even though the suitors were endless—the attractive astrologist working at the organic grocery store; the Uber driver/massage therapist I’d stumbled upon not once, but three times; the older gentlemen who worked at CVS around the corner who called me gorgeous whenever I dared to let my hair out of its braid—as most young, lonely gals do, I turned to Tinder for dating advice.

In the beginning, I was drooling. Coming from a small town in Texas, my options had been pretty…pale, to say the least. Cowboy boots, button downs, shaved scalps and dip stained teeth. I also hadn’t truly dated in years. Nothing serious, or real. But here, the beauty of man—both female and male—was endlessly intoxicating.

I remember my first few weeks, most of my free time was spent dazed in many of the bars spotting Waikiki—Arnolds [a personal favorite], Kelly O’ Neil’s, Sky if I felt like dancing and dreaming of swimming naked in the ocean—conversing late into the windy nights with souls I never would’ve had the courage to approach before, most deliciously calm with lips which entranced.

But still, never was I confident enough to follow home any of these beautiful strangers. I was alone on an island in the middle of the Pacific, sad and almost on the constant, drunk. I wasn’t yet that daring, nor had I ever been.

So on my first date with the aforementioned man I’d met on Tinder—not the one where we hung out by his apartment’s empty pool on a Sunday at midnight—I recommended Arnolds as a meeting spot; mistake number one, now he knew where to find me.

Arnold’s Beach Bar was my escape; $4 rum and cokes and soccer aways on the clouded T.V. The woman behind the bar was a mother, tattooed and thick, stunning from voice to flesh, and with each visit, my arrival granted a smile and deep conversation which helped ease the stress the island tossed upon me from every direction possible. The bathroom, a small space holed up at the top of the narrow staircase, became a temple; a 4a.m. cry, an early morning vomit, an after work [which we called the ‘post office’] therapy session. This bar—when I wasn’t cradled naked from the heat on the floor of my bedroom—was home, and to be frank, the reason I still breathe today.

Nonetheless, normal was the name of the game upon arriving. Like myself, he was also new to the island, so we spoke about why we were here, and if here was where we wanted to stay. We spoke about our families and what we enjoyed about Oahu thus far, how we liked the food, the people, the speed of life. I had far too many shots while he had far too little, and by the time 8 p.m. rolled around, I was ready for adventure.

So, hopping onto his moped, we rode down the streets of Waikiki, busy with white tourists and the injured homeless, soon dipping into the dark to stroll along the edge of the water.

Barefoot beneath the moonlight, for the first time since arriving, I felt grounded. The sand was mush against my sweaty skin, the water chilled, the lights of cruising dinner ships twinkling like stars swaying to the ocean’s natural melody. Neither spoke as we walked, and I was grateful. I needed this breath of sanity. This moment to feel like I belonged in a space again.

When we did speak, it was tame. He spoke more of his situation—something rather personal, but let me note, anomalous, to say the least—and I spoke of mine, depression clouding each word. But I knew this was not something he noticed. At this point, even my mind was too flooded to understand how vast my sadness sat.

One too many red flags and three bars later, I was flying. He was still sober, as he had control of the keys, but he was contact high from my excitement, and within him, an idea sparked. Next thing I knew, I was told to close my eyes and hum.

So I did. Well, I hummed. But closed my eyes, I did not.

My time on Oahu was mostly spent on foot. Miles and miles trekked through rain, shine, uncertainty, and by the time I left, I swore, I’d never walk again; a lie, an impossibility. I had purchased a bike which broke three times and was stolen once. I also attempted to buy a moped, which yes, you guessed it, broke the same day I bought it; oh, Craigslist, how you tease me.

As we sped down roads I’d yet to venture, I took in everything around me, and I was fast to notice that the buildings here remained asleep, the structures tacked in a distant time while marked with evidence of the present, which, most days, I came to find made me unbearably sad.

Damp yellows and banal greens bordered the littered streets; annular awnings and dilapidated mercury signs snored dormant on King and Beretania street; bubble-lettered promotional slangs licked against damp windows; bus stops tattooed by wind glued posters from the deep 70’s. I remember a tear slipping, a connection made.

But the feeling was soon pushed away as we pulled into the parking lot of our next sporadic stop: Club 939, one of Honolulu’s most popular strip clubs.

My jaw dropped, and instantly, I was laughing. Hard. Uncontrollably. He stared at me like I was insane, until he started to laugh as well, watching me down two miniature Jack Daniel’s while leaning against the blank, concrete wall of the club.

He told me of his time as a stripper while pulling out a stack of hundreds, and again, my jaw was on the floor. He told me of his time in Miami, and looking at him now, beneath the glow of the neon sign, I could see it in his body; broad shoulders, arms, thin waist. It made sense.

While this was not my first time in a strip club, it was my first time going as part of a date, and trying to act far wilder than I actually was, I pretended I was comfortable; comfortable as he strolled past the dancers while slipping bills into their thongs; comfortable as he was motor-boated while I sat on his lap; comfortable when offered jobs while kissed on the cheek by a stunning Asian woman named Wanda.

Please, do not misunderstand me. I absolutely respect the profession. I admire it, and understand all that comes with such work. I was just thrown by the sheer spontaneity of it all, the lack of communication, the puke of sudden information, and on top of the dark, purple haze and low bumping bass I was now drowning in, I was also WASTED.

The next hour continued in a blur, with the final straw for me being when he mentioned he planned to purchase a private dance. Laughing straight into his face, I spun on my heels, drunkenly saluted to the bouncer, and stumbled across the street to the gas station, where I purchased myself two small bags of trail mix [a common meal while living on the island, for food is incredibly expensive], all the while being cursed at in confusion by my date from the door of the club—my date, who then turned back into the strip club to enjoy the rest of his evening, alone.

It’s now three in the morning, I’m sitting on the curb in the dark with a pocket knife in my fist waiting for an Uber, when all of a sudden—

The Uber driver/massage therapist pulls up to the curb, clapping, and my head drops back. I’m dressed in a sweaty romper and leather boots, drunk from head to toe, munching on trail mix and damn, am I embarrassed.

Climbing out of the car, he comes to where I sit, offers a hand, and says, “Oahu’s found its next victim.”

Burping, “Victim?”

He nods. “Here, you either blend into the madness or you get lost within it. I told you, didn’t I?”

And I remembered then, that he did.

On one of the three Uber rides I’d shared with this man, he had said, “You either love the island or you don’t. There’s never an in between.”

From the moment I landed, Oahu seemed to want me gone. I came wanting to cherish it’s land. To cherish the history, the culture, the people. But you can’t force a place to love you, and you can’t force yourself to love a place where you most definitely do not belong, or deserve.

Oahu will always be a part of me. It drove me to acknowledge parts of myself I chose to ignore for so long, opening me up to the reality of the world—a world beyond what I previously knew. It pushed my limits, my buttons, my pride. It made me brave while also humble and necessarily quiet. It made me adventurous and nomadic, spontaneous and sad. With both good and bad, it stained me; a stain I hope doesn’t vanish, but blends into my very being.

Hawaii should most definitely be experienced. But it should be experienced the correct way. In a way that’s blunt and raw, to be accepted as it is and not for what it’s portrayed to be.

So if you are to visit, prepare and understand, but also love deeply and explore all you see. Take chances and make memories. Learn its history and its culture, it’s past and it’s present. Feel its land and listen to what it has to say, but leave it as you found it, and be grateful for whatever it allows you to bring home; lessons and stories alike.