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Monthly Archives: September 2015

~ The Road to “Deliverance” ~

“Did you do the Road to Hana?!”

“You have to do the Road to Hana!”

“The Road to Hana is awesome!”

“Hana, Hana, Hana!”

Of all the things M and I did in Maui, The Road to Hana was definitely one of the more popular. A breathtaking, scenic, sometimes harrowing road, the winding 52-mile drive could take up to 4 hours. That is if you’re not stopping at the numerous lookout points, waterfalls, fruit stands, etc. along the way. Throw in a few floral and cross memorials of those who weren’t lucky navigating the turns and mountain edges, and it’s a full-on adventure baby!

Most concerned with the twistiest section of the road, which M read was 20 miles long, he reset the odometer once we hit the curves and forward we drove, counting each mile marker!

Now, when M gets a goal, destination, end point in his head that’s it, eyes on the prize. Like, when we were in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris a few years ago, suddenly he was on the Amazing Race, speed-reading the map, divvying up each section of the museum, mentally noting how much time it would take to see everything. Rush to this painting, “Aha, lovely,” scurry to that sculpture, “Great, done!” quick to this room, “Bing, bang, boom, cocktails!” I finally told him to sit down and wait for me, because I just don’t do museums like that.

But with Hana, knowing he had 20 miles of sketchy driving helped prepare him for the twists ahead, and since I wasn’t the one driving, however M wanted to approach the journey was fine by me.

So there we were. What a drive! Spectacular! Up and down mountain edges, weather changing, ears popping, ocean blues far and wide, green rain forests, just stunning. We decided to keep driving to Hana without stopping, and then do any lookout points on our way back. But as each mile marker passed, we noticed that the dodgy twists never ended and neither did the road. It went on and on, mile after unending, ass-numbing, urine-accumulating mile. Though the postcard views continued, we just wanted to get there already. And, of course, because the information M had about the 20 miles was clearly bullshit, he was getting irritable. With every hopeful approach to anything resembling a town, we inevitably continued on the same twisty assholey road. Suddenly our “Mahalos,” and neighbourly hang-loose hand gestures disintegrated into bitter scowls and “Where the fuck is this place!”

Finally, we arrived at Hana! Ahhhhh… angels sing! There was a beach and a snack place and some people. We got out of our car and the first thing I heard was a woman swearing at the top of her lungs. I have to say, up until that moment, I hadn’t heard anyone swear in glorious Maui, or yell, for that matter, so I was a tad alarmed. I turned to look at who was yelling, and there were a few people gathered under a brick gazebo type thing, with, what looked like, stray dogs and puppies milling about. I walked towards the snack place and passed a plastic port-a-potty. M opened the door to investigate and reluctantly stepped in. I continued walking and saw that the men’s washroom was out of order (hence the potties), but luckily the ladies’ was open. The entire time I was thinking, Hmm… Hana. Not exactly what I was expecting. I met M outside and we walked towards the beach. When I say beach, I mean water and a patch of sand and one middle-aged couple. They looked like they were thinking the same thing as us, This is it? But they were determined, damn it, and they lay their hotel towel on the patch of sand that no one else was on and took a dip in the water.

M and I couldn’t eat our gas station sandwiches fast enough.

“If we leave now, we can make happy hour,” he said.

On our way back to the car we passed a parked black pick-up truck surrounded by a few guys – a very athletic looking guy in a wheelchair, wearing black jeans, no shirt, leather vest; and two other guys not in wheelchairs, wearing black jeans, no shirts, leather vests. One of them may have been missing teeth, and I may have heard a banjo playing. We got in the car and locked the doors.

Later at the resort, I Googled Hana and, as I suspected, we hadn’t driven far enough. We’d made it to “Deliverance,” but not quite to Hana.

~ Spray a light coating over the entire area to be used. DO NOT OVERSPRAY! ~

When I moved in with M he had a lot of glassware, in particular, mugs and cups with logos on them and a curious amount of delicate, long-stemmed liqueur glasses. For a bachelor who was on the road a lot, it was excessive.

I soon realized the logo cups were more like collectables and, though it’s never really been my thing, as a sports fan I can wrap my head around saving something with my team’s emblem on it. But a shot glass from a bar, or a beer mug from a pizza joint? Not so much. I did ask him about the liqueur glasses, and they were a gift. More like re-gift because really, there’s nothing about M that screams rainbow-hued liqueur glasses.

When we moved into our new condo, I conveniently left the boxes with collegiate glassware in our storage locker, mostly because we had less kitchen storage, but also because I wanted to purge our home of certain kinds of stuff. M claimed the office as a hands-off zone, meaning that was the one room that could be messy, and where he could display his stuff. Since he spends 90% of his weekdays working in there, I thought it was a fair compromise.

Top shelf 2

Since I’ve known him, he’s worn cowboy boots but not the hat… small blessings.

This is the room whose shelves adorn M’s humidor with his beloved cigars, multiple baseball caps, cowboy hats, bobble head, giant plastic playoff cups, 100th Grey Cup commemorative Bailey’s Irish cream glasses, balls (basket, football, golf), vintage video game, Canadian flag and, of course, beer stein of International coins, amongst other things.

Video game controller

Note the layer of dust!

On our way to an Argos game last Sunday, M noticed a ticket in our season’s ticket booklets for free drinking glasses! Huzzah!

“Hmm, do you really think we need those?” I asked, unenthusiastically.

“Sure, we do!” He said, excitedly.

Turns out they are pretty decent glasses. With giant Argos logos. Just what our home needs.

~

M is a creature of habit. He likes things the way he likes them. I’ve documented his simple food tastes in the past, but he’s also particular about how he prepares the food in his limited cooking repertoire. He likes eating pancakes or French toast on the weekends. He likes cutting the bread for the French toast with the same dull serrated knife. We have several other sharp serrated knives, but he always uses this dull knife, and lays it flat on top of the loaf to measure the thickness of each slice, then cuts and, essentially, squishes the bread down to half its thickness with each effortful saw (don’t get me started on the crumb shrapnel!).

He likes mixing the eggs and milk in the same shallow bowl, the one with the white flowers and gold lining. He likes flipping the pancakes or French toast with the same spatula, the third one I bought when the first two I bought trying to replace the old one from the 1970’s that had broken, didn’t feel quite right.

He likes using the same frying pan. He used the same “non-stick” frying pan for years, until the coating was so burnt that everything stuck to it, despite the fact that we have another perfectly good (but slightly larger) non-stick frying pan. With each (probably) toxic mouthful, I vowed to find a replica pan.  I finally did, and all was right with our insides.

French toast tools

Ceramic stove-tops are bullshit!

He likes holding the frying pan over the ceramic stove, and spraying it with non-stick oil (Pam, not the generic stuff), in a large circular fashion from a distance, ensuring the entire surfaces of the pan and stove are coated with speckles of grease. Let’s not forget that anything sprayed from an aerosol can eventually falls. Downward. To the kitchen floor.

M likes making me breakfast. I’m not as crazy about pancakes or French toast as he is, but…

M likes making me breakfast.

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