The Arrival

Most arrivals on the Big Island happen in the black of night. This feels gentle and mysterious. Acclimatizing to the sultry place with the body senses.

At night the white flowers breathe out. In the time of Coco Chanel, a proper lady wouldn’t wear the perfume of white flowers. The scent is undeniably sexual.

This spider lily and I spent time together, eyes closed in the dark. There is no real way to describe the scent to you. Delicate, feminine, gently sweet, complicated, perfect beauty. It’s fresher than some of the sluttier white flowers (eg tuberose). It has an innocence to it.

In the morning, I began the walk to town, 1.5 hours from my modest hale (home) on a one-lane road with jungle growing over the sides. Red flasher on the back of me, headlamp on the front. People die on the roadsides frequently here. I walked strategically, choosing the side with room to leap into the cane grass or bushes if a car came. I keen my ears, discerning the whooshes of wind from the whooshes of cars.

It’s cold. I have every warm thing on that I brought. As I descend toward town, the sun rises.

I find breakfast at the bottom of the hill.

Breakfast, and a freind.

I have arrived at my destination. The one coffee shop, with its motley assortment of scruftsters and stray dogs, salted with the occasional rich American who wandered out of the resorts.


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