We flew out of Kauia yesterday at 1:00 and landed in Maui just 40 minutes later. By the time I manhandled luggage for four and schlepped it all onto the Alamo rental car bus, and then secured a rental car, and then piled Aunt Sylvie and Uncle Slappy and my long-suffering wife into said car, it was 2:30.
Record time for all that. And amazing when you consider that back when the Hawaiian Islands were called the Sandwiches, such a journey would take a whaler two days or maybe three. But now, thanks to the many splendid appurtenances of the modern world, we were--the alte-cocker four--on the road again in Apple Pie Order.
For whatever reason, maybe it was the influence of my ever-widening mean-streak, I selected a bright red Camaro convertible as our chariot of choice. I spatula'd the old ones into the rear and hit the road with a six-cylinder throat making its presence known.
Ah, Maui. Mountains. Verdant fields. And the sea. We drove and drove, Uncle Slappy glowering in the rear, wanting a bit more action than the ride was affording him.
"Stop at a Cynic Overpass," he urged. "Stretch my legs I need to."
"A Scenic Overpass?" I inquired, taking his well-hooked bait.
"No," he once-again glowered. "A Cynic Overpass. Where there's nothing to see. And it doesn't matter anyway."
I pulled into a strip mall's lot, ran into a deli for some cups of coffee, and everyone began to feel better. We once again reacquainted ourselves with our too small seats for our too well-upholstered obliquities and we, the four of us, completed our short journey to our hotel.
We are staying, thanks to the points-accumulation-prowess of my ever-loving wife, for free at one of Maui's finest, the Grand Wailea. In most cases adjectives like Grand are mere puffery, but the Grand Wailea seems from a different era. In mere moments we were be-decked with leis, be-drinked with cocktails and be-escorted to our tennis-court-sized rooms.
I helped Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie into theirs, adjacent to ours, and hoisted their luggage up on those folding luggage racks so they could unpack.
In a trice Uncle Slappy was two sheets to the wind in the king-sized bed.
"A nap I need," he said. "Never again with the Camaro, Mr. Second-Childhood Schmendrik."
Aunt Sylvie also turned in for her nap. I kissed her on the forehead and tucked the 800-counts under her delicate maw.
Uncle Slappy left me, as he often does, with a typical zinger.
"I called for turn-down service," he asserted. "And they said 'no.'"