You call it the mainland, I call it insane land

It happens to us all, the mainland trip.

I was flying to the mainland in two days and butterflies had taken over my stomach. I was nervous as a groom on his wedding day, heading to Southern Cal. It was my high school reunion in Southern Cal.

Leaving Hawaii is always traumatic, like Peter Pan yanked out of Neverland. Here, you have your easy routine, the morning coffee, walking down the driveway for the paper, easing into the day. The rest of the time spent in the shaka mode, cruisin’ in paradise.

Face it, we’re all domesticated a bit, hidden in all this beauty from the real world.

But the big day finally arrives, you’re mainland bound.

Suddenly you are on the plane. It is nighttime at the Kona International Airport, you look out at the lights on the mountain. The seat belt sign is on, the jet engines roar in your ears and you are rocking down the runway at like 1,000 mph. The plane lifts off and you gaze back at the lights of your beloved Kona, blinking in surprise that you are leaving.

After being turned into a pretzel all night in your seat you finally touch down and step into the crazy, people-packed, mad car race called the mainland. You get the rental car and pull onto the freeway zooming along inside a Star Wars movie, dodging rocket ships zipping around you.

But always in the back of your mind is Hawaii soothing you, reminding you that this harsh, jagged world is only temporary and in two weeks you’ll be back home in your slippers and all will be fine.

But now you are careening down the freeway. Billboards fly by, 50-foot signs with a 50-foot woman painted on them next to a new car or a casino in Las Vegas or a giant aspirin bottle.

Freeways on top of freeways, endless malls with names like Fashion Island or Newport Dunes. It is all too much.

You call it the mainland, I call it Insane Land.

You drift to paradise back home, the easy white beach at Pine Trees, sitting in the sand watching the laughing waves. The light turquoise water of Kahakai and Hapuna. It saves you.

But the mainland is too much with us.

Around you are the most un-Hawaii things; A girl in black shorts roller-skating on a busy highway, gender-free restrooms where anyone can go, a homeless guy sleeping on a twin bed under a freeway, rows of half-naked hippies along sidewalks selling incense, bongs and copper jewelry. Dome tents by the sidewalk.

Our homeless in Kona are amateurs next to these guys.

But soon it’s the high school reunion where high school friends once young have morphed into old codgers like yourself and when you tell them you are from Hawaii they treat you like a celebrity, Elvis and Don Ho rolled into one.

But too soon it is over, time to come home. You click your ruby slippers together three times and say, “There’s no place like Kona, no place like Kona”.

Soon you hear the pilot announce you are landing in five minutes. The plane lands and you step out the door and feel that sweet, warm blast of Hawaiian air rush into your face.

You stretch your arms out wide and shout. “Hawaii, I love you!”

Dennis Gregory is a writer, artist, singer, teacher and Kailua-Kona resident who mixes truth, humor and aloha in his biweekly column. He can be reached at makewavess@yahoo.com.