3 thoughts on ““Malasadas Make Breakfast”

    • A poor private (PFC, actually) wanders un-fundedly alone down Waikiki’s main drag early Saturday as summer dew mists Don Ho’s International Marketplace nightclub. Walking past on a sorta shortcut from my Banyan Tree overnight perch (the mesh hammock and guy-lines rolled tightly in a spare pocket of my camera backpack) I find the Portuguese bakery putting form its malasadas bignet-like fried dough delights and shake out small change for a trio to have at a Kalakaua Avenue parkbench just past The Pink Hotel named for a long safely-dead Hawaiian Queen. Crossing back with the sparse sunrise traffic I saunter past Foster Towers – whose manager is aunt to one of my compatriots from last night’s Jefferson Airplane rock concert at the American Legion concert/assembly hall, who comes out of the quasi-luxury/residence hotel with a third pal and we head around the corner to a small Japanese noodle stand for cups of hot, rich saimin. I produce a pineapple purloined from a city park, Roger a hand of bananas and Juice: incongrously, three Burger King Whoppers. The day’s feast. Oh, yeah, the net bag tossed late last night into the canal separating beachside from the University of Hawaii Honolulu campus, yields three chilled Primo beers. We break our fasts famously. Then, head out to Rog’s magic mystery Volkswagon mini-bus for a tour round the island, stopping for body surfing and girl grazing at several stops along the way. A quick hop inside the fence at Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station’s commissary for a case of beer and a couple bags of ice and we continue Saturday’s adventure whose main aim is “not getting caught.”

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