Three past the one in which my license lapsed … the license I was meant to transfer from California to Hawai’i within 60 days of moving here. But within those 60 days, a pandemic happened. And things like licensing seemed to fall to the wayside in terms of importance, and eventually it was altogether prohibited — unless you were within 30 days of expiry (which I wasn’t — until I was).

So I waited, as one does when one has no other choice. Except that I waited too long (OK, I forgot), and before I knew (but thankfully before I flew), the dreadful thing ran out of patience with me: My license expired.

And then I did that thing where you ignore something because you know you waited too long and it’s going to be painful to fix, which prolongs the dread (and doubles the pain), until you get to that point you can’t look yourself in the mirror without seeing your untaken driver’s license photo in the frame of the medicine cabinet. So you wake early and shower and make a point to brush your hair and wear a shirt that could be described as presentable and even manage to scrape some partially dried mascara from the unused tube. And you ask your partner sweetly to take you to the DMV on his way to the dump, and can we go early (like, now)? And he, not desiring to be the DD for the rest of the MM/DD/YY (and being a supportive and helpful person in general, which I’m sure has something to do with it), agrees.

I’ll spare you the boring details about what happens next (because I assure you: It’s exactly as you imagine), but the outcome (also exactly as you might imagine) is that I’m unable to resolve this problem today. With a few hours now added back to my day, Kev and I head down the road to the (no-stoplights) town of Pahoa for breakfast. We see rainbows on the window ledge next to our table. We split a scramble and a glass of lychee and some-special-Hawaiian-grape-I’ve-never-heard-of juice, and the waiter delivers a bonus glass of a different juice for us to try.

We take a walk down the street and come upon a smiling toothless old man with eyes the color of sadness drinking a bagged can of something tall and too bubbly for this early in the morning. He jumps up from his perch on the boardwalk so we can pass, cloaked in golden light. “Thank you, uncle,” I say, showing the local flavor of respect. He nods in that long-lost gentlemanly way and beams, “It’s like an old Western, isn’t it?!”

He’s referring to the uneven walk-the-plank style platform that lines the streets where sidewalks would be in most towns. But it is the Wild West here (except for the DMV, I suppose) and I love that about it. It’s the kind of place where outlaws and circus performers can live comfortably and in harmony. A place where things are done differently — if at all. Where time seems to challenge the mainstream concept of it and prove out its own illusion in a million surprising ways on a daily basis.

Like today. When we leave for the DMV and find ourselves on a jungled path that loops behind the buildings on the main street that could be a one-lane road in the far west of Ireland (except here the green has grown up as well as out). And we tilt back like Pez dispensers to take in towering leafy trees merged with climbing vines. We pass broken-down huts with well-cared-for greenhouses overflowing with anthuriums and front yard orchards full of Surinam cherry trees. We explore our way back to the car and decide to try again, this time going straight instead of left at the first alleyway.

We end up at the out-of-the-way, end-of-the-road Tin Shack Bakery, a true-to-its name cafe bustling with a mix of locals and tourists killing time or escaping it. We order an iced latte to go, and 15 minutes later, we’re still there. We use the bathroom, check out the random rack of clothes and hats for sale, chat with a couple of other customers, survey the scene (a ceiling covered in surfboards, a tiny plump sparrow hopping around collecting crumbs, a Rip Van Winkle look-alike wearing a neon green T-shirt with an erupting volcano that says “Just let it flow”), but mostly, we just wait. And for our patience, they offer us three free cinnamon bun knots — a treat Kev had been eyeing anyway. An apologetic barista pauses as she hands us the bag. “Kindness and patience really go a long way today,” she says earnestly.

We head home and as we approach the end of the street where we live, we stop to say hello to Delilah, our neighbors’ Jersey calf who grazes on the side of the road. She’s sweet and moon-eyed and can’t stop licking you once she starts. Halfway through a full-on bath, her owner comes out and apologizes for her being in the way. We had only met his wife before, so we introduce ourselves and strike up a conversation that ends in him offering to catch the pigs that have been destroying our yard and giving us about 10 lbs. of pork he caught and smoked himself. And we invite them over for a game night we’re having next week and drop off a pitcher of homemade kava and fresh-picked tangerines from our orchard, in thanks.

Time shrinks and expands relative to your frame of reference.

I’m not claiming to understand how the DMV works, let alone Einstein’s theory of relativity. But based on my observation, I’m certain this is how Hawai’ian time works: Leave the house to run a 2-year errand, minus three hours (plus an uncompleted task) times a full belly, new friends, and magical moments squared.

Time expands and contracts in relation to what matters.

I can’t explain it. I can only show up for it and embrace it and be grateful for it. And that seems to be all it takes.

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Music

Ferris Wheel by Gábor Szabó

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