crossroads of the Pacific

I got two New Year's Eves this year. This was by design. My past two layovers on the way back from trips were slightly disappointing: my wild night in Guangzhou on the way home from Myanmar and a night in Dublin coming back from Rome and Sicily.

But Tuesday, after a smoky day in Sydney, I boarded a flight for Honolulu at 7:20 pm. I woke up at 8:15 am before I'd left, still New Year's Eve. Second time's the charm. This time, everything went right, heralded by the airport worker who greeted our long line of international arrivals with a hearty "a-lo-haaaaa."

 The Alamo agent said I could have any car I wanted. A red convertible on Waikiki?

My first stop and only agenda for the day was to visit Pearl Harbor. All tickets for the free tour were gone until Thursday--except the ranger said she had 1 seat left at 1:00 pm. I was in!

The Marines provide an appropriately sober perspective on the sneak attack on a Sunday morning that took over 2000 lives, including civilians. Remember that Hawaii was not yet a state. The US had managed to stay out of World War II for over two years.

My friend Douglas' father was stationed at Pearl Harbor during the attack. I was fascinated when he described what it must have been like to survive the bombing with ships sinking. At the National Park site, they show a newsreel to give a hint of it.

The highlight of visiting is a boat trip to the USS Arizona Memorial. 

That's the photo at the top of this post, built over the sunken remains of the ship during the Eisenhower administration and dedicated under Kennedy.

Hard to imagine a nicer day to be stuck in Hawaii with a red convertible. Energy flagging, I stopped in for an ahi tuna katsu plate lunch on the waterfront, at a restaurant promising Honolulu's best Bloody Mary.

The bartenders were slicing fresh pineapples, so I had a pineapple margarita with less tequila. "Are you sure?" she asked. (After 5 hours of sleep on Qantas, I was pretty wobbly.)

Clouds were gathering over the leeward mountains. A little rain was no problem.

I stopped by a wholesale lei warehouse and picked up a few gorgeous souvenirs, and even got the kamaaina discount. Are you sure you're not local? the guy asked, as he wrapped them up.

 

By now, I was playing Guava Jam by The Sunday Manoa on the stereo, humming along in Hawaiian.

And then I spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out at Ala Moana park, watching surfers and snorkelers and kids trying out their Christmas bicycles. One man was sitting on a bench with a boombox singing classic soul. Two women danced and posed for photos in grass skirts.

I made a quick run for li hing shave ice and returned just as the sun sank into the horizon, last sunset of the year. Behind me, a church choir began to sing "Hallelujah." The sky glowed, not quite ready to shake off the year. I was thinking I'd miss the fireworks (again) when a bunch of firecrackers blew up a few feet away.

And then it was time to say goodbye. Honolulu airport is famous for live musicians. But I was surprised and delighted to be serenaded by a band and two hula dancers as I boarded my second New Year's Eve flight to California. Aloha!

All good trips leave you wanting more. And this was no exception. Happy new year! We made it.

welcome to the new town

On Friday, I moved to a new part of Sydney. Newtown is incredibly diverse and vibrant. Coldplay even filmed a video here on King Street.

I'm staying at an AirBnB run by Ravi, who several years ago, alarmed by the plight of immigrants, turned his family living room into Parliament on King, a bookstore, cafe, salon, art studio, and community center. It's a modern-day Shakespeare & Company, and everyone wanders by in the course of a day.

The cafe is literally a social enterprise. You can rent it out. 

You can request a private catered dinner for 20 of your friends from an asylum-seeking chef.

Or just come drink iced coffee and housemade kombucha, and learn all the neighborhood gossip. Random people drop by, some of them regulars, others for the first time. Bebe might turn the disco ball on. Hani might start to dance.

If you sit still, Chin Chin the parakeet will perch on you, or take a bath.

There are bands playing on street corners. You can get your hair cut at Mister Hipster or drop by the button store or any of the lash salons.

King Street in Newtown is like Fitzroy in Melbourne or the East Village or Bermondsey, a combination of funky and up and coming with already arrived.

The neighborhood is adorable. Yesterday we dropped by a garage fundraiser for the firies: shockingly, the Rural Fire Service in Australia, fighting unprecedented blazes in the mountains to the west and south, is largely staffed by volunteers.

I'd never seen pink plumeria before. Everything is in bloom here.

Wish I had a neighbor with all these avocados. The house itself is very peaceful. Shades of Turrell.

Like the bookstore, the rental is full of books and Corningware my mother had.

Sacks of coffee beans get a new life in the yard.

You can feel the neighborhood evolving in real time. They have fantastic vintage shops, as good as Artifact in Portland, which forced me to buy a whole new suitcase.

Come. Take a stroll. Stay a while.

You'll never get bored.

Some newcomers have objected to bars staying open all night. The neighborhood pushed back.

There's terrific streetart and murals everywhere you look.

I don't know why MLK is here, but he is. The smaller dream mural to the right alludes to the aboriginal concept of dreaming.

Despite the name, Newtown is old. Lots of good bones for that Thai restaurant or record store or sound healing studio you've always dreamed of opening.

There are Instagram kids following the mural trail and stopping at their favorite bakeries. Okay, so one of them was me.

The best/most ridiculous of all is Black Star. 

It's not like I too didn't want to try everything in the case. But I had to get what we'd all come for: the strawberry watermelon slice.

I got it to eat in, but there wasn't anywhere to sit, so I found a bench. Two Japanese girls of no more than 22 sat next to me and unwrapped their black star boxes like Christmas presents from Tiffany. Truly from the sublime to the delicious.

Today I headed downtown to see the Powerhouse Museum, a collection of science and design. On the way, I discovered a food court and several blocks of restaurants that felt like I'd been transported to Singapore or Shanghai. The building above is one of a series of new library branches!

 Combo laksa for the win.

Unable to resist a machine, I put my $4 in and got a fabulous fresh-squeezed juice.  When can we get one of these in San Francisco?

Darling Harbour is in fact darling. Filled with fancy donut shops and cafes and dumpling providers and concoctions of yogurt with black sticky rice. It's the new boba, or so I hear.

The Powerhouse Museum was inspiring. I made my way to Newtown on the bus, wishing for a few more stomachs.

I stopped by the cafe where there'd been some commotion. A neighborhood guy had pushed Mother Yen, the beloved owner of the Vietnamese restaurant across the street. No one was having it. Police were interviewing him and all the witnesses, which was clearly visible from Parliament's picture windows. I ate dinner at Mother Yen (banh xeo plus a refreshing soda lemonade) in solidarity.

How many hours a week do we bemoan San Francisco no longer being the boho town we moved to years ago? Parliament on King is a chance to rectify that, a way to return to that moment when we too were new in town, and everything was possible and pay it forward. 

Meet brilliant new friends from Iraq and Somalia and Saudi Arabia and Japan and Ohio and Sydney, while you're at it.

The year is coming to an end, but as a guy on a scooter reassured me tonight, that's just an arbitrary demarcation.

Learn more about Parliament on King and how you can support their mission. Or if you're in Sydney, drop in for a drink and stay awhile.