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Guarding Against Another Pearl Harbor Attack

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Torpedoed Battleship at Pearl Harbor

On our last full day in Hawaii, Martine and I split up. I took a bus to Pearl Harbor and visited both the National Memorial and the Aviation Museum on Ford Island. Martine, on the other hand, revisited old haunts from previous trips before she ever met me.

Actually, the real reason Martine didn’t want to visit Pearl Harbor on this trip was their somewhat draconian policy on what you can take into the park. Especially in light of this week’s Hamas attacks on Israel, there is some point in protecting one of our most sacred war memorials from terrorists. The rule that offended Martine the most was this one forbidding:

Bags, packages, or containers that offer concealment, such as purses, handbags, backpacks, fanny packs, camera bags, diaper bags, luggage, etc. that exceed the measurements of 1.5” X 2.25” X 5.5,” are not allowed at the monument. The Pacific Fleet Submarine Museum operates a baggage storage facility near the entrance to the visitor center. There is a fee per bag for all sizes, including luggage. Visitors may use the same bag storage and parking stall for visits to all Pearl Harbor Historic Sites. Security measures are strictly enforced at all visitor destinations on Pearl Harbor.

Martine did not want to put her purse plus the other things she habitually carries into a locker for which she would have to pay. For the complete list of things you can’t take into the park, check out the mandated safety policy for visits.

It was worth seeing Pearl Harbor again. I was aware of the park’s safety policy, so I took only a small portable bag containing my insulin and necessary medications.

One thing I did not bother to see again was the Arizona Memorial, which floats atop the sunken battleship Arizona. I’ve seen it before, and I wanted to spend time at the Aviation Museum on Ford Island, which neither Martine nor I had previously visited.

Pearl is a long bus ride from Waikiki, but for me it was worth it.

Rain Rain Go Away

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Trees at the Lyon Arboretum Near Honolulu

Our first full day in Hawaii was not a big hit with Martine. I wanted to go to the Lyon Arboretum, a large botanical garden in the mountains above Manoa run by the University of Hawaii. We could have taken a bus to a street about 0.8 miles downhill from the arboretum, but Martine did not like walking uphill that far. So we took a taxi from the Ala Moana Shopping Center.

On the way to the Arboretum, it started to drizzle; and Martine started to feel anxiety over not having her umbrella or raincoat with her. When we got to our destination, I arranged for the taxi to pick us up at 2 PM. It continued to rain on and off, so Martine did not want to walk about in the rain. So she sat down inside while I walked around.

The Arboretum is high enough in the mountains that it not only rains every day, but it rains on and off constantly. While Martine was sitting down by the gift shop, I walked around until just before the cab was due. It was beautiful. Though I had no protection against the rain, it was warm and gentle and intermittent enough not to wet me through. In the end, I wound up taking one of the trails to its end and returned to Martine, who was stewing in her chair.

To make matters worse, the cab never came. I gave the driver a generous tip; but for some unexplained reason, he shined us off. And that despite his calling me on my cell phone to say that he was coming! The park closed at 3 PM, so at that point we started walking downhill toward the #5 bus layover stop, still intending to take the cab should it arrive. Alas, it never did.

Unexpected things can happen on a trip. I believe one has to be flexible. I had researched where the bus stop was, and we eventually made it in about an hour (including several rest stops). The bus came in time and took us back to Ala Moana, where we ate dinner before returning by the #20 to Waikiki.

It’s a pity that Martine couldn’t enjoy the Arboretum. I did, even at the cost of a nasty blister on my right foot from the steep downhill grade. Such is life.

On To O’ahu

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Tomorrow Martine and I are headed off to Honolulu for a week in the sun. The last few days, both of us have had a low-level flu. I am getting better, but Martine has a real problem with insomnia. Some years ago, she got too used to taking prescription sleeping pills and is dismayed to find that they don’t work as well as they used to. The best thing would have been not to get hooked on them in the first place, but that boat has sailed.

We’ll be staying at the same hotel we stayed at last year. It may not be on he beach, but we would prefer not to hang out at the beach. We prefer the hotels on Kuhio Avenue, one or two blocks makau (inland) from the beachfront properties on Kalakaua Avenue.

Tonight I don’t expect to get much sleep. And because of the time zone difference, tomorrow will be a 27-hour day. I expect both of us will get a good night’s sleep tomorrow.

Look for this blog to resume on Wednesday or Thursday of next week. Until then, aloha!

Third Time’s a Charm

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Martine at Kapiolani Park in September 2022

As I mentioned in my post yesterday, Martine and I are headed back to Honolulu for another visit. Looking back at last year’s pictures, I noticed that Martine looked genuinely happy in most of them. Returning to L.A., Martine has had a difficult year—especially when she broke her wrist in two places after a fall at home. And recovery has been painfully slow, especially since the cast which she war was too tight and affected her ability to bend her fingers once it was removed.

Although I would probably be happier traipsing off to Latin America, Martine’s happiness matters to me; and I can certainly enjoy myself in Hawaii provided I stay away from most mainland tourists of the luau-frequenting variety.

We will be staying at the same hotel we stayed in last year, the Malia. Last year, it was a hotel in the Outrigger chain; now, it is the Waikiki Malia, apparently no longer part of a chain. It is not exactly on the beach, but that is no matter to us as we are not beach types. We prefer the corner of Kuhio and Lewers because of its convenient access to public transportation.

The big success story of last year’s trip was our discovery of the Honolulu bus system, the best we have seen in any American city. As senior citizens, we picked up a Senior Citizens discount Holo card, which enables us to unlimited rides for the entire month of September for $20.00 US for each of us. Compare that with high car rental fees and hotel parking rates of up to $50-60 US per night.

Amazingly, the Honolulu buses go not only all around the city, but along the Southeast (Hanauma Bay, Hawaii Kai), the Windward Coast (Kailuka, Kaneohe, La’e), the North Shore (Waimea, the Banzai Pipeline), and Central O’ahu (the Dole Pinapple Plantation). Where we would need a car would be the Leeward Coast (Ko Olina) and certain trailheads on mountain trails. If you’re thinking of going to Hawaii on a budget, I firmly recommend the public transportation and a non-luxury-priced hotel, preferably on Kuhio Avenue.

We booked our trip through the Southern California Auto Club, which I also recommend.

Do You Still Pay Your Bills by Check?

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During the course of her daily walks, Martine finds the strangest things. Today, it was a hoard of undelivered mail consisting of invoices from which the checks paying them had been removed—presumably to find some checks that could be altered in favor of the thieves.

Mixed in with the bag of mail were food containers with food scraps, typical of the garbage stewed around my neighborhood by the homeless. It is likely that the thief was a homeless ex-con who had learned how to modify checks during a previous imprisonment.

I no longer pay bills by mail. Instead, I use the BillPay service of Bank of America. In five years of usage, I have had no problems; whereas, in previous years, I had problems with mail being delivered late or not at all. This cuts out the Postal Service and all those larcenously inclined bums who prey on it.

Tomorrow, I will give Martine a ride to the main Santa Monica Post Office with the bag of stolen mail, which she brought home from her walk. The mail was scattered all over the intersection of Wilshire Blvd. and 20th Street in Santa Monica.

Frito Pies

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This Is the Way It Looked When I First Ate One

The first time I ate a Frito Pie, it looked like the above photo, and it was purchased from where it was invented, a lunch counter in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The second time was today. I cooked it myself from this recipe. As I made it to please Martine, the finickiest of all eaters, there was no way I could add raw onions as a garnish. And I used a mild La Victoria Red Enchilada sauce, even though my preferences is for spicy hot dishes. I second the recommendation of using Ranch House canned beans, as they go very well with this recipe. Oh, and I recommend extra sharp cheddar cheese. By the way, don’t use any other chips other than original recipe Fritos: That’s why it’s called Frito Pie.

Tomorrow, I will serve the leftovers with cut up fresh avocado. It’s not in the recipe, but I think it would go well with it.

A Few Days in Uruguay

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Street Scene in Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay

In November 2011, Martine and I spent two and a half weeks in Argentina, plus a few days in Colonia del Sacramento, just across the River Plate from Buenos Aires. With a population of three and a half million people, Buenos Aires was at times a bit much for Martine, especially when she had to ride the crowded buses and subways.

So I planned in advance for a mini-vacation from the crowds of Buenos Aires by taking a ferry across the Plate to Colonia del Sacramento in nearby Uruguay. Colonia is, in fact, where Porteños (that’s what the residents of Buenos Aires call themselves) go when the big city is too much for them.

With only 27,000 people, Colonia is a 17th century town founded by Brazil. The streets are mostly all cobblestone, and there are a half dozen small pokey museums that are good for about an hour each.

A Tasty Restaurant Within Sight of the Atlantic

As a getaway, Colonia del Sacramento was a roaring success. We stayed at an old bed & breakfast that was at least three hundred years old. We lazily trod the cobblestones going from sight to sight, and eating some tasty steak dinners. We went back to Buenos Aires for one day before catching a flight to Patagonia, which is an entirely different story.

Martine’s Tiny Treasures

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A Sample California State Identification Card

Martine likes to take long walks. She walks very slowly and looks carefully around her and typically finds all manner of things. These include infant socks (many different varieties), unused Narcan nasal spray for opiate overdoses, birth control pills, drug syringes, and coins of all denominations, including foreign coins.

Today, she picked up a California state identification card outside a Santa Monica supermarket, similar in format to the above photograph. It was from a young woman who lived in the immediate vicinity of Santa Monica College. As she was about to go by bus to deliver the card to the address shown on it, I offered to drive her there. Going on foot or by bus would have taken hours, and it was already dark.

So I drove Martine to the house whose address was on the card. She went up to the door and handed it to an older woman who was probably the mother of the card holder.

When I first came to Southern California around 1967, I had one such card. After all, it was not until 1985 that I learned to drive and was able to get a California drivers’ license. The card enabled me to buy alcoholic beverages for eighteen years. I imagine that the young woman whose card Martine found is now able to celebrate by boozing it up with her good buds.

Regaining Her Right Arm

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Today Martine Said Good-Bye to Her Rigid Cast

Today, I took Martine to her orthopedic appointment during a major rainstorm. By the time we left, Martine had replaced the punishing cast that tortured her right arm for the last six weeks with a smaller, more lightweight Ossür Formfit “Wrist Universal” manufactured in, of all places, Iceland.

That means that I am now free to leave Martine at home without worrying that she would be unable to perform some simple everyday task like tying her shoes, washing the dishes, and doing the laundry. That also means that I am no longer always on call to help her with those tasks.

Shortly after she broke her wrist late in November, I felt so stressed at having to double my household duties that I underwent an Addisonian Crisis early in December due to the fact that my body no longer produces adrenaline as I lost my pituitary gland years ago due to a tumor. As the month went on, however, I adjusted.

Fortunately, Martine now has the use of her right hand for everything but heavy lifting, at least for the next two weeks. And she could take baths again and wear regular clothes again. Because of the size of the cast on her right arm, she had to wear my shirts and jackets.

Of course, it will be some time before her right arm feels normal. It has been rigidly immobile for the last six weeks, and the fingers of her right hand are still a bit puffy from the pressure of the cast.

An Abrupt End to Carols

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It Happened Decades Ago in Sacramento …

I first met Martine when she was living in Sacramento and working as a civilian at the old Sacramento Army Depot. My mother was alive at the time and lived near McClellan Air Force Base. One day, while I was visiting her, I saw this young woman approach the front door carrying a bag of oranges. It was my first meeting with Martine, whom I invited out on a date set for New Years Eve.

It was a strange date. We saw a Swedish film called My Life as a Dog, then we went out to a Chinese restaurant. We had difficulty finding one, as there were rolling power outages occurring all around the city. But we finally found one where the lights were on.

When I would drive up to visit Martine around Christmas time, she typically listened to a radio station that played nothing but Christmas carols. That didn’t bother me much, except they always snuck in “The Little Drummer Boy” (pa-rum pum pum pum).

Once, as it was nearing midnight on Christmas Day in 1988 or 1989, they started to play that damned song. Somebody at the radio station must have been of my mind, because just as they were to ring out with the nth pa-rum pum pum pum, at the stroke of midnight there was a sound as if a chicken were having its neck wrung. And that was it for the Christmas carols on that station that year. I laughed so hard I started coughing.

I always hated that song pa-rum pum pum pum.