Kon Tiki
At night, a legion of creatures came alive in the thatch of our roof, rustling and calling out to each other, like the effects track of a Tarzan film overdubbed sixteen times. Essay by Karen Kasaba
I have always been soothed by the presence of tikis, drawn to the artificial jungles of Polynesian restaurants and bars. Although I appreciate actual sand and water, and temperate, plumeria-scented air, I prefer my paradise condensed into tropical grottos with Naugahyde booths. In my quest for the best, I’ve sipped Scorpions at Trader Vic’s from the District of Columbia to British Columbia, sampled Don the Beachcomber’s Mai Tais from Malibu to Maui. But, for ambience and decor, nothing beat the Kon Tiki in the Sheraton Waikiki Hotel.
The summer I attended the University of Hawaii, my fiancé flew out to Honolulu for a visit. That evening, I poured myself into a vintage Dorothy Lamour sarong, tucked a frangipani blossom behind my ear, and waited to give him his big Aloha at the gate.
When he arrived, I draped a red carnation lei around his neck and kissed him with lips painted the same shade.
“Aloha,” I whispered.
“Do I have to wear this?” he asked.
Who could blame him? A carnation lei around your neck is like wearing a life preserver made of boutonnieres.
