Hooked on Polynesia

We have been on Oahu, Hawaii for almost a week. I've lost about five pounds. I'm the only one I know of who can do that. It's because of John. He is the stick and I am the wheel, like that old game kids played when they didn't have toys. An old bicycle wheel can be made to roll with a kid running along side it working the spokes with a stick. No sitting on the beach for John... we keep moving.

I don't eat much breakfast. I like coffee and cereal. John likes a big breakfast. Around noon, I start to feel a few pangs, and he says, "Not time to eat yet. I'm still full from breakfast." At 3:00, I inquire again... "It's only been eight hours... we can make it until 5:00." 5:00 comes and goes. If I'm quick, I can snag a granola bar from a convenience store... the right restaurant does not have a table until 7:00.
The Polynesian Cultural Center is on the North Shore at Laie. It's about all there is in Laie unless you count the Mormon Temple and Brigham Young University, which most of us would not visit. The PCC was established by the Mormons to preserve the culture of the Polynesian converts who seek a college education. They can attend Brigham Young University, and they can pay their way through by laboring at the PCC. Some sing, some dance, some run snack and souvenir stands.
There are Marriott Vacation Club, a timeshare company, representatives at every turn in the paths.
The costumes and performances have changed little since the 1960s. Mormons are a conservative lot. They have maintained the Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer presentations uninterrupted. None of the nearly nude, lascivious gyrations described by Mark Twain during his visit to Oahu back in 1866. This is colorful polystyrene-grass skirts with fabric nearly up to the neck on the women, although the men are allowed to be bare-chested. The song and dance is quite good, the Zigfield lines a bit hard to take in. The big show at the end of the day keeps thirty or more performers on the stage at any given time, and whatever story they are telling is a bit hard to follow.
In line for the IMAX presentation on Polynesian coral reefs, I noticed a group of four middle-aged adults sheparding a very ill old man in a wheelchair. He had the pallor of a long hospitalization and looked pretty unhappy. Of very shallow breath, he was grunting and waving his arms. No one was listening to him (you couldn't understand him, anyway). Finally, he took what was to him a deep breath and bellowed, "PEE!" All heads turned at once, and he was shuttled away post-haste to the nearest thatched-roof facility for such emergencies.
It's a one-hour bus ride from Waikiki to PCC and an hour's ride back. Even John got hungry. We looked at the choices. Expensive Luau is at 5:00, and that's when they shut down the snack stands. There is a pricey buffet, and I can't stand the thought of other people digging through my dinner. Through a gap in the fence, we beheld a McDonalds, so we snuck out and got refueled for $13. What a lucky break!
Back in time for the big show. "No Flash Photography, " was one of the themes. Ushers walked up and down the aisle with the glow-in-the-dark signs to remind everyone, and when anyone crossed that line, they were quick to shine a flash light in the offender's eyes with emphatic waving of the reminder.
Samoa won the most applause, followed by Tonga. I happen to know those islands have the most students attending, so there is more cream to skim.
We were briefly reminded by the lead dancer from Tonga how benevolent is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and that we might take a tour of the temple sometime.
I noticed that the few comers went for the timeshare presentation with free snorkeling coupons.

We opted for a quick return to the bus.

California Adventure Day Two

Now, when we decided to make the trip south, it seemed like it would be ok to drive the del Sol home from Santa Clara County. It's twelve hours with potty stops to home here in Skagit County, and an overnight in Eugene, Oregon takes the fatigue out of it. 

But, we have a teenager at home. That can be a worry. I got to thinking: how much does it cost to ship the car on a carrier? The internet is full of information like that. I requested five bids, surprised there are so many companies, from the comfort of my home. I got four replies, all over $700. Hey... Jeff at Motorcars Limited is our buddy. We bought two BMWs from him, and we wrecked one, so he has hope of selling us a replacement. Sure enough, Jeff hooked us up with his man in California. A phone call later, we were looking at $400. 

Doug would be in Hayward... could we bring the car to Bay City Auction Yard? You can then take the yard's shuttle to Oakland Airport... where are you flying home from? That would be Oakland, sir. 

Bay City Auction yard is a fantastic place for a woman whose dad owned a body shop when she was a child. All the sights, smells, and personalities of a wrecking yard were there. And acres of automobiles... most in new condition (that's where Jeff sourced the BMWs we bought), lease returns, dealer overstock. Some wrecks (what my dad would have been interested in). The yardbirds (employees who move vehicles around, jump batteries, check fluids) appeared to be from the South Pacific Islands, but any yardbird is a somewhat feral creature no matter the origin. Imagine: who could work in any weather crawling around and under greasy cars? They talk loud, laugh loud, have coarse language and teeth missing. Always a Marlborough burning between their lips. 

One woman who looked to be about 45 asked me what I had in my tote bag. "Columbo Extra Sour San Francisco frenchbread." She was amazed I was toting six loaves home. I told her it's a rare delicacy for the transplated Californian. "Wow," She said, laughing loudly, "We just take advantage, I guess." I opened a package and gave her the heel of a sliced loaf. "Smell this," I said. For the uninitiated, there is nothing in the world like the sourdough breads from San Francisco bakeries, notably, Colombo and Boudin. Not a sniff for this yardbird-female but a full-bodied rush of air with the bread wrapped around her nose. "Good! Thank you! You didn't have to do that," she said. 

"Ah, but how would you ever know?" I replied, "This is heaven on earth."

Doug told us we may have missed the last shuttle. We'd figured out the shuttles are for the Big Time Operators from distant dealerships who fly in, bid and buy, then fly out.

"Too bad!" said the yardbird in the shuttle booth. "You are out of luck!" Doug said something to her in a quiet voice, and somehow it was discovered that there was one more shuttle out.

Today is Saturday. We just got back from Jeff's lot with the del Sol. It is dusty, but the gas is still in it and so are the items we threw in the trunk that we didn't want to pack onto the plane.

We could have filled the car with Columbo Extra Sour.

California Adventure Day One

How many times do you hear someone say I'd do that if I could make the time, or I'd do that if it made financial sense?

We bought our son, Ross, a Honda del Sol for his first car. His part of the contract is to take care of the insurance, gas, and maintenance. I'd made the same arrangement with my two older sons, and it worked out well.

Good choice. He can only have one buddy in the car. No voices from the back seat taunting, "Go ahead and punch it, you chickenshit!" And the top comes off and stores in the truck in a very simple way so that motors and pullies don't foul and require mechanic's fees. Father and son had been studying the car, researching accessories, chatting with on-line del Sol clubs... John (Father) starts thinking he'd like one of these for himself. Cheap to buy since they are twelve or more years old, cheap to insure, and fun to drive in the nice weather.

Out came the notebook computers and the searches through Yahoo Autos, Auto Trader and Craigslist... resources I can't remember to name. The search was on for the low mileage, unmodified, always garaged candidate. Not easy. They are all over the country, and it's rare to find what you want in the small corner of the country we live in.

Found one on Auto Trader in Tucson, AZ. Sold before we could push the "send" button on the email form. Found one in Portland on Yahoo Autos... a 1995 V-tech with automatic transmission in red and only 51,000 miles. Pounced on it within one hour of the ad's posting. Sold already! Found one on eBay in San Francisco... 1997 V-tech with 5-speed transmission and 42,000 miles. Checked out at Carfax as geniune... but got my fingers tangled up at the last-minute bidding and someone got the last bid in behind me, pushing me out. Just as well, I feel more comfortable with a set price and a chance to actually see what I'm buying.
Two more slipped by, until I spotted one on craigslist just 20 minutes after posting. 1997 S with 72,000 miles in Vogue Silver... sounded very good. I wrote: "If this car is as described will pay your asking price in cash. Please call." The owner did call, from Morgan Hill, California, and talked to John on the phone for awhile. Randy said he couldn't imagine why anyone would travel so far to buy an economy car. And we should bring actual cash because he was wary of money order scams and it's interstate and all that.

"If you really want to do this, I'll make it happen," I said to John.

Well, the dogs go to the kennel next time. They really bossed Ross around and didn't let him sleep much. You gotta be firm with em, and he doesn't have the management skills.
But the house looks ok, other than a clean up in the utility room (I expected that).
The flights were $60 each way... that's one reason we took on the adventure. We had to fly into SFO instead of SJC because San Jose would have cost $225. Big difference. So I studied the CalTrain and BART maps. You take BART to Millbrae, then get on CalTran (missed the first one while wrestling with the ticket machine) all the way to Morgan Hill. It will take you to Gilroy if you want to go that far.
You get a good look at the cities (used to be towns) going south... Burlingame, Belmont, Redwood City... right through Stanford University... I think Menlo Park looks the best. Toney. Then Santa Clara, San Jose and through some pretty terrible looking rural area.

Lots of grafitti along the route (except in Menlo Park, of course). Several giraffes... what is that about?

Randy, and his wife were still scratching their heads after John tested the car, handed over the cash and accepted the paperwork. "I still can't believe anyone would go to this much trouble for an economy car." John said business is slow and he was bored.
As good an explanation as any.
We found a brew pub in Morgan Hill and had a pint there. Around the corner was one of the most sincere restaurants I've ever encountered. I can't remember the name, but it's a bungalow style house. The front rooms are the dining rooms, the back rooms pantry and kitchen. Decorated with bric a brac from over the years. Very noisy staff and patrons. They all know each other well.
"You can sit here," said a young man, pointing, before we had a chance to look around.
"Is the food any good?" I asked an owner/hostess/waitress. "You eat, you'll see," she replied, abruptly setting down menus. She came back with bruschetta topped with tomatoes and garlic. "What you want to drink?
Nice list. A Super Tuscan for $7 a glass. I'll have that!
Big glass... this is going well.
It was very, very good pasta. We chatted with the couple at the next table who filled us in on how much they like the little town of Morgan Hill, no crime, good climate... how the economy is going to hell in a handbasket now that the Democrats are getting their way. Two young men gave up on rib eye steaks that must have been three pounds each. The owner/chef smiled and collected twenty dollar bills from both of them. And the tab.
And that was just day one. We had the luxury of a day two before we returned to the friendly skies.