It’s not when I replied “Yes!” to a classmate’s comment of “You’re so lucky”, and then she frowned, “That’s not nice.” It’s not the black sand on the beaches that got stuck on my feet and I got it all over the car. It’s not when we went through a gift shop and tried out all colored clothing. It’s not when we walked near the active volcano, and the heat pleasantly touched my face. It’s not when I got off the plane, and a lei was put over me as tears streamed down my face as a result of anger against my parents.

It wasn’t any of those things.

It was my sister in despair at the luau. My sister and I sat near the front. They had performances of traditional dances. And it was that moment when the host asked for volunteers to come up to the stage. I don’t remember the exact words he used. I only remember him laughing as he waved the kids up. As they ran up, he suddenly said, “Oh I am joking!” And my sister came back to me, her excitement killed, and her eyes brimming with tears. I whispered words of comfort and anger toward the host.

For years, I never was compelled to return. I always wondered if that was the reason that I preferred travel away from beaches and the tropics. But hearing my friends and coworkers speak wonders of Hawaii, I started wondering why not? Moreover, I had my fill of cities—after spending an obscene amount of time in Italy, traveling from city to city, never quite seeing the ocean. I touched the water in Sicily, but the pebbles on the beach shattered the experience. So a few months ago, I took all my mileage and purchased a pair of airplane tickets. I found a small vacation rental in Maui for under $100/night.

I hope that this time that the memory is something better. Maybe even typical. Because what “paradise” deserves such sad memories?