Stefanie loves Hawai’i, and, in particular, Kaua’i.  She was here last March with her mom.  A mere 10 months later, she returned with her boyfriend.  Normally Stefanie is a quiet, somewhat shy woman, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what she wants.  When Eric and I invited the two over for dinner one night, I asked Stef if she had any special requests.  She didn’t hesitate.

“Fish tacos,” she said.

The cheers on the Mall had just hushed over my television when the phone rang.  It was still early in the morning in Hawaii, and President Obama had already completed his inauguration speech.  I expected to hear my best friend, calling from Kansas, another state with ties to the new president, and I was ready to quote from the president’s speech.  Our patchwork heritage is a strength.  Quiet force of progress.  New era of responsibility.  A man whose father less than 60 years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

This is what I mean when I say stormy weather can result in some dramatic photographs.  I captured this just after sunrise today and did absolutely no twiddling with it in PhotoShop.  Right out of the camera and into the blog.

As any visitor to Kaua’i knows, the island’s predominant color is green.  Another island characteristic is its second-tallest mountain, Wai’ale’ale.  Because of where it’s situated on the island, the 5,080-foot tall mountain collects clouds and, hence, rain like I collect books.  Almost daily.

Of course, the two go together.  Rain + green.

First there was the banking bailout. Then, the auto. Unfortunately, no one bailed out one of my favorite restaurants on Kaua’i (or anywhere, for that matter). Blossoming Lotus closed its doors for good on New Year’s Eve.

 Four days have passed since I bid a hui hou to Midway Atoll National Wildlife Refuge, and the experience is slipping away like a dream upon waking, or, more appropriately, like an albatross flying off into the sunset.  Midway is fading from an everyday reality into some ethereal event.  I find it hard to conjure up in my mind the sounds of hundreds of thousands of dancing, bill-clacking, sky-mooing, cooing, trusting albatrosses?  Did I really crawl through ropey naupaka bushes and dig Bonin petrels out of crushed burrows?  Can the two-week experience already be over?