Aloha! It's hard to shake off that aloha spirit after a week in Hawaii. You land at San Francisco International Airport at 10 p.m. and wonder why you're the only cat in sunglasses, shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Why are these people so uptight? Bedtime comes, and you're ready to party because your inner clock thinks it's still prime time.
Suddenly it's time to go back to work, and you just don't have that Silicon Valley hustle. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and you want to say, "What's the hurry, man? Surf's up. I'll do it tomorrow." But the boss didn't go with you to the islands and thinks you ought to punch back in already.
Luckily, the Prowler runs on a pretty loose leash, so the adjustment isn't so bad. But the Prowler's mate had to show up for a 9 a.m. meeting in grown-up duds. Talk about miserable.
We had barely arrived in Honolulu when, amid the sea of street names that all sound like Kalikilikilani, we crossed Saratoga Avenue. You get up at 5 a.m. to fly 2,500 miles and run right into a street from home!
This Saratoga Avenue featured the standard Waikiki high-rises, sushi parlors and gift shops and was a stone's throw from our temporary home in a 27-story pad near the beach. Not a word about Los Gatos there, but the Prowler spied a couple guys with T-shirts from last year's Brazilian soccer extravaganza. Lots of other tourists seemed to be wearing shirts and hats from Silicon Valley companies and colleges.
Actually, it was easy to tell who came from Prowlerland. They were the ones at the beach at 6 a.m. because they were too jet-lagged to sleep. They were also the beach cats with enough Santa Cruz experience to wear sunblock--as opposed to the lobster-colored midwesterners sprawled on the beach as if sunburn doesn't hurt.
Of course, the Prowler doesn't burn. Too much fur. Aloha. Mahalo.
This article appeared in the Los Gatos Weekly-Times, June 5, 1996.
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