Every Spring Break my parents flew my sister and I to Hawaii for 10 days. We stayed in the same room, Master Suite 901B, in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, one of the oldest hotels on the island of Oahu. Referred to as the “Pink Palace of the Pacific,” it stands on the forefront of Waikiki Beach like an orgy of molten flamingos. I remember towering green palm trees, long orange surfboards, a hungry undertow, elaborate breakfast buffets, sharp coral reefs, a snack shop, dead jellyfish, the Brothers Cazimero, and Spectravision. Everything was clean and fresh and pristine. There was a misty rain every morning, and then the sun came out and shone all day. On the horizon the bowl of a volcanic crater, Diamond Head, sloped towards the sky and fell into the ocean.