American cars are massive

I had decided that hiring a car was an inevitability while I was on Hawaii, as I was desperate to go to the Kona coffee farms and the transport network on the Big Island is almost non existent, and highly interrupted by the most active volcano in the world, so I sucked it up and ordered a compact for a day.

Of course, this being the US of States, land of brave and home of the over-sized, the "compact" I got was a Chrysler Sebring, a car the size of my Dad's car, if not bigger. I've never been allowed to drive my Dad's car, with the feeble excuse that it's a company car (while we all know that he's just terrified of my impeccable driving), and as a result I've formed the judgement that I can only drive cars the size of a VW Polo, or the ridiculous size, weight and shape of a New Beatle - which, by the way, is the size, weight and shape of a bubble.

Being on the wrong side of the road, in a hugely massive car, in the wrong side of it, driving in a foreign country went fantastically, despite all the odds, and I had a fantastic day driving around with my new friend Larry, a yank bike-shop owner from Washington, seeking out the best sights of the Big Island, drinking too much coffee and listening to the Smiths way too loud.

One of my favourite experiences was the tour of the coffee farm from the owner herself, who was very expressive of the love and passion for her industry and the reasons they won't ever sell to Starbucks or massive companies. The coffee is the shit, too.

The next day brought around my last few hours in the gorgeous and tempestuous land of Hawaii, and I used this to great effect, getting a forearm tattoo and my microdermal replaced. The first time I had the microdermal put in, it was a 3-second process involving breathing in, breathing out and being surprised at the lack of pain. This time, due to scar tissue and other complications, it took what felt like an hour, with the poor Erika hacking away just under my skin, doing a tap dance on my chest then taping it all together again like a smashed up Jenga. Thanks to the endorphins careering around my body due to that ordeal, the tat was a breeze, and I celebrated with a brunch with my new comrades - Larry, another American, and a ridiculously friendly and lovely Canadian girl.

As I boarded the first of several planes, I bid a mournful adieu to the South Pacific. I know one day I'll be back with a surf board under my arm.