October 24, 1999

The surfers were up with the dawn, and of course this observation means that I was, too. Illness has found me these past few months, and though I've been dealing with it with reasonable equinamity, the nights have not been gentle (nor as blessedly long) as I seem to recall they really should be, in ideal universes.

Now I have done, I suppose, the self-compassionate thing and taken me and my betraying body to Honolulu, Waikiki Beach, for a week, where for the two of us to try to come to terms with eachother. My doctor was hesitant about okaying the trip (and, okay, so was I), but ultimately I concluded that if one is going to be laid out, one may as well be laid out on white sand beaches. Also the trip had already been scheduled and paid for: a conference junket, where I'm scheduled to spend 20 minutes presenting a paper at the WebNet 99 Conference here this week, and then spend 8 days sitting through some subset of the rest of the conference, and taking in the sights–and recuperating.

It is also the illness–okay, and the sunrise coming in over my lanai (balcony)–which has me up at 7am. The sound of the waves is crashing up to my 15th floor room. The temperature is only a few degrees below that of mid-day, the time of my arrival yesterday. And, again, the temperature was just about the same when I trundled myself up for a 3am run to the all-night pharmacy for some OTC herbs to attempt to soothe my particular bio-existential angst, and to try to steal a few more hours of less-afflicted slumber. Carousing youths, Japanese newlyweds, Marines on shore leave, and unsteady street artisans still gamboled up and down the main drag even at that hour; the main difference between the day and the wee hours seemed to be the cadre of professional woman in the plaza directly across from my hotel (the Sheraton Waikiki) who were politely solicitious in suggesting that I might benefit from some company on this warm evening. "Another time, darling," I said, and I might well have meant it; I've never had the experience of hiring the services of a professional, and, heck, all experiences should be had at some point. And a couple of them were cute. At the moment, though, compromised health has had my sex drive measurable on the pretty much the same scale as Clintonian veracity, or general acceptance of Buchananite WWII revisionist history, or whatnot.

For those not subject to previous moaning about it, I've come down with a bit of an inflammatory gastro-intestinal disorder, which shouldn't be severe over time, and should be responsive to treatment, and should not have but nonetheless did have me laid up pretty good over the past 2-3 weeks. I've actually been dealing with it for, jeepers, about 14 months now, and I've now got my own personal gastroenterologist (someone who hears my e-mail; somewhere who cares), and whose card I actually carry in my wallet, which I guess is as telling a sign of adulthood as any. (I'll be 29 this week.) At any rate, after a bad recent spell, I'm back on my feet, and back at work (and, not incidentally, in Hawai'i), but still feeling a bit as if I my GI tract would much prefer it if I would take up tube feeding for the next half decade or so, while it undertakes to rest and heal its moderately ravaged self. As illnesses out of the blue go, this one is mighty small potatos, and I'm deeply cognizant that life could be a hell of a lot worse. It's just happened to come at a not particularly stellar time, where a number of crossroads of my life seem to be converging, and I would have preferred to not be in bed. But so it goes.

Yesterday morning I woke up in Palo Alto; a few hours later (after sleeping through a flight, taking a cab ride past a Ferrari dealership (memories of a youth misspent watching "Magnum P.I." flooding back)), I was standing on my lanai, bogling at the view of the beach and cove below, letting my new phone get its bearings–and receiving voicemail from good old Mom. Funny old thing life. After speaking with her live (I had been on the ground maybe 20 minutes) I took a slow walk up the strand; catamarans for hire lay along the beach, and most of the white sand was obscured by startlingly brown people. In a word, Waikiki is very much a resort, i.e. not the sort of locale which is likely to make for world-class chronicling. I feel a little as if I'm interrupting middle America on its honeymoon. (Actually, half of middle America, and two thirds of Japan.) I'm seriously considering spending my idle time writing up my (languishing) notes from my Seattle trip from last June (or the Vancouver trip from last year), rather than writing about this one; those places were damp, but at least possessed of some serious character.

At the end of the cove does sit Diamond Head (visible on the far right of the photo above), in Kapi'olani Park, Oahu's most famous landmark. The park is supposed to be beautiful, and the hike to the top stellar. I'll endeavor an expedition up there today, if I don't have any pre-conference tutorials (or, more likely, ones I can duck out of). [Note to boss: it's actually "sitting" which is my main difficulty right now.] I really originally wanted to take a bike ride around Oahu, but my convalescent status makes that inadvisable. Lying around should be the order of the week. And, other than my obligatory 20 minutes of presenting my session at the conference (and sitting through some of the rest of it), not much to do but write and assail you, gentle reader. As you endure these screeds, try to feel the pleasant hum of your colon working smoothly and without complaint. That should be your revenge. ;^)

From Fodor's Pocket Honolulu & Waikiki: "75% of Hawai'i's 1.1 million residents live on O'ahu" and many "claim that it is their favorite island, with the most spectacular scenery... with the western Wai'anae Mountains, which rise 4000 ft above sea level, and the verdant Ko'olau Mountains, which ccross the island's midsection at elevations of more thatn 3000 ft.... West of Waikiki awaits Hawai'i's capital city of Honolulu. The photogenic East O'ahu coast is fringed with white-sand beaches and turquoise seas, and it has a drive right over the top of the Ko'olau Mountains." Again, not to look a gift junket in the mouth, but this place does just seem a lot like the Bay Area (mountains and breezes) crossed with North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina (tourist Roach Motel, with pricier shopping).

From the middle of the placid Pacific, I remain yours,
slightly (and temporarily, dammit) diminished–
and grateful to you for reading (if you are...),
Michael

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