The breeze. That's my favorite thing here in Hawaii. It's a constant caress. Through all of my anticipation of this trip - it's sights, sounds, smells and tastes - I never once considered the tactile sensations.

After eighty minutes of sleep and a flight to Seattle, I couldn't find Kyle in the terminal - until the curled-up hulk on the row of airport seats in front of me shifted enough for me to recognize it. The flight to Hawaii was easy. It's nice, when you have a large ocean like the Pacific, to only have to travel over half of it. My aunt Bobbee and uncle Jim live in Lanikai, which is a suburb of Kailua - reportedly one of the ten best beach spots in the world, according to a good cross-section of travel magazines. Despite the diversion of their deck and the associated view, it didn't take long for Kyle and I to find ourselves coated in Pacific. The night sky (Mars definitely included) was enthralling enough that I couldn't take my eyes off of it - so I've been sleeping on the deck. The sunrise more than makes up for the twenty minutes of light rain that I seem to get each night.



Feng shui dictates that the proper place for a dwelling is between a mountain and the water, and their organic menagerie fits the bill delightfully. We hiked the hill yesterday morning - the pill boxes on top may never have been used to repel hordes of invaders, but they make a great lookout stoop. The only thing impeding view of the ocean is the two Mokolua islands - bird sanctuaries just off the coast. So we got in their sea kayaks and went to them. We enjoyed a delectably ginger-heavy salmon dinner, which offered the first good opportunity to quiz our hosts about their extensive Southeast Asia experiences and advice. They bestowed each of us with beautiful travel chopsticks - coconut wood for Kyle and sandalwood for me.

Today, entailed, well, mostly the same. I was fine with that. We did a rainforest hike off Pali on the eastern mountain range with Bobbee this morning, and paddled out to the islands again with some local kids. Shark Cove, on the far side of the big Mok, enabled the first cliff jumping of the trip.

At the moment, six months of vacation doesn't seem nearly enough.

The pack is full, the head is shaved, and the speaker of the New Zealand House ruled that one member can bring in his carburetor and work on it, as long as he doesn't make too much noise. Goodnight, North America. I'll see you in six months.

If all goes according to plan, I now have everything I'm taking with me (and nothing more). I've had plenty of time to finalize my list, thanks to Kyle. He's leaving Chicago for Seattle tomorrow, and I'm not meeting him there until the next day. Hence, he's been consistently one day ahead of me when it comes to joint tasks. When we're separated in Cambodia and I've had my passport stolen, I'll think of you, Kyle, when I look on the list for the local embassy number.

This'll qualify itself as my first significantly intoxicated journal entry. I'm all about meaningless milestones (and careful proofreading at a time like this). It encourages nostalgia, false or otherwise. Regardless, nostalgia's great, and I'm all for it. This attitude was surfaced when I ran into the parents of my old friend Matt Anderson, and started reminiscing about using their basement as a set for a Romeo/Juliet adaptation in high school. (Married to the Mafia.) Tonight's setting: the first wedding I've attended, and the first of my close peers'. Phil, best of luck to you and your lovely bride. It was a great day to get hitched, and to be the first of us to take the plunge.



It's currently late Saturday night, making my excursion as a chaperone for (newly fourteen-year-old-brother) Trace's boating birthday just a couple days ago. It was a cross between keeping track of a gaggle of hormonal teens and, well, not a cross. Purely hormonal teens. It's only moderately frustrating that one of them is as physically adept as I am when it comes to hanging onto innertubes off the back of a 45mph boat. While we were out on the Columbia, Air Force One passed overhead. The thought occurred to me: somewhere in Texas, a village is missing an idiot.

I currently have about 5/3 the amount of stuff I need for this trip. The jaunt to REI when I return the excess will be like Christmas. Christmas, I tell you.

Note to self: keep taking that oral typhoid vaccine series. I should have gone with the slightly-more-expensive shot o' dead typhoid. The one-a-day malarial tabs in SEA will literally lead to the death of me. As my rheumatologist reportedly noted of me to my general practitioner: "This young man is not the type that will take pills often or regularly." Maybe it was the motorcycle helmet I dragged into his office that clued him in.

Got the portable "guaranteed 100% computer free" CD burner. Concurrently, Kyle bought and sent in the rebate form for the only brand of flash memory card that doesn't properly interface with the unit.

Shopping without Maria is hard. Today I spent twenty minutes looking back and forth between the synthetic navy shirt with thin white stripes and the synthentic navy shirt with thick white stripes. Jury's still out on the victor. The only upside to being without a girlfriend presence is that I can geek out shamelessly. Yesterday alone I swapped out a couple motherboards, bought the aforementioned electronic gear, and played a couple hours of a dungeon-crawl game with Eric and Trace - ensuring complete complexion camouflage with any white sandy beaches I run into.

Travel guidebook quote of the day: "If you use a brightly-colored fanny pack, you will get robbed." That rules out snarking one from my parents' selection.

28.4 pounds. That's the weight of my first test pack. It all fit into the 2800 cubic inches of a compressed REI Vagabond, though. That weight assumes I'm taking pictures on a muggy nude beach, too. I put all of the gear and clothes into the pack itself, save my camera, my hat, and the sandals. Come to think of it, that activity could finance the whole trip if I'm entrepreneurial about it.

28.3 pounds. A deck of cards is too frivolous an item to lug about.

I'm not going to even think about my trip tomorrow. The Columbia River Gorge is slated to bake in the low nineties, so the plan is to boat the heck out of life before organizing Maria's car for her one-way journey down to Berkeley on Tuesday.

I should buy stock in REI. Wait, no... it's a co-op, and I'm already a member.

J.R. and David's rib recipe:
(I tested it - it's highly functional even outside of Tennessee)

• Boil ribs in magic brew consisting of 7up and beer for one hour
  
• Grill, basting in KC Masterpiece

Slip slidin' away. Over the last few nights, I've seen photographs of Thailand and Bali taken by my grandfather in 1963 (when my mom's family lived in Bangkok) and 1998. On the way back from Egypt in 1993, my family stopped off at the same locales, so that turned into another evening. A bonsai tree excursion led to a 72-foot dome of an OMSI OMNIMAX showing of Coral Reef Adventure today. That was the biggest Napoleon fish I've seen since the egg-feeding incident in Sharm el Sheik, circa 1992. All told, I could have saved time and money by just staying in Portland and recreating the experience with the aforementioned visual aids, take-out, and some sea-salts.

Instead Maria accompanied me on a spending-spree series of REI runs. I've kept the receipts, so if anyone feels like sending their 100% cotton-free clothing or accessories around the Pacific, my email's on the left. Sounds like Kyle landed a backpack - he ordered an Eagle Creek travel pack the same day that my family and I trekked up Eagle Creek itself. Carrying a wounded 75-pound brother Bryce two miles back to the trailhead convinced me to stick to a smaller pack. I've tentatively purchased a ~3000 cubic incher. Guaranteed onus-free. Still, the tags are staying on the cute lil' thing until I successfully cram the physical manifestation of my pack list into it. Back to Kyle's purchase, though: I was impressed that they actually carry outdoor gear in the Midwest, he told me where he's ordering it - the same outdoor store that Maria and I explored in downtown Portland just last week.

My first interactions with a live Australian (a representative of their transcontinental train company) indicate that I was incorrect. We do not, in fact, speak the same language. After five back-and-forth emails, I still don't understand what she means by "concession fare."

It's amazing how the absence of half a mountain strikes you. Family trip to Saint Helens yesterday. Arm-wrestled a computer the day before. Art galleries, Costco, streetside craft vendors, wakeboarding, unpronouncable beer, grilling, and plans to hit the Saturday Market by way of light rail this afternoon. All in all, it's been a highly Northwestern week.

2,411 miles at 8 miles to the gallon adds up to even more money than I expected. My revised recommendation for anyone who feels like moving across the country: sell it all, then buy new ones when you get there. Maria and I made it in fantastic time, though. Under three days ain't shabby for a Nashville to Portland by way of fifteen-foot truck plus towed Buick Regal. We intentionally avoided heavy traffic in Tennessee, which conveniently plopped us in rush hour for St. Louis, Denver, and Ogden, Utah. At least we didn't have to deal with that notorious Boise stop and go. Phew. The one waste of time we allowed ourselves was a four-minute stop at Devil's Slide - one heck of a rock formation in Utah.



Portland is still, as expected, perfect. Don't tell anyone though. Our unemployment here's high enough without all your friends pointing their wagons this way. The weather was warm yet crisp while we unloaded the van. The motorcycle ended up not crushing anything in the back of the truck. It's still fast, too. I checked.

Shortly after I showed up, my father and Trevor skipped town for Tupelo, Mississippi and Oahu, Hawaii. One's business. One's pleasure. I forget which is which. I disappointed Dad by fixing the router here, which means that there's no reason for us to get a wireless solution.

Fate repaid me by scheduling an appointment at a travel clinic this evening. Wait, wasn't Fate. It was my mom. I get those two confused. Either way, this evening will be innoculicious. I'm tempted to reward myself with a portable CD burning solution. Frivolous? Probably. However, it won't be much more expensive than the the premium I'll spend at cafes fiddling with drivers and and burning backups of pictures . It'll add about a pound and a half to my pack weight, but the oodles of pictures I'll be free to take make up for it. My plan would be to leave stashes of picture CDs in crannies throughout the Pacific rim. Golf-leafed Buddhas, eucalyptus trees, the Mines of Moria... such possibilities are beyond count.