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Saturday |
Hitch-hiking from Kipahulu to Hana proved more arduous than I expected. Maybe it would help if I had really sticky feet. I flip-flopped 2 miles all the way to nat'l park entrance before a car finally stopped. "I don't usually pick up hitch-hikers because they usually smell bad," Jan said. Luckily we'd met the night before as she was giving my boss a massage. I'd gone up to the house to watch some more Olympics. The coverage made me feel like a German in 1936. It was not just biased, it was ridiculous. It should have been an aesthetic delight with underwater cameras for instructive deconstruction of strokes and please, next time more overhead views during trampoline events. Instead it all boiled down to USA medal count and how many tears were shed on the podium during the one and only National Anthem. Jan was really nice and we had a good time on a detour where a combination for lock on a small estate's gate was the year Whitman published Leaves of Grass. The people who move here tend to have interesting stories to tell. |
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Footnote:
I'm not sure if the reptile made it or not. (None do in the end.) But before you feel too bad, please bear in mind that geckos eat their own. (Read Robinson Crusoe.) |