Monday, Monday ...
Monday morning, 9 o'clock. We get stuck in the obligatory Monday morning traffic jam - "How do you call that?" I ask John, because I do not recall the proper word for "traffic jam". - "A mess," he says. Kindly, he is taking us - and our luggage - into town. To Waikiki. There we want to look for Madame and her cars.
It is not very easy to find these travel agencies. They have given themselves names which sound as if they reside in big shiny towers. But, the names of these establishments are as gigantic as their offices are tiny. Cost reduction forces them to hide in back offices, at the end of endless, completely empty corridors in the unofficial parts of 1000-room-hotels. Eventually you will find them, provided you like to read signs - there is nobody you could ask.
Tourists sleep at this time of day. Nobody bothers the business world, whose heart beats in delicate cycle at this time. You can peacefully file your records, make some coffee, chat with your dear Mrs. Colleague, set some noble goals for today, knowing deep inside that routine will wash them away as always. Monday morning means peace in Hawaii.
The door with the sign "Gigantic" or "Cosmic" or whatever-Tours is open. We peep into an empty office with another open door. There must be someone, judging by the small noises. Someone is doing something there.
Knock, knock, hello! - rustling paper, a creaking chair.
Hello-o-o!
A coffee mug is put heavily on a desk, cautious steps, someone clears his throat, a careful look, big, anxious eyes...
Hello, it's just us, no robbers, we do not even look like bad guys, it's just that we are a little bit early, maybe, but the door was open, you know... Is Madame there? We are looking for Madame.
A small, gentle man looks really relieved. No, she is not here, he says, Joseph is his name, sorry, but she should - and at that very moment, like in a movie, the phone starts to ring.
"Yes, darling," says Joseph, and: "no, darling", and on the other end a lady with a French accent tells him the whole long story of two Germans who came to 'onolulu last Saturday in the afternoon who had not booked in advance and so they could not find a 'otel room and no car but they needed one and she had promised to 'elp and they would come by later and -
"Yes, darling," Joseph says and puts the phone down, gently.
At the bottom of a closet there is a box. Joseph finds some old forms in this box, takes one of them, puts it into his ancient typewriter and types slowly, in the most beautiful and artistic letters the word "Voucher". Then he types some more words, thinks a while and finally smiles. "With this voucher", he says and gently rolls the form out of his typewriter, "you will get your car in Maui."
But first he gets his money. I pull out my credit card like the experienced traveller I would love to be, but Joseph looks as if he is in pain somehow. Well, yes, it is a little bit embarrassing... but he can only take cash.
Now that is completely different from everything I ever heard about the country where they invented plastic money. But Joseph, gently, is and stays firm: cash. He is sweating, and I watch fascinated the drop on the tip of his nose.
The First Hawaiian Bank seems to be a good address. So I go and buy cash with my VISA card, a big fat envelope full of dollars, and I bring them back to Joseph. He counts them as if they were sticky. And finally he writes his name on the voucher, gently. So that's all?
Yes, darling, that's all. And here I am, with a voucher in my hand and a strange feeling in my guts. He has my dollars in his pocket, and all I have is a gentle, homemade piece of paper. A voucher, for heavens sake. He is sweating and I am sweating and all I have to do is - trust?
So be it.
