“I have better things to spend seven hundred dollars on,” I replied. Nothing about sitting in a loud, tiny helicopter hovering over volcanos made me easy. “Plus, didn’t one of their helicopters crash recently?”
Kimo clucked his tongue. “Decades of flawless flights marred by one tragedy.”
“I don’t want to die this time around. Not yet. There are other things to do.”
“Like eat ube?”
Typically, as the elder (per my family and seemingly per my culture), I paid for everything. It was an essentially simplistic and presumed thing. Papa paid whenever we were with him. But without parents around, the price of every meal and hotel room and excursion fell upon me. Which I was happy to do. I wasn’t here for freebies, although Diya’s gigantic hotel discounts might as well be considered freebies.
Without Papa, this always turned into a little fight with one sibling trying to grab their credit card before the other could pay. I’d resorted to pretending to use the restroom and slipping the waitress our card. Which, in turn, evolved into Diya slipping the waitress her card before we even ordered. Which evolved into me making reservations with my card on file. I wasn’t sure where we could go from there.
However, when it came to visiting the islands, it was the custom of the land to accept gifts. The lei was the first, embodying love and gratitude, and couldn’t be denied unless, of course, the one receiving wasn’t in the loving spirit. Diya made her own leis. She’d decided, once she moved here, that she would try to learn the culture. It wasn’t too long ago that the islands had been colonized, and she wanted to help preserve as much as possible, or at the least, not stamp it out. So she’d taken classes to learn the language and arts, went out of her way to make Hawaiian friends, and tried to stay on top of local news that disrupted the sanctity of the people. I’d never seen her mature faster than at this point in her life, to see her go from privileged American to someone wanting to protect everything about the place she lived in.
When Diya picked plumeria off the trees at her condo, much to the HOA’s dismay, and sewed them into a beautiful lei, she took it seriously. It was part of aloha, and the reciprocating part of aloha was graciously accepting. The same applied to other gifts from her while here.
But when it came to ube, I didn’t mind that my baby sister had assembled a list of all ube finds so she could feed me until my belly was hanging over my sweatpants.
I steepled my fingers on my lap like a kid waiting for her parents to hand her an ice cream. Except the ice cream was a fluffy, dark purple ball of fried dough covered in sanding sugar.
Kimo handed me a reusable bag with a box inside. I squealed, my mouth watering. “Diya, you better marry this man!”
He laughed. “You won’t say that when you see I’ve already eaten a few. Sorry.”
“I don’t even care. Thank you, Kimo!”
I bit into a sweet malasada with hints of…ya know, I could never quite explain the taste of ube. It fluctuated, depending on the dish. Ube was a sweet purple yam from the Philippines, which was often used in desserts ranging from ice cream to smoothies to cakes to turnovers to this version of a Portuguese donut. Everything I’d ever tried with ube was delicious. This was no different.
“Not that hard crap off the side of the road,” Kimo promised, as if he’d ever get me something meant to draw tourists. “Not even from KTA.”
“What! This tastes even better. Which bakery made this?”
“My mom made it for you.”
I gasped—such affection—and immediately almost choked on sanding sugar.
“Calm down,” Diya said. “His mom is thinking of starting a catering business and is giving out free food to everyone to get their thoughts.”
Once I’d regained my composure, I admitted, “This is menu-worthy.”
“I think so, too,” Kimo replied. “Her favorite is the li hing mui original, but I’m loving the ube and the lilikoi filled dusted with li hing.”
My mouth, despite being filled with perfect ube, was watering over the anticipation of tart passion fruit fried dough covered in sugary dried plum powder. “Tell your mom that she can use me as a test subject. I’m happily volunteering.”
He winked from his seat. “I’ll let her know. She wants to have you over while you’re here.”
“Mm-hmm!” I agreed around a bite. Who doesn’t love a mama’s home cooking?
We’d arrived at the hotel Diya worked for, which covered nearly a hundred acres and featured a large golf course, four lagoons, many beaches, and three main hotels called locations (Queen’s Land, King’s Land, and Homestead). Yes, they were all the same hotel chain, but each was a level more exquisite/expensive than the last.
By the time we’d pulled up to fountains featuring marigold and ivory koi, surrounded by palms and orchids, I’d devoured all three ube donuts. I was sure they were meant to last a couple of days, but Kimo knew me, right?
An attendant hauled my luggage out of the vehicle while Diya checked us in and Kimo rode off with a wave for me and a kiss for my sister.
“Wait until you see this,” Diya said beside a golf cart.
“Are we camping on the golf course under the stars? Sounds romantic.”
She wagged her brows. “You ain’t ready.”
Diya was correct. My jaw dropped when we arrived at one of several private villas past the sprawling golf course, about a mini-yard, a short lava rock wall, and a sidewalk away from the water.
Island breeze swept over the ocean and, unobstructed, washed right over us. Sunsets here were going to be full-blown magical. It was so quiet, save for the waves and far-off chatter of passersby on the sidewalk, hidden beyond view thanks to the wall and the height of the property.
To each side, a row of thick, manicured shrubs created a fence separating one rental from the next.
The villa itself was the size of, well, a small home. A large sitting area with wall-to-wall sliding glass doors opened up to the lanai, equipped with a grill and a cushy lounge set with a fire pit. The fully equipped kitchen faced the living room and the sliding doors. To each side of the living room was a bedroom.
“Take the main, got a big bed in there and Jacuzzi tub,” Diya insisted.
“You take it. You and Kimo can…um, never mind.” I shook my head. No to that image.
She grinned. “I know you love baths.”
“There’s something gross about sitting in your own body oils like that.”
“Maybe you’ll meet a hottie who’ll change your mind.”
“Maybe I’ll change a bath lover’s mind, eh?”
