Drive nicely, or GET OFF THE ROAD

I used to be a good driver. At least that’s what I thought.

Other than  a minor fender bender in the middle of rush hour traffic in West L.A. when I was in college a very long time ago that was never even determined to be my fault, I have suffered no major car accidents

The only speeding ticket I ever got was in the spring of 1991 when I was driving the almost 200 miles from Kansas City to Omaha for my Uncle Buddy’s birthday party.

I had never driven that far by myself, but my mother did not want me to miss the party and my work schedule was not conducive to me riding with her or my sister. So I chugged my little rented Geo Tracker (remember those) along the highway as fast I as I possibly could so that I would arrive in time.  That’s when I got pulled over.

I still made it to the party and my family’s side with moments to spare and my mother, in a gracious gesture of understanding, paid the fine. It was altogether a very long time ago.

I do not think that either of these incidents even remotely suggests that I am in any way a bad driver.

It was not until I married my second husband that I got the slightest inkling that I might not be up to standard, in the driving department. According to him, I might even be considered a traffic hazard. But certainly not for going too fast. Speedy Gonzales is not my MO.

He never commented on my skills. I don’t even think he realized this particular shortcoming. It was I who brought it to his attention.

When we got  hitched a few years ago, my husband was an Assistant Professor of Military Science at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. He commuted from Kapolei to UH each day which meant he was often stuck in traffic. Yes, Hawaii has traffic, in abundance.

This gave him plenty of time to reflect on the deficient skills of the drivers around him who created much of the congestion that was so understandably annoying.

The drive home was the worst. What should normally take about 30 minutes to drive the 23 miles between our house and the university could easily suck up 90 to 120 minutes of his afternoon. That’s how bad the traffic can get. It totally sucks. Thank goodness he doesn’t have to do it anymore. Now he works  in another direction and comes and goes in about 20 minutes. He is a much happier man.

I noticed that the frustration induced by the demanding commute translated into him becoming a slightly more aggressive driver.

One of the things that I liked about him when we were dating was that I felt safe in his car when we were on the road. He never seemed to be in too much of a hurry. He did not tailgate. He kept two hands on the wheel (most of the time) and his eyes on the road. I’d had a few scary incidents in my past and it was comforting to be in a man’s car with whom I felt safe.

I still feel safe in his car. I simply saw a shift in his driving habits when he worked at UH. Mostly he drove faster and was more likely to change lanes to get around somebody who was traveling too slowly.

Over dinner is when I heard his complaints. From his perspective, a majority of Oahu’s drivers  do not understand what is considered common rules of the road, especially when they are  on the freeway. Due to their lack of consideration for the flow of traffic, they create more congestion than necessary.

As he delineated the details of their violations, his description of how each lane should be traveling faster than the one to the right of it, allowing for lane changes as drivers accelerate or exit, his complaints about people who brake in the middle of traffic for no discernible reason or to look at something happening on the side of the road and the subsequent chain reaction this braking causes for miles behind, hit home.

“That’s me,” I thought–except the “Lookie Loo” part. I do not slow down to look at other people’s problems on the side of the road. I have always thought it was an invasion of their privacy at what is usually a very stressful time.

What I had perceived as protecting the safety of me and my children, my cautious, defensive driving was actually causing problems for others and creating minor hazards on the road. HELLO!

With my new-found  understanding of the rules of the road, I changed several of my habits with great success and little compromise.

Turns out I get places faster these days as I move with the flow of traffic. I still boast a clean driving record. I can also add to that list  that, even though I know he was not directing his criticism at me, I am completely confident that if my husband and I were to meet on the road, he would feel no nagging annoyance at my ignorant driving habits. Instead, I would garner his admiration and appreciation anywhere we go.

Happy Birthday Boo

For those of you who know my family, this is not a birthday homage to my youngest sister who goes by boo, although I will be happy to wish her a happy day next month.

Those of you who know her, knew that already by the fact that I used a capital B. She always uses the lower case and I would never  dare to consider changing that, even for grammar and spelling.

And while October 31st is just days away, this is not a post about Halloween. Our house is decorated and the kids have costumes and I plan to buy candy (not too early like my mother always said or I’ll have to go buy it again because we enjoyed too many samples) and we plan to celebrate, but not in this particular blog post.

This post is about my all time favorite novel To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee that is celebrating the 50th anniversary of its publication this year. And I am celebrating too. Happy Birthday to you.

Anybody who was ever a student in my classroom when I taught English at Waianae High School in the 1990’s  also knows that it is my favorite. I taught it every single year to the Juniors in my American Literature classes and it was one of the highlights of my career.

I read much of the novel out loud class period after class period, helping my students appreciate the rich language and deeper meaning infused in every paragraph. And I never, ever got tired of it.

We drew pictures of the street where Scout, Jem and Dill played, the Radley’s  porch that sagged and the town square where the tired courthouse stood. We discussed tolerance and racism and hana bada (childhood) days. I read that novel so many times that it felt like the series of events  so masterfully woven together, narrated in Scout’s childhood voice, actually happened to me in some surreal, other life type fashion.

Since I heard the anniversary mentioned on Oprah last summer,  I have been wanting to read the novel again. I also wanted to share it with my children. I bought the audio book last week and we are listening to it in my car and loving every single minute of it–the kids too.

I started to listen to audio books on a regular basis last summer for some very compelling reasons besides the simple pleasure of listening to a good book. My blue tooth headset broke for the upteenth time. I was not enjoying music or talk radio and I needed something to relieve the stress of being stuck in traffic. Combine that with the fact that I used to call my mom on a regular basis while driving in the car and I missed that very much, I needed a distraction.

When my younger girl became interested while I was listening to The Memory Keeper’s Daughter and kept asking for more, I decided to get a book that was family friendly, To Kill A Mockingbird.

I don’t miss teaching very often, but on occasion I am reminded of the familiar good feeling of 20 years in front of a class of students.

I miss it very much when I am listening to this book.

The familiar phrases and language. The story that speaks to my soul. The brilliant masterpiece that became the signature unit of my Language Arts teaching career. It takes everything in me not to press the pause button every few minutes and try to teach it to my children. I don’t think they would appreciate it very much.

Besides my overwhelming pleasure in the book is my even deeper thrill at their pleasure in it as well. My younger daughter is mesmerized. She asks questions and contemplates the meaning of each chapter. My older daughter is captivated as well. She has surprised me by asking if she can play the CD, forgoing her usual demand of pop music and annoying habit of constantly changing the station in search of her favorite songs.

All three of us drive along together in silence, sharing the moment, sharing the story and sharing the experience of this wonderful novel. What more could an English teacher and mother ask for but to love a book together with her children?

Thank you Harper Lee.

And happy birthday Boo and Scout and Jem and Atticus and Dill (and my sister next month) and all the other characters in this beautiful story that has now become a part of my life in a new and meaningful way.

Good Car Ma

I often write about “The Carpool” and many might be tired of hearing about it, but it has been one of the most time-saving, energy-efficient, environmentally friendly and personally helpful things about my life as a parent.

When I bought a new car in 2004 there were only me and my daughter, who was in second grade at the time, to consider. But I had high hopes of  forming a carpool to take our kids  from our home in Ko Olina to Kapolei’s IPA, such high hopes that I bought “The Pacifica” which seated 6.

The carpool did not come into fruition until 2 years later when I met Laurie Hanan (who is the best blog commenter I know) and began our long-term relationship in what we fondly call the Kapolei Carpool.

It never happened for regular school, but Laurie and I have been shuttling our kids back and forth from the Synagogue on Wednesdays and Sundays and any other chance in between  since 2005.

The Pacifica was on its way to a painful demise so I figured I would finally replace it. It turned out to be a more emotional experience than I imagined. I was pretty attached to that car. It had been my life for six years. We spent so much time driving places and had so much stuff in it that my daughter used to call it our mobile home.

But change was inevitable and it turned out to be all a matter of what I am fondly calling Good Carma. Weeks before I went to buy a car, a friend of mine proudly showed me her new Highlander. It is a very nice car and one that I had considered buying. She told me of her unpleasant experience at several dealerships and how it had influenced her final decision to purchase this Toyota.

I could not imagine how a salesperson’s attitude would be a deciding factor in such a major purchase such as a new automobile. Then I went car shopping one Saturday and learned first hand how right she was. After hours of web surfing and intense perusal of Edmunds.com, I decided to buy a Chevy Traverse. We  rented one in California last August and enjoyed it immensely.

I test drove it again when I returned to Hawaii and confirmed my good first impression. That is until I went to three different Chevy dealers on Oahu and left the last one absolutely disgusted at their inventory, communication and manipulation to try to get me to buy something that I did not want.

I left the Chevy dealer on Nimitz Highway, turned right and saw the Buick dealer a few blocks down. I vaguely remembered seeing a Buick online kind of like the Chevy Traverse and impulsively turned into their parking lot.

Four hours and five phone calls to my husband for emergency online information later, I drove away in my brand new 2011 Buick Enclave and have been thrilled every minute since I bought it. That’s what I call Good Car Ma! Their salesman, Mike Chau, was helpful, honest and went out of his way to help me find what I wanted. And he bought me ice cream while we waited for the car to be prepared by these very nice young men.

The managers were reasonable at the negotiation table and the finance guy was straightforward and honest. I have to say that I never imagined I’d be a big ole’ Buick driving mama, but I float across Kapolei, right onto H1, straight into Honolulu with pleasure ever since my karma kicked in and I made that right turn into the Hawaii Auto Group and traded in my beloved Pacifica for my newly adored Enclave.

And then came Sunday school and the parents said, “Ki Tov, it is good.”

My husband actually suggested that I post this entry. We were relaxing in the family room on  Sunday. He was watching football, I was reading and the kids were at Sunday school. We were savoring our last few, precious, quiet moments before the carpool  returned them to our door, filling our house with energy and the demands of parenthood.

Of course we send them to Religious school for a Jewish education and the chance to be with other Jewish kids since there aren’t a whole lot of those in our neighborhood or at their school  on this somewhat remote side of the island.

It is truly with their best interests  in mind that we write that tuition check, organize the carpool, hand them money for the tzedakah box, pack them a snack and religiously deliver them to the shul every Sunday at 9:00 am where they stay until  noon for their formal Jewish education.

But I would be lying if I didn’t also mention that I look forward to and completely enjoy those THREE fabulous child free, morning hours that I get to spend relaxing at home with my husband on the days that we do not drive from Kapolei to Nuuanu with a carload full of kids, special delivery to the School of Jewish Studies at Temple Emanu-El.

I will spare you the intimate details of how we choose to spend that time together. I will simply say that it is good for our marriage. We are not opposed to hiring a babysitter so we can catch a Saturday night movie or attend the National Guard Annual Birthday Ball. We get a reasonable share of alone time considering our busy schedules.

But there is nothing like a Sunday morning with nowhere to go, lounging around the house, eating pancakes for breakfast, having a second cup of coffee, reading the paper and doing it all together with no one else in the house but me and my handsome, charming husband.

We did not live together before we got married. We each brought a child with us into this marriage. There was no us before kids, no romantic weekends spent in bed or lazy Sundays reading the New York Times and doing the crossword puzzle together. From day one we hit the ground running.

And we have hit a pretty good stride. So I guess you can’t blame us for counting our blessings where we find them, taking a break when we can.  Sunday school has definitely done its job, for us and our kids.

Sukkot or soccer?

Softball or Sunday school? Friday night services or the Friday night football game? It’s hard to balance the demands of our kids’ secular lives with our desire to be active in Synagogue life as well.

Last week the choice was between the annual Sukkot Barbecue and service and after school sports practice–my younger daughter plays soccer and the older one is on her school’s volleyball team.

As a general rule I would have chosen the barbecue, but soccer practice is only twice a week–Wednesday and Friday and she just missed last Friday’s practice and Saturday’s game because it was Yom Kippur.

For us it is compounded by the fact that it takes almost an hour to get to our shul on any weekday after 3:00 pm and it’s an hour drive home if we leave before 6:30 pm. Traffic and distance are a huge roadblock to our weekday participation.

We are committed to Sunday morning religious school. Our kids rarely miss a class for that. I have heard other parents talk about their struggles because their kids games are scheduled at the same time. We haven’t ran into that conflict yet. In that case I would forgo the sport.

How does it work for you?

Why do they call it a fast when it goes by soooo slow(ly)

Fasting was a big topic of conversation in our family this weekend. My oldest daughter is 13 and it is the first year she felt responsible for observing this Yom Kippur ritual.

Considering how much time we usually spend talking about food and what we are going to eat and how we will prepare it and how good it tastes, it is not a surprise that in its distinctive  absence  we  filled the void with conversation about not eating, or when we would eat or how hungry we might be feeling or how the feeling of hunger kind of goes away after a while.

At one point I mused that the word fast is really an oxymoron all by itself. Why on earth would they choose a word that suggests a rapid finish for an act that takes such a very long time?

We usually go to Temple in the morning until about noon when we go home and do not return at 3 pm for the afternoon service. Traffic and school nights always made it seem so inconvenient.

This year, Yom Kippur was on a Saturday, eliminating both of those issues. Also, I really wanted to go to the Yizkor (memorial) service in the afternoon. This is the first year that both of my parents are gone and it seemed very important to attend services in both of their memory.

I lit the two Yarzheit candles  before sundown on Friday and they burned the requisite 24 hours on our kitchen counter. It was amazing how those two little twinkling candles were such a comfort, like my parents were here with us for a short time, sharing the day with us. The light, their dancing spirits, brightening our home for while. I felt so sad when they were done.

It turns out that the afternoon service is now my favorite. It was peaceful and meaningful. The sun pouring into the Synagogue as it set and the warm glow from the lights of the memorial plaques taking its place.

And it is totally easier to fast while you are at services praying and reflecting and concentrating on other thoughts than when you are sitting at home waiting for the day to end so you can eat.

We broke the fast at Kit n Kitchen on University Avenue. I’ve only been to this restaurant once before, but I have very fond memories of that meal. My husband took me there  for dinner four years ago, soon after we were engaged. We planned our wedding that night. The food was good too.

It was good again on Saturday–and not just because we were hungry.

While I think it would be nice to invite people to our home and break the fast together, it is very  hard for me to imagine preparing a meal when I am so hungry. I haven’t quite figured out  the logistics of that one, so we go out.

The kids had the Volcano Stone Grilled. They bring the hot stone to the table and grill the meat and vegetables right there.

We were treated to the owner, Kit’s, presence as he helped prepare the steak for our children.

Both  my husband and I ordered lamb and savored every bite.

The kids enjoyed their Coca Cola bottle collection.

It was a particularly meaningful holiday, fast and services and memorial and all.

How/where did you break the fast?

We should not be the lost tribe

One of the reasons that I started this blog is because very little is written about the Jewish people who live in Hawaii.   While we might be a minority in this diverse island culture, we are still a vibrant, active community who deserves appropriate representation and coverage by our local media.

Most people don’t even know we exist. In Hawaii we are an anomaly.

Community events, local elections and school activities are scheduled with no regard to our most religious holy days like Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur or our widely popular festival, Chanukkah.

I don’t expect the local public to stop functioning on our account. That would be ridiculous. But it would be nice if they tipped a nod in our direction every once in a while.

The community in which I grew up in Southern California in the 1960’s had very few Jewish families. I know what it’s like to be one of the few Jewish kids in a school, but at least they knew we existed. I got to sing the dreidle song in our school holiday program every year. And while I might have sung it a bit off-key, I sang it with pride in the opportunity to represent my family and my Jewish community.

The first time I suggested that the holiday program at my daughter’s school be about more than Christmas it started a HUGE controversy. Luckily they have come a long way since then and we are quite comfortable with the season. They actually listened.

Local media Christmas coverage begins long before the Thanksgiving turkey is defrosted, yet there is nothing written about Chanukkah. It cracks me up that the Kapolei “Holiday” parade only represents Christmas and is often scheduled during Chanukkah.

This Saturday was no exception. Yom Kippur came and went with little  acknowledgment from our local media. The Star Advertiser features their religion page on Saturday, a perfect opportunity to feature the Jews’ most holy of holy days.

Instead their lead story was, “Church leaders learn to set physical limits.” They included a poem submitted by a local Jewish woman in the briefs at the bottom of the page.

There are so many stories they could write. Here’s a few great angles they could have chosen:

Yom Kippur and the primary election were on the same day. How did Jews vote?

Governor Lingle attends services at the local reform Jewish Synagogue. (Hello?)

Jews fast on Yom Kippur, where were they breaking that fast this year?

And these are just a few good ideas. I recently learned that on Rosh Hashanah a few weeks ago, several of our Temple members were at Magic Island for the ritual of Tashlich and ended up saving a drowning child’s life while they were there. That might have made a good story.

Instead it was posted as a brief in the Police section, never mentioning the mitzvah performed by this group of people who happened to be at the right place at the right time—-because they were Jewish!

Local TV news isn’t much better. Hawaii News Now briefly mentioned the primary election dilemma and Rosh Hashanah was brought up in connection with the businessman who was arrested in relation to charges of human trafficking. Nice!

I don’t think we are left out on purpose. I think we just don’t exist for most people in Hawaii. That cracks me up too.

There are communities on the mainland where their schools are actually closed for the Jewish Holidays, like we close the schools for Good Friday here. Except they close the schools there because too many people would be absent and it isn’t worth the money it takes  to operate on those days. Good Friday is a state holiday in Hawaii. Explain that one!

Thus, my blog was born, to give our local community a voice outside of ourselves. Being Jewish in Hawaii is definitely a unique experience, one that certainly needs to be shared with more than just my fellow local Jewish community.

L’shanah Tovah and bon appetite (or b’tei avon)

It’s the holiday season which brings up the discussion of food. No, not that holiday season….the Jewish High Holy Days. For each one we eat traditional foods symbolizing our deeper understanding of that particular observance, bringing us together in celebration of the joy that it brings. That’s just how we roll.

Rosh Hashanah means apples and honey and honey cake and honey buns (okay, I added that one.)

On Yom Kippur we fast, which is the distinct absence of food. The day is a solitary journey of internal reflection. But when we do  break the fast, we once again come together.

For Sukkot we eat outside under the stars and on Simchas Torah there is candy.

No wonder I love being Jewish.

Today I would like to share with you the challah that Rachel Nudelman gave to me on Erev Rosh Hashanah. While she didn’t bake it exclusively for me as a special gift, it sure feels that way and I am loving every bite as if she did.

She brought it to serve at the oneg after services at the Aloha Jewish Chapel on Pearl Harbor. But it was announced between the Aleinu and the Kaddish that there is a child with nut allergies and no nuts of any kind could be served.

Rachel had brought platters of honey cake, frosted and plain, made with walnuts and a gorgeous Rosh Hashanah challah coiled in the traditional holiday fashion to symbolize the cycle of the year.

Instead of adding raisins as a symbol for the sweetness of the new year (thank goodness, because I do not like raisins in challah,)  she folded apples and nuts into the coil. She said that they had their own at home and offered this beautiful, sweet challah  to me. Not one to have to be asked twice, I readily accepted and heartily thanked her.

I carried it carefully to the car, nestled it close to me, protecting it like I would my own baby the entire way home.

I cannot stop eating that challah.

I had a piece as soon as we returned from services. We had it for breakfast this morning, sliced straight onto our plates. Tomorrow it will make excellent french toast.

I can’t help but mention that Rachel made the most amazing matzah ball soup for our model seder at Temple Emanu-El School of Jewish Studies last spring. She is definitely among a new generation of balabustas and I am pleased to be in her acquaintance–for more reasons than just food.

Thank you, Rachel. Shanah Tovah U’metukah.

Wishing your family a healthy and sweet new year.

Being Jewish anywhere

If my blog is about being Jewish in Hawaii, why am I writing about our summer vacation in places other than Hawaii?

Good question.

I guess it’s about perspective. I am Jewish all of the time. I live in Hawaii. So I am writing from that perspective.

Even if I am writing about doing the laundry in Kapolei (which I find myself doing more than just about any other activity in my life,) I am writing about it from the perspective of a nice Jewish girl turned somewhat nice Jewish mother who washes the sheets on a way too regular basis.

If I am writing about our recent vacation (which I am about to do,) it is from the perspective of a family living in  a small Jewish community on  Oahu and our experiences in the greater Jewish communities we visit on the mainland–or just the fun things we do there.

I can’t believe we have been home from our trip for over two weeks. The kids are back in school, I am embracing a new job and our family rhythms resume as we approach the Jewish new year.

Our annual trip to camp boo was fantabulous. The weather was hot and conducive to lake activities,  dog walks and late night “Apples to Apples” board game marathons.

With my mother’s death last May, so much feels changed. The time I spent with my sisters in June was different than any time we have spent together ever before. With this great loss we have changed.

It felt good to end the summer on a familiar note, to be joyful and have fun with my youngest sister, family friends and all their dogs. The timing was good, along with the weather.

My oldest sister and I often remark on the practical nature of shiva, the Jewish mourning ritual, and how it has served us well. 30 days made a huge difference. Each additional month feels different again.

I learned from Kids hurt too that grief is a physical process. This rang completely true for me. Over the course of the summer, my grief churned through me, supercharging every aspect of my system.

I feel it clearly on the 27th of each month. Even before I know the date, my body reminds me that one more month has passed. I am finally beginning to settle down.

From camp boo, we flew to Florida to convene with my younger daughter,  my in-laws and a huge chunk of the retired Jewish community who are living in the West Palm Beach area.

Talk about a cultural experience! When people come to visit us, I take them to Tamura’s in Wai’anae to shop with the locals. If you want to hang with some true Jews, go to one of my mother-in-law’s cocktail parties.

Held in our honor, it was an absolute pleasure. I got to meet parents of my husbands’ childhood pals, childhood  friends of my in-laws and grandparents of my daughter’s pre-school classmates. I was immediately at home and felt like I had been a part of the family for a life time more than the almost three years I have been married to my husband.

Our final destination found us in San Diego where my husband met us for a true family vacation. I’ve never vacationed in the area and was quite pleased. We particularly like the Carlsbad area.

We visited Legoland, the San Diego Wild Animal Park, and the beach.

We ate delicious Italian and Mexican food, but were not remiss in making the requisite stop at In-N-Out.

Nothing Jewish about that cheeseburger! Or the way I felt a few hours after I ate my hamburger (no cheese) and an order of fries!

One morning found us in downtown San Diego in search of a breakfast other than the free one the hotel offered. We finally found a “Restaurant” and were treated to some seriously home style food.

We had dinner with my husband’s cousins and visited with two of my former yearbook students who babysat my daughter when she was  little and who have since relocated to San Diego.

As good as it is to get away, it is just as good to be home. A new year is ahead, change always on the horizon and the routine of our daily lives an anchor, offering comfort to embrace 5771 with open and ready hearts.

Summer camp

I started going to Jewish summer camp between 7th and 8th grade. Camp Komaroff. It changed my life—my Jewish life.

An advertisement for a weekend retreat at a small camp in Lake Arrowhead, California appeared in our Temple bulletin the  winter of 1974. I attended along with  a few of my Sunday school classmates  and I caught the Jewish camp bug.

I couldn’t wait to go back. The following summer  and every summer until I went to college, I returned to Camp Komaroff, staying as long as my parents would let me, until finally, after my Junior year of high school, I spent the entire three month vacation there.

The programs and prayer and friendships and song I enjoyed at camp were instrumental in  fostering the joyous connection I feel about being Jewish.

I wanted my daughter to experience the same thing, especially since our Jewish community in Hawaii is even smaller than the one in which my family raised me at Temple Beth Ohr in Southern California’s Northern Orange County of the 1960’s and 1970’s.

Since my oldest daughter has been in the third grade, I pack her up every summer and send her to URJ Camp Newman in Santa Rosa, California.

Like her mother before her, she connects to being Jewish through song and prayer and activities surrounded by other Jewish kids her age and the beautiful natural landscape of Northern California.

And that is also why I get to visit with my high school friend Jennifer almost every summer.

My daughter flies unaccompanied minor to Caifornia where the camp staff pick her up. Some summers she also flies home on her own. Other years, like this one, I fly to California by myself and meet her after camp to fly on to the East Coast together for a visit with family before returning to Hawaii and school and our regular lives.

I arrived at San Francisco Airport on Monday evening.  I spent the  night at an inexpensive hotel near the airport and took the BART into the city the next morning. I disembarked at Montgomery Street, walked over to Jennifer’s office,  dumped my luggage and embraced the city.

I walked several blocks to The Embarcadero, hit the YMCA for a swim and entered the Ferry Building, recommended by Jennifer as the perfect place for a delicious lunch.

I joined the Honolulu YMCA because there is a branch near our Synagogue, Temple Emanu-El,  in Nuuanu and I can go for a quick swim after I drop off my kids for Hebrew school. It is also near the Kukui Center where  I  work part time. And I have also been going to a great yoga class in the morning at the Leeward Y near our home in Kapolei. Great deal for $40 a month.

I can also use the YMCA when I travel. It cost me three bucks to enter the Embarcadero branch of the San Francisco YMCA, the nice man at the desk gave me my guest pass and I had a great swim in their 25 meter pool. The locker looks out on  the Bay Bridge which was a definite bonus.

A few blocks down is the Ferry Building, a foodie paradise. It reminds me of Faneuil Hall in Boston, but on a more selective scale. I did not eat at the Tasty Salty Pig Parts for fairly obvious reasons.

I was drawn to several places, but decided to stick with Jennifer’s recommendation for Vietnamese food and had the one of the best lunches I have ever tasted. 5 spice chicken on vermicelli.

I picked up some bread at the Acme bread company for the dinner we would eat at Jennifer’s San Rafael home and went back to her office to pack up our stuff and ride across the Golden Gate Bridge to spend the night with her family and get ready to pick up my daughter the next day at the Osher Marin Jewish Community Center.

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