Mainlanders Are Crazy (Chicken Soup for the Hawaii-Homesick Soul)

On a sunny 78 degree day in June of 2002, I departed the Big Island of Hawaii for the Canadian Tundra. Well, ok, it was Ottawa, but I grew up on an island - what did I know about North America? (I didn't even know that Canada was part of "North America" until someone kindly pointed out that North America is a continent, not a country.)

Obviously I didn't know much. Ottawa was suffering a heat wave that summer when I arrived, and I stepped out - strapped up in a sweater and jeans in case I freeze - into a 1,000-degree inferno. Evidently the balmy "30's" I'd seen on a Canadian News Source the previous evening meant Celsius, as in like 100 degrees with all the humidity. Mistake number one: Hawaii never crept up past 90, and even if it did, the trade winds and ocean mist would make it feel . . . you know, perfect.

Now the point of me leaving Hawaii was not to plunk down into my birth-given right to be Canadian (praise the Halifax hospital crew for yours truly); I did not want to be called Canuck the next time I went home for a visit. It was bad enough that I knew nothing about Hockey.

No, I thought (well, me and the seven other people I moved with) that the mainland had so much to offer - so much potential. It was like our one giant 24 hour Wal-Mart in downtown Hilo- but bigger. And with more windows. (As a sidebar, millions of catatonic night-swimming jellyfish awoke with great fervor when Wal-Mart started closing its doors at 10pm, sending flocks of bored teenagers to the dark empty beaches).

We saw at the edge of the horizon a life teeming with opportunity, screaming: No more boredom! Jobs available to all! Fun city people! World Peace and Puppies! (For the record only Jacob heard the last one, and he was extremely high on jellyfish acid.)

So we left. Well, I left for Canada to see my maternal half, only to leave a few weeks later to spend my life savings (a total of four dollars, thirty five cents, and an overdue credit card) in New York City.

But it didn't stop there. No, the final destination was Portland, Oregon. You know, where all the neon lights are bright and there's magic in the . . . oh wait, nevermind.

Portland, we thought, was the next Artists' Mecca, not too big (like some cities [show off!]), nor too small (can we say "population forty thousand"?). Where we could be the free island types, and still take advantage of some of that fancy mainland capitalism. (Oh yeah, it's spreading to Hawaii. Death to Oprah; Trump is Fired).

Problem with all this was, we had no idea what we were getting into. Or why our parents escaped. Slowly, it all started to make sense: these people were all insane! Always in a rush. Talking on their cell phones while breathing in Big Macs and Diet Cokes and trying to hang themselves from their ties.

It took me a little over two years to adjust. And when I say adjust, it's kind of like saying a cat "adjusting" to living in a 600 square foot slab of concrete (they call these apartments in the Mainland) after a lifetime of frolicking and sunbathing in a lazy, luscious back yard.

So I became tolerant of my new home. Grumpy with it at first - as I do not like feeling like the Tin Man at the age of 25 because of a nine month rain spell. But when I learned how to layer my clothing (Oh, they're long johns, not remnants from the Jailbird show!), what fake smiles allow you to get away with (thanks for the free soup, Newport Bay), and why you don't piss off drunken Portland bicyclists (you have to experience this strange Northwestern phenomena to understand anything in brackets), I relaxed a little.

Sure, you can't see anything in the Great White (yes, the ones that eat you) happy Oregonian shore; people here think "fresh fish" means a frozen pinkish substance that was shipped from Morocco; and time clocks are actually monitored here. But aside from that, and the lack of perfect weather, subdued importance of time, and gentle breeze that licks at your face every time it's just a little too warm with that ocean bree... I'm sorry, I got sidetracked.

Bitch as I did about the move, I actually started to like the place. I guess I just accepted that you have to take things at face value, that comparing something to perfection (or as close to it as I imagine) never really gets you anywhere. You have to let go of everything you've ever thought or expected and just take the place in - weird bicyclists and all. You can only find the gems when you stop analyzing and start looking.

And I've found that it's really not so bad here. Portland is as laid back as they come - for the mainland, anyway. The important thing to remember is you can always go back to remind yourself that paradise is your own creation. But somehow, it's always easier to remember this when you have good weather.