Sheec August Newsletter: Frames of Elsewhere

The second day in Hilo started with a roll of thunder and a mild headache. I stared at the aged ceiling fan and listened to the squall passing through the small seaside town on the east side of the Big Island. After an hour, the rain stopped and the crowing of feral chickens returned. While the birds were busy looking for a morning bite, I finally summoned the will to drag myself out of bed and headed to the living room decorated with charming island furniture.

Scattered around on the rattan table were the remains of last night: slices of supermarket cheeses, dried-up prosciutto and salami, some figs and grapes, and the principal culprit of the morning misery—a bottle of cheap Pinot. I averted my eyes and slinked to the kitchen.​

There are two types of people in the world: those who can fling open someone’s refrigerator without a hint of hesitation, and the rest of us, who remain somewhat uncomfortable even when given permission.

Unfortunately, I’m the latter. Other people’s refrigerators always scared me a little, as if I’d find something forbidden. Fortunately, it was empty except for a pitcher of pineapple juice left by the young Airbnb host.

I poured a glass and washed away the aftertaste of last night in three big gulps. Majestic, I muttered to myself. This is Hawaii at the end of the day, the kingdom of pineapples. And nothing would beat freshly made pineapple juice. But the bliss was short-lived. When I took out the trash, the ugly truth was waiting for me inside the recycling bin—a carton of national-brand pineapple juice, something I could easily get in Brooklyn.