When I returned to work this morning and people asked me what the best part of my Hawaii vacation was, I naturally replied “noodles.” Yes, noodles. More specifically, Japanese noodles. After spending a week in this Pacific island paradise, I’m convinced that our 50th state is really just a small piece of tropical Asia colonized by the U.S. to cash in on Japanese tourists. Even at the airport, I noticed that signs were printed in English and Japanese (not Spanish). Even more, among the usual McDonald’s and Burger King at the airport was a noodle shop! I knew then that I’ve come to the right place. We arrived late Saturday afternoon to explore Waikiki, where we dined on authentic shouyu ramen in a shop that was actually run by real Japanese people (what a concept!). We spent Sunday morning at the beach and had some freshly-made cold soba for lunch before our day tour of the island. The evening concluded with a dinner cruise along the Honolulu skyline, which would’ve been okay if not for the roar of rowdy high school punks on one side, and squealing Japanese girls on the other. Monday was a bit more laid back with a tour of Pearl Harbor, a hearty nabeyaki udon bowl for lunch, and a lazy afternoon at the Waikiki Aquarium and beach. Actually, we had originally intended on going snorkeling at the picturesque Hanauma Bay, but alas our plans were foiled by the evil jellyfish (curse you and your squiggly tentacles!). And since it was Melody’s birthday, we took her out for a fancy sunset dinner at Hoku’s, overlooking the Mandarin Oriental Hotel’s private beach on the Diamond Head. On Tuesday, we hiked up to Manoa Falls in the morning, and spent the rest of the day at the Polynesian Cultural Center, which despite its educational-sounding name, turned out more like a low-budget amusement park with Tahitian hula-dancers, Samoan fire-eaters, and a spectacular evening show. Our last day was spent on the “Big Island” of Hawaii, where we got to wander over vast spans of crusted lava flow at Volcanoes National Park as we pondered the power of mighty Pele. This is no joke, as you can witness from this novelty pen I found in a souvenir shop. The thing I hate most about vacations is the trip back. Not only do you realize that your long-awaited week of pleasure is over and that you’ll only have work to look forward to, but that you’re also at the farthest possible time point from your next vacation. The absolute farthest. Any earlier, and you’d still be on vacation.