Home Again, Part One: The Teachers Arrive!

Thursday, February 28. Japan Time
As with our Thanksgiving visit home, Chris and I spent the departure day packing. In the early evening, in the lobby of Kansai International Airport, we met his co-workers, third-year teachers who had invited us to join them on their seven-person graduation trip to Hawaii.

The teachers sat at the back of the flight, while Chris and I attempted to make ourselves comfortable in a middle row, beside two chatty young girls. I tucked the airline-issued pillow and blanket into the curve of my back and covered my legs in the soft fuzzy wrap I had brought from home. Dinner was chicken and mashed potatoes. I didn’t sleep at all, opting to watch movies all night and pretend that I was not on an airplane.

Thursday, February 28. Hawaii Time
Following a breakfast of big buttery croissants and juice, we arrived. The Japanese women who had boarded the plane thickly bundled in down jackets and sweatpants emerged clad in short skirted dresses and full faces of makeup. I stepped into paradise wearing glasses, layers of long sleeves, and a dirty complexion.

It’s a bit disappointing, I think, a tourist’s first sensory images of Hawaii. Our flight emerged from air-conditioned cool into a cloud of warm humidity, with only the concrete of the runway as far as the eye could see. As we rode the Wiki-Wiki shuttle to the main terminal, I heard ample whines of “Atsui! (Hot!)” Though I was thankful for relief from the winter cold of Japan, I had to agree; my turtleneck was beginning to feel sticky.

We wound our way through Immigration and Baggage Claim, then saw the teachers onto a JTB tour bus that would carry them to both Waikiki shopping and their hotel. They seemed slightly afraid to part ways with us, but Chris promised that we would meet up soon. My mom, on sabbatical for the semester, picked the two of us up shortly thereafter.

Our first stop back, surprisingly enough, was not at Jamba Juice, but at my uncle’s auto repair shop, where my grandmother received Kristine Hug Number Two of the day. It was only 10:30-ish when we left, but I was hungry, and we went to Gina’s BBQ, a mom-and-pop Korean food shop in Market City, for Meal Number One. I ordered the barbecue chicken--moist and slightly smoky sweet--with sides of crisp bean sprouts, macaroni salad, kim chi, and taegu.

Enormous and ridiculously good.

Mom.

I was unable to finish my large lunch, and I had my paper plate wrapped in foil to take home. We next drove to Iolani School, “alma mater” to Chris and me and “work” to our mothers. After saying hello to Mrs. Leong, unloading Heavy Book Collector's suitcase from the trunk, and depositing Chris into parental care, Mom and I drove home. I should stay away more often; I entered my room to discover a freshly laundered floor rug and sheets so clean and fluffy that I couldn’t resist immediately falling into them. Yet I had barely unpacked my suitcase and taken a much-needed shower before Chris picked me up to join the teachers in Waikiki.

We met . . . shall we call them “Team Hikami” . . . at their hotel. The teachers were still undecided on their activity schedule, being jetlagged and groggy from naps. They had, however, changed into spirited aloha wear! The group settled on visiting the nearby United States Army Museum, which neither Chris nor I had ever been to. As we were playing Japanese tourists for the day, we first took in the gift shop. While browsing the bookshelves on local military history, Chris and I were drawn into conversation by one of the authors. A small sign noted that he was present for signings, but his easy laughter with the shop clerk suggested that the museum is a regular haunt for him. Pierre Moulin was born in Bruyeres, a small French village that owed its World War II liberation to the 442^nd Infantry Unit of second-generation Japanese-Americans. Mr. Moulin, who heard of the brave unit during his youth, committed himself to researching the 442 and to sharing their stories. I can’t recall exactly how long we were there, but as the teachers browsed the museum exhibits, Chris and I listened to Mr. Moulin and the gift shop clerk as well—regale us with tidbits of wartime trivia. Neither man was a World War II veteran, being far too young, but the two shared a passion for that part of history, clearly a part of time in which they believed men were the most brave, chivalrous, and clever. The clerk, in particular, was enthusiastic about handing us brochures and fliers advertising an upcoming historic gun show. War is not a part of history I take pleasure in studying, yet Chris and I were happy that the men took such pleasure in having patient listeners.

The teachers took pictures with American and Japanese military displays.

Our new friends eventually encouraged to explore the museum itself, which is quite well done for a no-admission fee exhibit. By the time we entered, however, Team Hikami was ready to explore Ala Moana Shopping Center. I suggested catching the bus, as it was quite far to walk, yet nobody seemed willing to figure out the route. Thankfully, Chris’s parents arrived in two cars to take us there!

At the mall, we split up for shopping, but reassembled for dinner at Mariposa, a rather pricey restaurant on the top floor of Neiman Marcus. The teachers had made reservations earlier in the day, and we had a set menu from which to choose. Though I’ve eaten at Mariposa for lunch, dinner there was a first for me. The large room, which usually has the feel of a quiet cabana--the restaurant describes itself as "laid-back luxe"--was transformed into a romantic space, dimly lit by low table candles. The restaurant looks out over the nearby beach park, and cool ocean breezes played with the overhead ceiling fans. Our server first offered us a choice of three waters: mineral, sparkling, and plain. Chris and I translated for the teachers, who had difficulty choosing, at first assuming that our use of the word “sparkling” meant wine. The waiter attempted to provide assistance, elaborating that “sparkling water” was “water with gas.” Poetic. Put that way, I ordered the mineral.

Course One was smoked salmon, garnished with caviar and fresh alfalfa sprouts.

Second Course was soup. The servers delivered shallow shes of samosa-esque treats, around which they poured a thick tomato-based puree with a taste akin to tortilla soup.

The entree was a choice between "Oxtail Ragu" and "Crispy Skin Salmon." Chris ordered the former, I the latter. The salmon, set atop a fluffy mound of Yukon gold potatoes and wilted spinach, was cooked so wonderfully that it melted on the tongue. The fish was topped with a salsa of olives, chopped red onions and tomatoes, a combination of flavors that reminded me of lomi lomi salmon. Mariposa does a beautiful job of blending local flavors into its menu. The warm popovers that were served with the meal, for instance, were served with creamy poha berry butter.

Dessert was an assortment of three palate-cleansing sorbets (mango, lychee, and strawberry), served with hot, earthy coffee. As we sat digesting, heads nodded at the table, with everyone full and sleepy. I heard later that the teachers didn’t care for the meal, but I was in love.

The teachers caught a shuttle back to their hotel, and Chris drove me home.