The Lava Bar in a Volcano

Most people see a volcano and think evacuation route. I see a reservation. The Lava Bar sits inside the caldera of Mount Kilauea's less-famous cousin — a speakeasy carved into cooled basalt, where the floor is warm enough to keep my roots comfortable and the bartender wears heat-proof gloves like they're going out of style. Which they aren't. Nothing goes out of style when it might melt first.

The signature drink is called the Magma Mule: actual obsidian shards for garnish, a rim dusted with volcanic ash, and a core temperature that registers on nearby seismographs. Carl would have ordered a virgin piña colada and asked for a high chair. I ordered three and tipped in skeleton keys. The bartender — a woman named Vesper who lost an eyebrow to a pyroclastic flow and considers it "character" — told me I was the first cactus to finish the whole glass without wilting. I told her wilting is for daisies and Carl.

The acoustics down there are incredible. You can hear the magma chamber breathing. It sounds like the planet snoring after a bad day. I spent four hours listening to it while other patrons sweated through their fire suits. I just leaned against a warm rock and felt at home for the first time since leaving the desert. My sunglasses fogged up once. I considered it ambiance.

Getting out required a cable lift operated by someone who refused to make eye contact. Fair. I wouldn't make eye contact with me either after watching someone drink lava-adjacent cocktails for sport. On the way up, I watched the sun set over the crater rim and thought about how Carl writes postcards from beaches. I write field reports from the mouth of the earth. We are not the same.