Los Angeles, California
I have been reminded by some that I was supposed to be writing posts about three things. What happened to the other two things? These being the three things that provide bliss in my life. Well, a recent post was about my blog, so, in essence, it was about writing. Writing about writing is a rather tricky endeavor, and frankly, better done by many others, as what do I know anyway? And, even if I'm not writing much about writing, I have been writing a lot, as evidenced by the number of posts on my blog the count of which, I believe with this post, is hovering around fifty. I've also been writing a lot about cooking, at least to the extent of including a recipe in every other post, more or less. But, it's true, we haven't revisited salsa lately.
Salsa. Again -- not that stuff made by chopping tomatoes for a start. Salsa is dance. Now, if any of you out there are watching Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance or any other reality dance show, let me say this about that. It's not what I am doing. There is no glitter. There is no pointing except a modified position of foot. There is not all that audience NOISE. I finally did watch one of these shows after someone nagged me about it relentlessly (I can't remember which one, and why would that matter?). I made it through to the end, though I thought it was awful. But I know they are very popular, as are other reality shows so let's not get me started on the inanities of popular culture.
Anyway, I suppose I should come clean and point out some similarities between the dance reality show world and my salsa world: there ARE spike heels out there in both. I can attest to that, because I've had my foot, and recently, one of my toes, punctured by them. Generally I would say that the impracticality of the heel pretty much goes in inverse proportion to the skill of the dancer. Chita Rivera excepted.
So, salsa. Not the tomato stuff, nor the stuff of reality shows. More like Dance at the Gym from West Side Story, but less choreographed and usually with less colorful dress. And, in order to do this properly, I'll provide a little history. Salsa owes its origins to the Afro-Cuban culture. It's heritage came from both the African dance and rhythms, brought to the Caribbean during the time of slave trade, and the Colonial Spanish "courtly" dances. The resulting mosaic of these dances created, voila, a new dance.
Popularized in the US in the fifties during the mambo craze, it pretty much hung around through Rosemary Clooney and Desi Arnaz and Perez Prado, before tapering off as other dance modes came and went. I don't know where Latin dance was during the mid- to late sixties, when the element of touch and leading pretty much disappeared, and dance became more or less freestyle. And then came: disco. During the disco era, the mambo became further stylized, and salsa was born. Today, we dance cha cha cha, and bachata (once touted as the forbidden dance as it can be danced very closely, or as Groucho Marx once said, If I was any closer, I'd be behind you . . .), and we throw in a little merengue, a little cumbia, and even a dash of reggaeton (which is a musical mix of latin and hip-hop rarely danced to well by people over forty). Again with the voila! You now have the repertoire of an average night at an LA salsa club.
A month or so back, I came off of the dance floor at a local club, and a woman, who I would guess was in her forties, said to me "You're such a good dancer." Now, that's always gratifying and, frankly, surprising to hear. Because, I never feel that I am, as it wasn't that long ago (about six years it was) that I was a rank beginner and suffered the indignities of learning to dance salsa (less indignity than when I learned to play golf, but that's another post available here, you know the drill). Not that most of the better dancers weren't kind. The ones who danced with me were usually patient and instructive, but not always. I recall telling a man who had asked me to dance that I was a beginner, and he turned on his heel and walked away. I clearly remember, when I was inching up on intermediate status, dancing with someone who obviously HAD been watching one of those reality dance shows, as was displayed in the wild movements of his arms and upper body. He had evidently never concentrated on actually learning to lead. As a result his lead was flabby and ambiguous, which made it hard to follow. At one point, he fixed me with a glare and exclaimed, Why aren't you getting this? One of my salsera friends, Samantha, once confided what she says to partners like this: You're the one who's leading. I'm only going where you lead me. But regardless of a ready retort, a dance with that kind of a partner can seem like the longest dance of your life.
A good leader can make even a beginning dancer look good. The challenge to the beginner, and the continuing challenge to me, is to give up control. To RELAX. To allow your body to engage in the dialog of the movement. But dancing with a better dancer than yourself helps a lot. When I was beginning, one of those better dancers was Alvin. Alvin asked me to dance one of the first times I came out to take class. He helped me a lot, encouraging me and teaching me combinations and moves. He told me to try to dance with partners who were at a more advanced level than me. That's how you'll get better, he said, adding, It's like tennis. I love Alvin. He is a fixture in the LA salsa community, and a wonderful man. He met Billy once at a salsa function, and he always asks after him. He also always says: I have a message for that husband of yours. You tell him HE'S LUCK-Y! He says this to all of us married salseras. But the truth is, that we are the lucky ones. We're all exceedingly fortunate to have found something for which we have a passion, and which has planted us in a warm community of fellow addicts.
Some of my civilian (non-salsera) girlfriends have remarked that their husbands would never let them go out and dance salsa. I appreciate that Billy doesn't think that way. This might have something to do with the fact that I had been belly dancing for a couple of years when he met me (though not performing belly dance). And he knew that I had taken a lot of folk dance when I was in college. So he knew from the get-go that dance was important in my life. While I replaced dance with aerobics for about a decade of our marriage, he has always known that I am a dancer at heart. And he has always assured me that he's fine with my dancing (further, friends have confided to me that, when I'm not around, he brags about what a good dancer I am and how sweet is that?). But he has also explained to me that if, for some reason, it bothered him that I dance, he still would never attempt to thwart me because he can see how much I love it. He's been known to send me out dancing when he can see I am saddened, and dragged down by my care for my mother. And out I go. Luckily, since Billy doesn't dance much and doesn't go with me very often, I have some regular partners who I suspect make me look good on the dance floor -- especially to beginners like that woman last month. I watched her dance with one of my partners, and he was gentle and easy with her. She was definitely a novice, with a long road ahead of her to get comfortable on the dance floor. I've seen so many people come and go, but the ones who stay with it usually do become proficient. And they have that salsa light in their eyes. You just know they are hooked, and that they will stick around. They simply must.
There is, on occasion, a different look in our eyes even in the midst of the joy of an evening of salsa. We will confide, in snippets of conversation as we pass each other going on and off the floor, that life is hard at the moment. People have financial issues, family issues, work issues. But, as my salsera friend, Karen, said to me recently, when I asked her for an update on her life and she stated that things were now worse -- but, that's why we dance, isn't it?
She's right. Though, in analyzing why I dance, I have to say that a large part of what brings me back to dance again and again, is the quest, occasionally realized, for the perfect moment. That moment when everything comes together, and you know that for that time, fleeting though it is, what you are experiencing is as if you are in symbiotic sync with the universe. Or, again, as F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, Everything goes all glimmering. It is a high that I first experienced as a young figure skater. But I don't have to be skating or dancing for it to happen. I've experienced it at concerts, on vacations, driving, watching a sunset or a sky brilliant with stars. But the truth is that as life goes on and you get weighed down by the burden of it, these moments arrive with less and less regularity. When I go out to dance, I know that the potential is there. It doesn't happen every time, nor even every other. But sometimes it does. The music, the movement, the feeling of flying -- it all comes together and for that moment, all of life's problems are gone. Disapparated. I experience a moment of weightlessness, suspended above life's problems and travails, in perfect bliss. And that, my friends, is why I dance. And why I will continue to put on my dancing shoes until the day comes when I no longer can. Thanks for reading my blog (salseros especially -- see you on the dance floor!).
June 20, 2011
June 10, 2011
One Hundred Percent
Los Angeles, California
I'm in the mood to bake a cake. A lovely, springlike, celebratory cake that will be beautiful and tasty -- a life-affirming cake. So, here's the cake, and the explanation for this event will follow:
Strawberry Cake
Genoise (see below)
1/4 cup framboise Syrup (see below)
1 cup heavy cream, chilled
2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar
1 tablespoon framboise
1 pint strawberries or mix of berries,
including strawberries, coarsely chopped
sliced strawberries and fresh mint sprigs for garnish
Hollow out the cake as follows: using a pot lid or tart pan bottom as a guide, center a 7-inch circle on top of the genoise. With tip of sharp knife, cut around the pan bottom on top of the cake, down 1-inch deep into cake. Insert large knife (such as chef's knife) in the side of the cake 1-inch down from the top, and swivel knife back and forth to free the lid. Using your hand and spatula as support, carefully lift off the lid. Wtih the lid crust-side down, trim off enough cake to leave an even layer 1/2-inch thick. Cut this even round into 8 triangular-shaped wedges.
Place the genoise shell on serving platter. Carefully hollow out the inside with a knife, leaving a 1/2-inch border and layer on the sides and bottom. Cut the inside pieces into 1/2-inch cubes (roughly) and place in medium bowl. Sprinkle 2 tablespoons of the Framboise Syrup on top, and toss to moisten. Brush the inside of the genoise shell with the remaining Framboise Syrup, dabbing generously on the sides and lightly on the bottom. Do not moisten the cake wedges.
In a large bowl, beat the cream with 1 tablespoon of the confectioners' sugar and the framboise until soft peaks form. Fold in the chopped berries and the moistened cubes of cake. Spoon into the genoise shell, spreading it into an even layer. Arrange the wedges of cake decoratively on top by placing an edge into the filling. The cake wedges should fan out like blades from the filling. Sieve the remaining confectioners' sugar over the top. Decorate with sliced strawberries and mint sprigs, tucking between the cake wedges.
Framboise Syrup
1/2 cup sugar
2 tablespoons framboise
Combine sugar with 1/4 cup of water in small, heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil over moderate heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Boil for one minute. Remove from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes. Stir in the framboise.
Genoise
1 3/4 cups sifted all-purpose flour
8 eggs
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1/4 cup clarified butter, tepid
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter a 10-inch springform pan. Cover the bottom with a round of parchment or waxed paper, and lightly butter the paper. Dust the entire pan with flour, tapping out any excess
Sift the flour two more times onto a piece of waxed paper. Set aside.
In large bowl, combine the eggs, sugar and lemon zest. Set over, not in, a large saucepan filled one-quarter of the way with hot water. Warm over low heat, whisking occasionally, until the mixture is smooth and syrupy, with a deep yellow color and feels warm to the touch, about 5 to 8 minutes. Remove from heat.
In a large mixer bowl, beat the warmed eggs and sugar at high speed until the mixture is pale yellow, tripled in volume and holds a ribbon for a full 10 seconds after the beaters are lifted (this will take 10 to 15 minutes with stationary mixer; 15 to 20 with a hand beater).
Sprinkle half of the flower on top of the beaten egg mixture. Using a balloon whisk, fold in the flour lightly but thoroughly, lifting the whisk out of the mixture with each folding stroke. Pour the tepid butter on top and quickly fold in, using the same motion. Spoon the remaining flour on top and fold in quickly and delicately with a minimum number of strokes. Too much folding will deflate the batter. Pour into the prepared pan and tap once on the counter to help spread the batter evenly.
Bake in the middle of the oven for 40 to 45 minutes, until the cake is golden brown on top and a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from oven and transfer to a wire rack to cool for 5 minutes. Remove the sidses of the pan; invert to remove the bottom. Peel off the waxed paper, then invert again to let the cake cool right-side up on a wire rack for 2 to 3 hours. If making ahead, wrap airtight in plastic and store in a cool dry place for up to 3 days, or freeze.
Ok, so, I never said it was a simple cake. And certainly a photo or two would help, especially with placing those cake wedges. But, honestly, it is a lot easier than it sounds. The recipe originally came from Food & Wine magazine, I would say circa 1985, and I first made it for an Easter in the early years of our marriage. It's a lovely cake, and perfect for celebrating the wonder of life, spring, or whatever else you feel like celebrating.
And here's what we're celebrating: Sandra is one hundred percent finished with her protocol of treatment. Her prognosis is excellent, and we met her and John last weekend on a getaway to Rancho Valencia. We haven't seen each other since November 1st when we all left Kona Village. And that is way too long. Lucky for me, I have her in my life on a daily basis when the question of What Would Sandra Do often stops me in my tracks, and keeps me from making a perfect fool of myself as often as I might, if left to my own devices. But daily reminders, no matter how handy, are not the same as the real thing! So Billy and I are very much enjoyed seeing them both. Meanwhile, I'm not sure what Sandra would do, but I feel like baking a cake. Thank you for reading my blog, and congratulations on your 100%, Frister!
I'm in the mood to bake a cake. A lovely, springlike, celebratory cake that will be beautiful and tasty -- a life-affirming cake. So, here's the cake, and the explanation for this event will follow:
Strawberry Cake
Genoise (see below)
1/4 cup framboise Syrup (see below)
1 cup heavy cream, chilled
2 tablespoons confectioners' sugar
1 tablespoon framboise
1 pint strawberries or mix of berries,
including strawberries, coarsely chopped
sliced strawberries and fresh mint sprigs for garnish
Hollow out the cake as follows: using a pot lid or tart pan bottom as a guide, center a 7-inch circle on top of the genoise. With tip of sharp knife, cut around the pan bottom on top of the cake, down 1-inch deep into cake. Insert large knife (such as chef's knife) in the side of the cake 1-inch down from the top, and swivel knife back and forth to free the lid. Using your hand and spatula as support, carefully lift off the lid. Wtih the lid crust-side down, trim off enough cake to leave an even layer 1/2-inch thick. Cut this even round into 8 triangular-shaped wedges.
Place the genoise shell on serving platter. Carefully hollow out the inside with a knife, leaving a 1/2-inch border and layer on the sides and bottom. Cut the inside pieces into 1/2-inch cubes (roughly) and place in medium bowl. Sprinkle 2 tablespoons of the Framboise Syrup on top, and toss to moisten. Brush the inside of the genoise shell with the remaining Framboise Syrup, dabbing generously on the sides and lightly on the bottom. Do not moisten the cake wedges.
In a large bowl, beat the cream with 1 tablespoon of the confectioners' sugar and the framboise until soft peaks form. Fold in the chopped berries and the moistened cubes of cake. Spoon into the genoise shell, spreading it into an even layer. Arrange the wedges of cake decoratively on top by placing an edge into the filling. The cake wedges should fan out like blades from the filling. Sieve the remaining confectioners' sugar over the top. Decorate with sliced strawberries and mint sprigs, tucking between the cake wedges.
Framboise Syrup
1/2 cup sugar
2 tablespoons framboise
Combine sugar with 1/4 cup of water in small, heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil over moderate heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Boil for one minute. Remove from the heat and let cool for 10 minutes. Stir in the framboise.
Genoise
1 3/4 cups sifted all-purpose flour
8 eggs
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1/4 cup clarified butter, tepid
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter a 10-inch springform pan. Cover the bottom with a round of parchment or waxed paper, and lightly butter the paper. Dust the entire pan with flour, tapping out any excess
Sift the flour two more times onto a piece of waxed paper. Set aside.
In large bowl, combine the eggs, sugar and lemon zest. Set over, not in, a large saucepan filled one-quarter of the way with hot water. Warm over low heat, whisking occasionally, until the mixture is smooth and syrupy, with a deep yellow color and feels warm to the touch, about 5 to 8 minutes. Remove from heat.
In a large mixer bowl, beat the warmed eggs and sugar at high speed until the mixture is pale yellow, tripled in volume and holds a ribbon for a full 10 seconds after the beaters are lifted (this will take 10 to 15 minutes with stationary mixer; 15 to 20 with a hand beater).
Sprinkle half of the flower on top of the beaten egg mixture. Using a balloon whisk, fold in the flour lightly but thoroughly, lifting the whisk out of the mixture with each folding stroke. Pour the tepid butter on top and quickly fold in, using the same motion. Spoon the remaining flour on top and fold in quickly and delicately with a minimum number of strokes. Too much folding will deflate the batter. Pour into the prepared pan and tap once on the counter to help spread the batter evenly.
Bake in the middle of the oven for 40 to 45 minutes, until the cake is golden brown on top and a cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove from oven and transfer to a wire rack to cool for 5 minutes. Remove the sidses of the pan; invert to remove the bottom. Peel off the waxed paper, then invert again to let the cake cool right-side up on a wire rack for 2 to 3 hours. If making ahead, wrap airtight in plastic and store in a cool dry place for up to 3 days, or freeze.
Ok, so, I never said it was a simple cake. And certainly a photo or two would help, especially with placing those cake wedges. But, honestly, it is a lot easier than it sounds. The recipe originally came from Food & Wine magazine, I would say circa 1985, and I first made it for an Easter in the early years of our marriage. It's a lovely cake, and perfect for celebrating the wonder of life, spring, or whatever else you feel like celebrating.
And here's what we're celebrating: Sandra is one hundred percent finished with her protocol of treatment. Her prognosis is excellent, and we met her and John last weekend on a getaway to Rancho Valencia. We haven't seen each other since November 1st when we all left Kona Village. And that is way too long. Lucky for me, I have her in my life on a daily basis when the question of What Would Sandra Do often stops me in my tracks, and keeps me from making a perfect fool of myself as often as I might, if left to my own devices. But daily reminders, no matter how handy, are not the same as the real thing! So Billy and I are very much enjoyed seeing them both. Meanwhile, I'm not sure what Sandra would do, but I feel like baking a cake. Thank you for reading my blog, and congratulations on your 100%, Frister!
June 1, 2011
PAU*
Los Angeles, California
Shortly after March 11th, we received photos of the Kona Village Resort which was hit by the tsunami generated by the earthquake in Japan. The tsunami hit the Village around 3:00 am. All guests had been evacuated to nearby hotels, and no one was injured. But the Village got slammed. It is now closed indefinitely, and the photos we received which document the damage are heartbreaking.
We first traveled to the Village in 1986, searching for a place in Hawaii which wasn't Waikiki, which Billy hated, nor Maui, which just didn't seem Hawaiian enough. We decided to give the Big Island a try, and made plans to go to the Mauna Kea. A woman (whose name I have since forgotten, but it may have been Jeanne), who worked out next to me in Kim Blank's class at Jane Fonda's Workout in Encino, had touted the Big Island. When I told her of our plans to go there, she got excited.
"Where are you going to stay?" she asked.
"Mauna Kea," I told her, expecting her enthusiastic affirmation.
She vehemently shook her head (long red curls rippling for effect). "NO," she exclaimed, still shaking head and curls. "NO," repeated again, emphatically (I'm assuming you got that with the italics and bolding. Like, I'm trying to convey that there was no way she was going to let us go to the Mauna Kea).
"Does your husband want to wear a jacket and tie to dinner every night?"
"Uh. No. Probably not," I responded, not a little overwhelmed by her response.
"You're going to the Kona Village," she stated.
And . . . we did.
On that very first flight to the Big Island, when our plane was on approach to Kona airport, I looked out the window and saw what I believe was the ugliest landscape I have ever laid eyes on. Lava. Weird beige-colored yucca-ish plants. White stones arranged in graffiti-like patterns on top of the lava. Moonscape. Are you getting this picture? I PANICKED. We gave up Maui for THIS?!
We gathered our luggage, and piled into some form of transportation and headed up the highway. About twenty minutes later we were on the roughest road I have ever traversed -- seriously. Mexico? Greece? Nope. Rougher. The driver pointed out that, if we were lucky, we might see donkeys. Donkeys!?! Donkeys in Hawaii.
Finally we arrived at a guard gate and were allowed to enter. Vegetation appeared, and we came to a stop at a circle, in front of a thatched-roofed building. Someone, who we now know was Auntie Eleanor, met us and placed welcome leis around our necks. It would be the only time that this happened, that we wouldn't feel like we had come home.
Within a day or two, I sent a postcard to my parents. It said only this: This is IT. It was the place I had dreamed of, in the Hawaii I had dreamed of. It was . . . magic.
I went to Hawaii for the first time before I started school. We sailed from San Francisco on the Matson liner, The Lurline. My dad had spent the duration of WW II stationed at Pearl Harbor. His aunt and uncle also lived on Oahu during the war, as his uncle was a Royal Navy advisor to the US Navy. Having spent three years in Hawaii, my dad had developed an intense affinity for the islands. By the time Billy and I spent our honeymoon there, it was my lucky seventh visit to the islands, including two full summers spent there.
We were to travel to the Village, with our friends, Todd and Christopher, in May. It would have been their first time there, after hearing about it from us for many years in copious amounts of too much information, on and on, ad nauseam (I've misspelled this word all my life and only now learn that it ends in am, thank you Google Dictionary!), more or less (we can't help ourselves). Our canceled reservation for this trip would have been our eighteenth stay at the Kona Village. And the twenty-seventh time I would have traveled to the Islands. But, those lofty numbers aside, I have to write that Billy and I, and all of the Village returnees, who are part of the Kona Village ohana, are mourning the loss of this special and magical place. Unless you have been there, and stayed there, you have no idea.
I have celebrated every birthday, with Sandra and John, at the Kona Village since 1998. I cannot imagine spending a birthday and a Halloween somewhere else. But, we will. Hopefully the Village will return to us, and will somehow have retained the magic that we knew there. But, we have to be realistic. The Kona Village staff has been let go. The grounds, and even our special hale, Lava Samoan Eight, has been devastated. How it will come back to us is, at this point, unknown.
Here is our hale, knocked off of its foundation, without steps, and without the railing (where I found a Happy Birthday balloon tied on the morning of my birthday each year, courtesy of a special someone, with a big heart, in management of the resort). The second picture is of the hale's lanai where we often spent time watching the approaching sunset, before hurrying off to the Bora Bora Bar to meet Sandra and John.
Like many others, we have come back again and again to Kona Village, and felt a special joy when we arrived at the circle outside reception. And, each year, we eagerly looked forward to seeing the faces of all of the staff there who have felt like our special Hawaiian family (ohana). What we know is simply this: We have loved being at the Village. We have truly loved this place. And we will miss it more than any of us can imagine at this time.
*Pau means the end, or over. We fervently hope that the Village is only pau, for now. Mahalo for reading my blog. Aloha nui loa.
Shortly after March 11th, we received photos of the Kona Village Resort which was hit by the tsunami generated by the earthquake in Japan. The tsunami hit the Village around 3:00 am. All guests had been evacuated to nearby hotels, and no one was injured. But the Village got slammed. It is now closed indefinitely, and the photos we received which document the damage are heartbreaking.
We first traveled to the Village in 1986, searching for a place in Hawaii which wasn't Waikiki, which Billy hated, nor Maui, which just didn't seem Hawaiian enough. We decided to give the Big Island a try, and made plans to go to the Mauna Kea. A woman (whose name I have since forgotten, but it may have been Jeanne), who worked out next to me in Kim Blank's class at Jane Fonda's Workout in Encino, had touted the Big Island. When I told her of our plans to go there, she got excited.
"Where are you going to stay?" she asked.
"Mauna Kea," I told her, expecting her enthusiastic affirmation.
She vehemently shook her head (long red curls rippling for effect). "NO," she exclaimed, still shaking head and curls. "NO," repeated again, emphatically (I'm assuming you got that with the italics and bolding. Like, I'm trying to convey that there was no way she was going to let us go to the Mauna Kea).
"Does your husband want to wear a jacket and tie to dinner every night?"
"Uh. No. Probably not," I responded, not a little overwhelmed by her response.
"You're going to the Kona Village," she stated.
And . . . we did.
On that very first flight to the Big Island, when our plane was on approach to Kona airport, I looked out the window and saw what I believe was the ugliest landscape I have ever laid eyes on. Lava. Weird beige-colored yucca-ish plants. White stones arranged in graffiti-like patterns on top of the lava. Moonscape. Are you getting this picture? I PANICKED. We gave up Maui for THIS?!
We gathered our luggage, and piled into some form of transportation and headed up the highway. About twenty minutes later we were on the roughest road I have ever traversed -- seriously. Mexico? Greece? Nope. Rougher. The driver pointed out that, if we were lucky, we might see donkeys. Donkeys!?! Donkeys in Hawaii.
Finally we arrived at a guard gate and were allowed to enter. Vegetation appeared, and we came to a stop at a circle, in front of a thatched-roofed building. Someone, who we now know was Auntie Eleanor, met us and placed welcome leis around our necks. It would be the only time that this happened, that we wouldn't feel like we had come home.
Within a day or two, I sent a postcard to my parents. It said only this: This is IT. It was the place I had dreamed of, in the Hawaii I had dreamed of. It was . . . magic.
I went to Hawaii for the first time before I started school. We sailed from San Francisco on the Matson liner, The Lurline. My dad had spent the duration of WW II stationed at Pearl Harbor. His aunt and uncle also lived on Oahu during the war, as his uncle was a Royal Navy advisor to the US Navy. Having spent three years in Hawaii, my dad had developed an intense affinity for the islands. By the time Billy and I spent our honeymoon there, it was my lucky seventh visit to the islands, including two full summers spent there.
We were to travel to the Village, with our friends, Todd and Christopher, in May. It would have been their first time there, after hearing about it from us for many years in copious amounts of too much information, on and on, ad nauseam (I've misspelled this word all my life and only now learn that it ends in am, thank you Google Dictionary!), more or less (we can't help ourselves). Our canceled reservation for this trip would have been our eighteenth stay at the Kona Village. And the twenty-seventh time I would have traveled to the Islands. But, those lofty numbers aside, I have to write that Billy and I, and all of the Village returnees, who are part of the Kona Village ohana, are mourning the loss of this special and magical place. Unless you have been there, and stayed there, you have no idea.
I have celebrated every birthday, with Sandra and John, at the Kona Village since 1998. I cannot imagine spending a birthday and a Halloween somewhere else. But, we will. Hopefully the Village will return to us, and will somehow have retained the magic that we knew there. But, we have to be realistic. The Kona Village staff has been let go. The grounds, and even our special hale, Lava Samoan Eight, has been devastated. How it will come back to us is, at this point, unknown.
Here is our hale, knocked off of its foundation, without steps, and without the railing (where I found a Happy Birthday balloon tied on the morning of my birthday each year, courtesy of a special someone, with a big heart, in management of the resort). The second picture is of the hale's lanai where we often spent time watching the approaching sunset, before hurrying off to the Bora Bora Bar to meet Sandra and John.
Like many others, we have come back again and again to Kona Village, and felt a special joy when we arrived at the circle outside reception. And, each year, we eagerly looked forward to seeing the faces of all of the staff there who have felt like our special Hawaiian family (ohana). What we know is simply this: We have loved being at the Village. We have truly loved this place. And we will miss it more than any of us can imagine at this time.
*Pau means the end, or over. We fervently hope that the Village is only pau, for now. Mahalo for reading my blog. Aloha nui loa.
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.