I decided I’d rather travel alone then spend any more time trying to find my “partner in crime”.  I did what every single and ready to mingle lady with raging hormones does.  I went to Oahu.  Yup. That was my choice of party places.  Whoop! Whoop!  At the time I was heading to Oahu, my girlfriend AKA BFF, Lili was in Thailand.  (My mother thought BFF stood for “Bitch Fucken Freak”.  I’m not sure, nor did I ask who she thought was the BFF between Lili and I.)  You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just go with her to Thailand.  Our ideas of vacations are completely different.  I like to go to tropical, warm places and soak up the local culture and cuisine.  Her idea of a vacation includes hiking up Machu Picchu in silence with forty strangers to partake in a silent yoga retreat, while eating nuts and berries for three weeks.  No thank you!  She told me all about her exciting trip to Peru and I kept repeating, “oh thank God” when she finally asked me why I was continuing to thank God because her trip wasn’t scary and was rather tame, I admitted I was relieved that I decided I didn’t want to go on that trip with her.  In my defense, the poor girl who was dumb enough to go with her never spoke with her again.  I didn’t want to ask what was done during their silent retreat that could cause such a tiff.

I am not going to make the effort to go to Thailand, pay for the trip and take time off work, unless I know I will eat mounds of Pad Thai and curry, drink lots of whatever alcohol the locals drink and talk to as many people who can speak English as possible.  If I had to be silent for even thirty minutes, the only nuts we would be dealing with is me.  Even my high school boyfriend quickly learned that my threats of silent treatment wouldn’t outlast one song on the radio.  So, to preserve my friendship with Lili, I refused to vacation with her. 

Her trip to Thailand, alone, was a lot more exciting than her trip to Peru, even though it still included an obscene amount of meditation and yoga.  Why can’t people meditate and do yoga at home, for free?  She was actually exploring some fun places in Thailand.  Although, she refused to eat any authentic food that wasn’t vegetarian and she couldn’t identify every vegetable in the food.  She was informed by the hotel concierge that she would be better off renting a moped instead of a car to go sightseeing in Thailand.

While on my first vacation alone I quickly learned two things first was that there is a lot of silence when you’re alone and second is that silence is not golden.  By the middle of day two of my vacation, I had called and caught up with most, if not all, of my family members.  Thank you, Verizon, for unlimited talk and text.  When the silence became deafening and I was bored with laying out in the sun I called Lili to see how she was doing.  She sounded jubilant and cheerful, not her typical self.  She told me all about her first week in Thailand and how much fun she was having.  I was a bit bummed out because my trip had turned out so boring.  Apparently, Oahu is NOT where single men in their thirties go to vacation, news flash, that’s Mexico.  Lili suggested I rent a moped and take a tour of the island.  “It’s fun,” she said.  “Everyone does it,” she said.  “It’s safe, people in Thailand carry entire families on one mope,” she said.  I had seen a moped rental shop from my hotel room window so I walked over and asked the owner if I could rent a moped without a motorcycle license.  I informed him that I wanted to take a tour of the island and needed an all-day rental.  He repeated all the same things Lili told me about fun, safe and everyone does it.  “Can I take the moped to North Shore?” I asked.  “Sure, everyone does it.”  I reserved a moped for the next day and told him I would be there for my quick lesson as soon as he opened. 

That night I was so excited about my self-tour of the island, I could barely sleep.  I woke up super early, did my make-up and hair and walked over to the moped rental shop in my shorts, tank-top and flip-flops.  I had my backpack with my camera for all the pictures I wanted to get evidence of my exciting day.  When the moped shop owner saw me, the first thing he said was, “You should be fine in flip-flops.” “Huh? What? Should I wear different shoes?” “No, you should be fine. Let’s get your lesson started. First, put your camera bag in the compartment under the seat.  Sit down.  You’re going to want to put your feet on the ground when you stop otherwise, you’ll tip the moped over.”  I tried to place both of my feet on the ground and the legs that came with my 5’0” frame was too short to accommodate both being placed on the ground at the same time.  “No problem, maybe you can balance the moped on one leg.” That I could do, but I was still on my tippy toes.  I finally realized where my super strong thighs would come in handy.  I always knew they would have a purpose.  “A few more things to know, don’t ever leave the moped without locking it to something, it will get stolen and you’ll be responsible for replacing it.  Stay off the highways.”  That should be easy.  I was super excited, until I was informed that I was required by Hawaii state law that I would have to wear a hideous helmet.  “What? But I’ll have helmet hair!” “Better than brain dead.” He quickly won that argument.

I pulled out my map and asked him to point in the direction I would need to go to get to North Shore and see the Dole Plantation on my way.  He showed me on the map and said, “You better put that map under the seat, or it will blow away.” “What the fuck?”  I get lost with a map in front of me. I cannot memorize the directions.  He assured me that there were directional signs everywhere.  Okay fine, I just must go left for a while, then make a right.  I made a mental note to ask Lili how she got around without a map, in flip-flops and no helmet. 

I began my journey in Waikiki and headed left, I don’t know if that’s north, south, east or west.  The whole, west is where the sunsets went out the window when I landed in Oahu.  Within a few minutes of riding my moped “left”, I felt like I had the hang of this moped riding and was doing great.  When low and behold, I saw a sign, crap!!!! The speed limit here was 65 and my moped maxed out at 50 and even though I had the moped fully throttle I was barely going 40 mph.  How did I get on the freeway?  I never drove onto a freeway onramp.  How do I get off, if I don’t know how I got on?  The freeway seemed to be a continuous ring of onramps and exits, and I couldn’t tell if they lead to other freeways or streets.  I stayed in the slow lane and felt relieved when I saw a sign that said “Dole”.  I exited the freeway and went right as instructed.  Within a few minutes, the two-lane road was breathtaking.  I felt like I was in the middle of Fantasy Island.  It was lush and green with waterfalls at every other turn.  I decided that since this was a road less traveled, I was going to take my time and not worry about rushing to North Shore.  Part of my decision was based on the fact that I had come to the realization that my moped was slower than molasses and I should just embrace its limitations. 

The road to North Shore was pretty much uphill.  At this point the moped was barely going 35 mph, and I could see in the side mirror that a car was approaching behind me.  I started to get a little nervous, I had been on this road for a good twenty minutes and had not seen one single passing lane, nor was there a shoulder on the side.  If I pulled over, even on the small moped, I would be hit by a passing car.  I started to get really nervous when the cars behind me started piling up.  As far as I could see in my side mirror there were cars lined up behind me.  The wind blowing in my giant, hideous helmet that was blowing back so hard the strap was choking me, was so loud I couldn’t hear the cars were honking.  I just kept riding as fast as I could.  At one point I even tried to suck in my gut to see if the reduction in weight may give the stupid moped some much needed power.  No luck.  So, I tried thrusting my body forward repeatedly.  Again, no luck.  This moped was not equipped to exceed 35 miles per hour, up a hill with a grown ass adult, even a slightly less than average size adult.  Oh, who are we kidding, most sixth graders are taller than me.  This was terrible.  If I was in California, my life would certainly be in jeopardy by some road-raging lunatic. 

My palms were sweaty and my heart was racing.  I turned a corner in the road and noticed I was quickly approaching a semi-truck.  At first, I was annoyed because the truck was going to slow down what little momentum I had.  Then I realized, if I was catching up to the truck, that meant the truck was slower than me and it was holding up the traffic, not me.  I was relieved and finally let out my gut.  The smile on my face returned with vengeance.  Ear to ear, teeth and all.  When I got a few feet behind the truck, I was quickly hit in the face with a dust cloud coming up from the side of the road.  In my blissful attempt to catch up to the truck to evade being the cause of the traffic jam, I failed to notice the truck barely fit the width of the lane and was partially driving on the side of the road with the lovely red dirt.  The rear tires, yes, all four on the right side, were sweeping the dirt up directly into me.   Within a few minutes, I couldn’t see out of my right eye, and I had to make sure I kept my mouth shut.  I wished I had the ability to close my nostrils because the red dirt was burning its way up through my brain.  I was confident that I would be coughing and sneezing out red dirt for weeks or months.  I already could feel the crunching of dirt between my teeth. 

Dear God, who the fuck’s idea was this and why did I listen?  I was half terrified and half irate.  I wasn’t sure which emotion I would inevitably succumb to.  I was extremely relieved that the endless line of traffic behind me was no longer my fault.  But, this was not safe.  I must have driven for about twenty minutes before I had my first and only break from what was undoubtedly the worst and most dangerous idea Lili ever came up with.  I should’ve known better.  Now, I was beginning to understand possible reasons why her friend that went to Peru with her never spoke with her again.  I had every intention of speaking with her again and I had no doubt would be starting and ending every sentence with four letter words.  My red dirt exfoliation session ended when I approached my first destination, the Dole Plantation.  I turned right into the driveway and looked for a parking spot where I could lock up the moped.  It would serve the owner right if it was stolen, except my credit card would be charged $1,700 to replace this piece of shit death mobile. 

I was finally able to locate a poll on the far end of the lot.  I parked the moped, locked it up, pulled my phone out and called a friend who was in California.  As I was dialing the number, I felt a rush of emotions…I was about to burst into tears.  But, when he answered the phone, I surprisingly burst into uncontrollable laughter.  I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t even explain what just happened.  I finally stopped laughing long enough to give him the abbreviated version of events.  The only thing he kept repeating is, “are you crazy? You could’ve been killed!”  Apparently, the fact that I found this entire situation amusing was more concerning to my friend.  

I decided to end my call with Debbie downer and get some food.  Driving the death mobile worked up my appetite and I was told this place has a restaurant with authentic Hawaiian food.  The restaurant was more like an elementary school cafeteria buffet, both in appearance and quality of food.  When I was done consuming what I considered to only qualify as nutrition, I realized I was about halfway through my journey to North Shore and had to quickly decide if I was going to commit to or abort Mission North Shore. 

There are two things about myself that I have learned to love and hate equally.  First, is my debilitating fear of commitment.  Yea, I am that girl who upon any requirement to commit to anything, I get a severe stomachache, followed by the simultaneous need to puke and shit, which results in having to decide if I am going to commit to puking or shitting, which causes more sweating, chest pains and at times even uncontrollable crying.  This includes, but is not limited to, men, weekend plans, food plans, signing a lease for a place to live, gym classes that require advanced sign up and charge you for cancellation, doctor’s appointments, flights, hotel reservations, etcetera, etcetera.  Yes, the specific examples are of actual times where I had my commitment fears rear their ugly heads.  I think the only reason why I married my ex-husband was because not so deep down inside, I knew it wouldn’t last.  Now, to address my commitment fears, I always say, “you’re not marrying it and even if you are, you can always get a divorce.” I refer to this ugly headed, debilitating beast as Nessie. 

You’re probably wondering how I made advanced plans to fly to Oahu.  That’s the second important part of my personality I equally love and hate.  I am not a quitter.  Once a thought comes into mind, I will not backout.  I took that same approach with my decision to complete Mission North Shore.  I hopped back on the death mobile and headed north.  This kind of reminded me of the movie, El Norte.  I don’t recall much of the movie, just that a guy went El Norte from Central America to the United States.  Sure, I wasn’t looking for a better life for my family.  Sure, I wasn’t escaping poverty and a fucked up a government in a drug war torn country.  Thankfully, there were no rats.  But my journey was exactly in the same direction.  We both went to El Norte. That’s all we had in common.

I drove for about thirty minutes and made a few wrong turns before I got to North Shore.  (I can get lost with a navigation system in my car driving from the dry cleaners to my house a mile away.  Yes, I got lost in this fashion and had to call a friend to help me find my way home.  When my navigation system didn’t work, I informed the service guy at the Ford dealer that it was a life and death situation and made him give me directions.)  North Shore was breathtaking.  The waves were like a wall of water racing toward the shore and rhythmically transformed into a giant tube.  I had never seen anything like this, and I practically grew up at Zumba beach.  The waves were inviting, until I saw a tiny object which I realized was a surfer conquering the beast and then losing as he tumbled around and around.  I could’ve sworn he was dead.  Then he popped up in the water and started paddling out again.  I wasn’t far from the waves, and I had a great camera.  I was thrilled that I would now have some great photographs of this natural phenomenon.  I found the perfect location.  I just had to find a poll to lock up the death mobile and start taking pictures. 

I wasn’t surprised that there wasn’t a single poll or object where I could lock up the death mobile.  I didn’t see one single death mobile on the road since I left Waikiki.  I drove around a little with no luck.  I could not believe I drove over three hours and couldn’t stop and take pictures.  That was the only reason I went to El Norte in the first place!!!!  I was not happy.  I did what any self-respecting person would do, I left the death mobile, ran over to a good location and snapped some shots.  I decided since it would take me three hours to get back on the death mobile, having it stolen wasn’t such a bad idea.  I got my pictures and to my disappointment, the death mobile was still there. 

I was determined to get back in one piece without any further obstacles.  I stopped at a gas station to get gas; it was over $7 a gallon and I was pissed off that I would now be gas gouged by the exorbitant island gas prices.  I pulled in next to a full-size SUV and began pumping.  The guy’s pump was over $50 and rapidly increasing.  He saw me on the death mobile and condescendingly said, “nice ride.”  I smiled and thanked him.  I was so embarrassed, I wanted to crawl into the compartment under the seat and hide.  Then my pump shut off and the screen read $14.36.  I looked at him and said, “bet you wish you had my nice ride now, don’t you?” Luckily, he laughed it off and I was on my merry way.  Ugh, three more hours of this shit and I would be back in my cozy hotel.  However, about ten minutes into my journey “El Southe”, (is that even a word in Spanish?) I came to the realization that the road was now downhill, and my death mobile was not fucking around.  Even though the speedometer tapped out at 55 mph, I was confident I was exceeding those speeds by at least 20 mph, and I was in no mood to test my brakes.  I rode that bitch like the wind and prayed I wouldn’t become an organ donor that day.  Okay fine, I lied, my vanity got the best of me and at most I prayed I wouldn’t get into an accident that would leave me with life altering, ugly scars.   One of the many benefits of the downhill speeds was that I made it back to Waikiki in half the time it took me to get to North Shore. 

After dodging cars on the freeway several more times, I reached my destination.  I drove into the death mobile rental shop and quickly and adamantly informed the owner that he was wrong. I told him, “I could’ve been killed! It isn’t safe! No one else is dumb enough to take a death mobile from Waikiki to North Shore and there is nowhere to lock up this piece of shit when you do get to North Shore…oh and it has impressive miles per gallon fuel ratio.”  Then I stormed out. 

The next day, I decided to lay low and stay off the roads.  But, after a few hours of laying out by the pool, then a few hours of laying out at the beach, I was done laying around and extremely restless.  I asked the lovely Hawaiian lady who sold timeshare excursions if she had any recommendation of places I could eat.  She suggested The Barefoot Bar at Dukes.  It’s on the beach, with a great atmosphere and live band.  Best part was that it was walking distance from the hotel.  I consider anything less than two miles walking distance even in my four-inch heels. 

I showered, washed half a pound of red dirt out of my hair and every orifice in my body, fixed my hair and put on my war paint.  I was determined to meet some guys tonight.  I walked into the Barefoot Bar around six and sat down at the bar.  I was immediately greeted by Jimmy, the bartender.  Super nice guy, but a little antsy.  You see, one of the many great things about me, other than my modesty, is that I do not discriminate and I drink all types of alcohol.  This results in my constant dilemma of what I am in the mood to drink.  Other than wine, I don’t have go to beverage.  I have Nessie.

Jimmy doesn’t have the patience for my anti-discriminatory behavior.   The second time he comes over to get me a drink, he suggests, “how about I surprise you?” “That sounds great!”  I oblige him and he quickly returns with a tall, pretty, blue beverage.  It was so delicious that I almost down the drink.  Jimmy comes back over and asks if I would like another and I said, “no, but surprise me with something else.”  Jimmy and I spent the rest of the night chatting.  Turns out he was “a big deal” back in the day.  He was a former professional surfer and there were photos of him on posters with first place awards all over the bar.  Jimmy was kind enough to take me under his wing and tell me all about the ins-and-outs of Island life.  I left there with a new friend, thirty years my senior, but a nice guy, nonetheless.

The next day, I partook in a terrible luau and decided to have a few drinks at the Barefoot Bar again.  Jimmy would be working and at least I would have someone to talk to.  My predominately silent vacation was taking a toll on me.  Day two at the Barefoot Bar was far different than day one.  There were significantly more people at the bar and a few hot guys.  Luckily, a very hot guy came and sat next to me at the bar.  He repeatedly tried to talk to me, but I was not interested in taking the bait.  He was one of those, “I’m sexy and I know it” looking guys.  I don’t blame him.  The man had perfect caramel color skin, gorgeous blue eyes and an award-winning smile. 

Jimmy came over and asked him if he wanted a drink.  He ordered his drink and then informed Jimmy that he would be buying my next beverage.  Jimmy practically rolled his eyes at the guy, and I turned to him and said, “thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”  I was super proud of myself, especially when Jimmy smiled at me and gave me the “you’re awesome for refusing” look.  Of course, I didn’t want to be rude to the man who looked like a Greek…um…more like an African God, so I decided to talk to him. 

He had a tattoo on his bicep.  It looked like Japanese or Chinese writing.  I have zero knowledge of Asian languages and don’t even pretend to know the difference.  I asked the African God what his tattoo said.  He smiled at me with his panty dropping smile, and in his Luther Vandros voice he said, “I can’t tell you unless you’re in the inner circle”.  And he made a circle with his fingers.  You know that scene from the movie, Meet The Faulkers?  Yea, that fucken cliché and lame ass shit.  Who the fuck did this guy think he was and how desperate did he think I was?  Fuck this shit!  Game on motherfucker! 

I was going to show him who was boss and I was going to do with dignity.  I started flirting with him.  I laid it on thick.  Caressed his bicep, giggled at everything he said that was remotely funny, put my hand on his thigh, batted my eyelashes and played with my hair.  You know, at the signs that a girl is into you?  Yea, I played the part brilliantly.  I even let him buy me a drink.  He told me he lived on the island.  We talked about what hotel I was staying at and the fact that I decided to travel alone.  After about an hour, African God asked me if I wanted to go on a walk on the beach.  I said, “sure.”  African God needed to use the bathroom before we headed out.  I took advantage of this time to let Jimmy know he didn’t need to close me because I would be coming back.  Jimmy didn’t look convinced. 

When African God returned, we headed out to the beach, I took off my shoes and we walked for about twenty minutes, we turned around and stopped on the beach directly in front of my hotel.  In Waikiki the distance between the ocean and the hotel is barely a stone’s throw away.  It never dawned on me that he would know where my hotel was simply by name.  We don’t have that luxury of knowledge in California.  In California, if someone said they’re staying at the Marriott, it would take three to six months to effectively stalk them.  He stood in front of me, glanced at my hotel and asked me, “are you going to show me your hotel room?”  I planned most of this, flirting, giggling and even the arm caressing, but I could have planned it this perfectly.  Actually, I didn’t plan it, he did. He intentionally asked me to on a walk so he could take me back to my room. So, I most certainly cannot in good conscience take credit for the brilliant way this night ended.  I looked at him with adoring eyes and replied, “I can’t show you the inside of my hotel room unless you’re in the inner circle.”  I even went as far as making the circle with my fingers. Just. Like. Him.  I swear I saw rage in his eyes.  He stared at me for what seemed like an hour but was probably a few seconds.  Without another word, he stormed off like a sore loser.  I was elated when he walked off because I couldn’t hold in my hysterical laughing any longer.  I walked back to the Barefoot Bar, sat down and asked Jimmy, “can you surprise me with another drink?”  He was shocked to see me back and admitted he really didn’t expect me to return.  Apparently, African God is a regular at the Barefoot Bar, and he “regularly” takes single vacationers back to their hotel. Not me, this bat shit crazy bitch is done being played.