As a kid growing up, I moved a lot. We owned our own home briefly, just long enough for my parents to put my sister and I to work removing all the terrible floral wallpaper.
Since coming to Hawaii, I’ve kept up that trend, moving 12 times in the last six years. Coffee shacks jerry-rigged with extension cords, tiny bedrooms for $800 dollars a month, someone’s garage. I’ve planted so many pineapples, but never tasted the fruit.
Everyone knows, it’s tough to find a place to call home in Kona, let alone to realize the dream of home ownership. Just thinking about it is enough to romanticize “living in a van down by the river” — or