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[Did they give you a lei when you got off the plane?] I cough around the East Shore blunt my new best friend-host tugs from my fingers, pocketing my phone without responding to my mom's text. Vic started my education 13 hours ago with barely time to drop my bags. He began with the definition of haole (non-islander) and is ending with the current story about learning this beach from a nudist Cuban grandmother he loved. I avoid asking how he loved her. In repayment, sharp smoke dripping from his breath, he teaches me about the aloha spirit: a decolonial practice of respect. My other host is a grandmother from a nearby island whom Vic also loves. She pulls the blunt next. She dreams of running a VR brothel and offers me a share. [Are you staying in a safe place?] My bunkmate tells me his name is Hash and about his family's history with Shaquille O'Neal, but not why he got home from prison last month. He keeps watch while I pee to ensure the blubbery, blustering man from Indiana doesn't barrel in without knocking (again). When he charms roast chicken from the lady down the street, he shares it at the midnight kitchen counter with me, doodling the face of the woman he's crushing on in the other bunk to make me laugh. One midnight I tell him someone followed me home from the beach, screaming nonsense while I pretended not to notice. They stopped around the corner. Hash laughs and says, "They stopped because they saw the house where you're living." Not the area -- the house. This is how I learn about the Hawaiian mafia. This is also the conversation where I learn that when I'm not home, Hash calls me "Little Sister." [Are people nice?] All 11 of us are stuck under this bus stop together in the rain: 1 college student (me) and 10 swarming middle schoolers.They sneak juul hits that make me dizzy. "You got a tattoo?" Yes. "Will you give me one?" No. "Do you have ligma?" No, but you seem to be suffering from sugma. The power structure of the group shifts -- I beat them at their own game, so they abandon their previous ringleader and throw their arms over my shoulders. "Do you know what haole means?" They ride around me the entire hour-long ride home. By the time I pull the string to get off, I've talked them through break ups and homework and travel tips. They tell me I'm the best haole they've met this season. My heart feels heavy. [Cocktails on the beach? ;)] She slips off her stool as she gestures for another round of shots for us both. At this point I know her rocky relationship with her uncle's fiance, how concerned the bartender is that she's been here every night this week, the sexual history of the man trying desperately to hit on her, and the words to eight different Queen songs. We're closing out the bar, playing our own music. Standing on the street outside as the lights click off, the bartender offers me a ride home. We smoke cigarettes on the drive. He tells me why he chose to raise his children here, how his mother taught him to memorize the hills. I ask him about his job and he tells me he likes the stories tourists tell. [Mom, it's beautiful. You get your heart broken here.] My presentation at the conference I'm here for opens with a land acknowledgment, but it's not enough. The presence I have is an impact, the topic of every real conversation. Tourism in Hawai'i is a poison and a wonder. As he drives me to the airport, Vic tells me I have the aloha spirit. I give it back to him as I board.