Freaky Tiki Friday
The instinct to wander might be genetic: My great-grandmother emigrated from Spain to Hawaii by boat, my grandma ventured to China in the tumultuous late ’80s,, we walked about 10 miles a day. We ogled the beautifully chaotic graffiti on storefronts, ate fresh prawns at the seafood restaurant , and took a sky gondola to . By the time we reached , we wanted to slow down. On our second night there, we learned of a tiki bar down the street from our Airbnb. My mom and I agreed: Why not? We used to live on Oahu; the choice seemed right. We found an awning that read and strolled into what looked like a 1970s sea cave. A host handed us plastic leis. The music—alternating tracks of glam rock and Hawaiian falsetto—matched the kitschy volcano fountain and dangling lights shaped like puffer fish. We laughed at ourselves for wanting to sip tiki drinks in the heart of tapas country. Once seated, my mom realized she had been in the same bar first time in Spain with mom 40 years earlier. At first, we joked about it (), but the longer we nursed our rum concoctions through three-foot-long straws, the more it seemed like we were supposed to be there. The women in my family have all been wanderers, perpetually fascinated by the concept of elsewhere. We’re bound to retrace each other’s footsteps now and again.
