We slept last night with the sliding door to the balcony open (with the screen door closed) and the air conditioning off. A bit humid, but wow, does one feel better with fresh air in your lungs.
I honestly don’t think I’ve slept so well in … months.
We awoke to the remnants of a rainstorm, and a double rainbow out on the water. In the light, we could see a much nicer view of the hotel grounds and of the bay just north of the hotel. Surfers were already out in force.
After a buffet breakfast (there’s nothing like fresh pineapple) we came back for much needed showers and to change into clothes for the day. Well, Alex did. I couldn’t. No bag. It’s still lost.
Calling United Airlines didn’t help. I was blatantly lied to. My bag is in Honolulu. Okay, so I called Aloha. Nope. Not in Honolulu. Not in Kona, either. In fact, not with Aloha at all. Call United.
I was cheesed that I had to call anybody, for the record. When British Airlines lost my bag (mostly due to my fault, I should add), they delivered it to me at my hotel. Not remotely as much stress as I’m under now.
So I call United back. I explain that I’m not happy in as pleasant a way as possible. In reality, I’m about two seconds from tearing the poor agent several new holes. I very much dislike being lied to.
(Vacation’s getting off to a great start, ain’t it?)
The bag’s in Denver, still. A couple more questions, and I find out that, no, it’s actually in Los Angeles. My friggin’ bag is getting around more than I am. I should be thankful, really — 15 years ago, this would be beyond hell. I ask very bluntly when the bag will appear on the Big Island. At this point, couldn’t care less about whether it’ll come to my hotel automatically, I’ll pick the damned thing up.
After a few minutes on hold, I’m told they’ll call me when it arrives. Great. I still have to suffer through 25 degree heat with pants and heavy shoes. My shorts and sandals are in transit.
Now to really amaze me, we got a phone call no less than 30 minutes after we left the hotel room that my bag had arrived in Kona. Apparently, I was lied to the second time I called United. Not happy. Not happy at all.
We drove down to the Coconut Place mall (not really a mall — more a collection of shops, really) where Alex made a beeline for the Crocs store. While there, I got a phone call from our realtor about our house.
We’re still clearing conditions. Financing and house inspection. The report was back from inspection, and the net of it wasn’t surprising. Floor damage. Siding missing (has to be replaced, still), and the stairs at the back are unattractive (buy try and break ’em — I dare ya!). And it’s dirty.
DIRTY? I just about went ape on the poor woman. Never tell an already stressed guy who’s wearing the same clothes for 36 hours and has had a very bad morning with an airline regarding a missing bag that the house he’s selling (and packing up to move out of) is “dirty”.
Further down the road, we found the Kona Marketplace. And I caved in and bought new sandals. I had to — my feet were dying.
Returning to the room, I got the message my bag had arrived. I figured an hour to the airport and back would suffice.
Problems: Kailua-Kona has bad traffic (not enough roads; too many people). And several others were trying to find their bags, too. I barely made it back in time for dinner. I was unfairly grumpy at my return.
Dinner was good, though expensive (always are at hotels). Excellent waiter, though. Good service goes a long way to improving one’s attitude, I find.