By: Jacob Mercer
Once on a flight from Seoul to Honolulu, I sat next to a young couple who opened matching blue backpacks and pulled out matching editions of The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings. It was one of those “Now in Theaters” book jackets, same as the movie poster: George Clooney sitting at a bar, looking over his shoulder at his kids on the beach with this melancholy, indie-film kind of expression. “How’s the book?” I asked.
The man made a face. “Bad,” he said.
“But we love George Clooney,” the woman said.
“Did you see the movie?” I asked.
“We’re reading the book first.”
“Did you know the book was set in Hawaii?” I asked.
“Of course,” the man said. “We always read books about the place we’re traveling to.”
“Me too!” I said, taking out my copy of Hotel Honolulu—and then we all gave each other high-fives. (Or maybe we didn’t, but that’s how I like to remember it.)
