This post could also be called “why moving to and from a pacific island is no joke.” When my work assignment in Maui came to a close *sigh*, I was actually relieved and excited. I longed to go back to the “mainland” where the highways have more than one lane, you can drive somewhere far away without going around in a small island size circle, and honeymooning tourists aren’t up in your business like a tick at a boyscout convention.
But first I had to figure out what to do with the surprisingly substantial amount of stuff I accumulated over the course of a year. In the states, you can procrastinate until the 11th hour of your moving truck rental while you frantically shove shit in every corner and think “better late than never.” When moving from Hawaii, you have a plane to catch, only 50lbs of luggage allowed, and beyond substantial fees if you show up over the limit or late for your plane.
Furniture was easy (in theory). A call to the Goodwill resulted in a scheduled pickup of 1980s t.v., armchair, and bed I purchased from them to begin with. The easiest part of moving, or so I thought until I realized the “Aloha” attitude of the island often results in “we don’t go to work when the surfing and weed are good and are in no hurry when we finally show up.” I was beyond frantic when they showed up an hour AFTER I was supposed to check out of my apartment. And they refused the t.v. Apparently they are not “authorized” to handle t.v.s prior to a certain era. Hmmm….large old t.v.s were perfectly acceptable for 20+ years before the invention of the flat screen.
I had been shipping stuff to the mainland (aka my loving parents house) for weeks in priority flat rate boxes (the only realistic way to get anything off the island for less than $50) but had a moment of realization when I picked up my suitcases. They were not coming in under the weight limit…not even close. And one bag wouldn’t even close. And the zipper broke. “No worries”, I tried to flippantly think like a true islander. I sped to the post office. And they were due to close in ten minutes and wouldn’t take anything despite my desperate plea that I would be permanently out of their hair if I could just ship one (or 6) more boxes and catch my plane. I headed to FedEx. The kind lady was more than happy to help, and I found out why when she handed me a $1,000 estimate. Suddenly I didn’t need half the stuff in those boxes. The FedEx lady got a substantial donation of stuff as I sorted out essentials. She also delighted in telling me stories about the number of crazy haoles (which basically means a white person not from Hawaii-usually derogatory) who move their stuff off the island, then freak out and return to the tune of several thousand dollars. I’d like to know what those haoles do for a living because this girl is still paying off one move…can’t imagine any more.
Finally it was time for my last minute clean out of the apartment. But I had an air mattress and that blasted t.v. Then my back decided to go out, as it does when I am stressed and have been singlehandedly moving stuff up and down 6 flights of stairs. I put the t.v. outside the door, hoping someone would steal it so I wouldn’t have to carry it. A successful plan but there was no such luck with the air mattress. With 15 minutes left to go, I looked out the window, saw a dumpster nearby and heaved that puppy right out the window. I wasn’t counting on the gust of wind that deposited it directly on the roof of the apartment manager’s prized golf cart. Shiiiiit!!! looked around quickly to make sure no one had seen or been hurt by my latest moving induced craptastrophe and hightailed it outta there. I checked on the cart, no damage, and to my amazement a bum came up and expressed interest in the mattress. I gave him $5 to remove that p.o.s. from the scene and I was outta there and only about 30 mins late to the flight. I sped down the road thinking of ways to get my ukulele, 6ft tall stand-up surfing paddle, and 3 bags of “essentials” on the plane. It wasn’t much of stretch for me to look several cards short of a full deck as I pulled up to the airport. Luggage cart piled high and still limping from my back injury, I tremulously smiled at the gate agent. This was not his first rodeo. “You’re moving OFF the island, correct?” he politely stated while giving me a look that said “lady, I would pay your crazy ass to get off this island.” He quickly got me on another flight (I missed the first one) and negotiated fees (I still don’t care to discuss the full amount) for my “far in excess” baggage. A quick hobble through security and it was finally done. I was officially on my flight back to the mainland where I would cry with relief when I saw an actual highway that would take me places beyond the circular confines of an island in “paradise.”
Image may be NSFW.
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Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
