Sometimes being a travel writer can be such a bind. A real drag. Take where I am now for example. I’m in a rather fine hotel room at the fabulous Hilton Hawaiian Village right on Waikiki beach. As I write this I can turn my head slightly to the left and see the Pacific lapping up against the golden sand while the craggy peak of Diamond Head looms up in the background. Sounds good, right? Huh, yeah well, let’s get things into perspective – I’ve got a bit of a cough. Can’t shift it. Being a travel writer is a real grind sometimes.
Seriously, this is a remarkable hotel. In fact I’ve barely left the premises since I got here. Not because I’m lazy, which is the usual reason, but because basically the place is so enormous I can barely find my way out. Shops, restaurants, everything you need is here short of relatives you’d like brought back from the dead. And even that could probably be arranged.
I’ve also just bought a ukulele from the Ukulele House, which I intend to learn to play while I’m here. So there I’ll be, sitting on the balcony of my room overlooking Waikiki Beach, strumming my new uke, but with, of course, a bit of a cough.
Before that though, I need to go out and buy the loudest, most ridiculous pair of Hawaiian shorts I can find. Being an idiot, I packed no summer clothes beyond an ancient pair of flip-flops that have no grip in the wet, and given the warm drizzle that floats from the sky here now and then, my pedestrian progress while sporting the flip-flops looks a little like Bambi on ice as re-enacted by Bernard Bresslaw. As the temperature is in the eighties here, the rollneck sweaters and thick jeans I carefully packed are not really appropriate. Loud, ridiculous shorts are the only answer.
I’m also hoping to track down a copy of the shirt worn by Elvis in Blue Hawaii. In fact, it’s becoming something of an obsession. More shirt and loud shorts-buying news as we get it. The Blue Hawaii cocktail incidentally was devised here at the hotel.