We couldn’t tell them “nothing much” again, the older folks at the communal table breakfast at the B&B who were sharing stories of repelling and hang gliding all over the Big Island. But we really weren’t up for big adventure yet. We knew a traditional Hawaiian luau was on the docket at some point, and we decided we were up for a party, as usual.
We descended from the verdant mountains into that same black scorched earth, past the little airport to the big resort area, where an enormous pig was cooking in the ground and the fruity drinks and pretty flowers set the mood. A fire dance show and exotic food and the prettiest bird of paradise sat next to me. My wife had lived in Hawaii as a military daughter, so this was less foreign to her. This America.