Letter from Hawaii

As for that aloha shirt, it has become a post-ironic symbol of tropical island fun for the rest of America, yanked from the back of the closet for the occasional suburban "luau." Nearly every man in the country owns an aloha shirt, although few have the audacity to wear it unless a barbecue is involved. But here in Hawaii, where every day is casual Friday and suit sightings are as rare as snow days, the aloha shirt is not party gear -- instead, it's everyday attire worn for both work and play.

It is de rigueur for every tourist who visits Hawaii to purchase an aloha shirt and a muumuu (or, if not a proper caftan muumuu, at least a shapeless sundress in a bright hibiscus or shell print). The gaudy cotton fabrics native to Hawaii seem to serve as a kind of totem to island living: Along with tropical drinks and an orchid lei, the donning of a newly purchased floral dress is a gesture toward "going native." Never mind the fact that Honolulu is devoid of everything you might associate with leisurely island living -- sweeping beaches, silent vistas, crystal seas and bargain-basement prices.

Sure enough, here in the patio bar of the Royal Hawaiian, nearly every tourist is wearing some variation of the aloha uniform. The sunburned hotel patrons sit sipping big fruity cocktails bristling with paper umbrellas and studiously ignoring the fashion show going on just a few yards away. One woman in a floral muumuu and oversize sunglasses sits with her balding, golf-shirted husband, drinking $9 mai tais. He gets up to take a picture; she holds up the two shocking-blue cocktails, one in each hand, and screws her face into a grin. "Cheers!" she smiles.

It is oddly incongruous with the fashion show taking place nearby, whose audience consists mostly of Japanese kids who appear to have wandered up from the beach. On the runway, one tiny girl trips out in a rainbow-print tube top and a pink head scarf, matched with blue trousers so tight that they wrinkle around her thighs like an earthworm. "How about some coordinated surfer style?" the announcer says brightly, as the girls begin marching down the runway in tiny fluorescent green and pink bikinis, worn with fishing hats and surf shorts.

On Waikiki Beach, a few feet away, the bathing suits aren't nearly as revealing, nor the bodies as forgiving. Honeymooning Japanese couples frolic in the surf. The girls wear demure skirted bikinis in modest florals and giggle as they back into the water, bottoms facing toward the sea so that no one on the beach can see their dimpled thighs from behind. Young American women lie facedown and unfasten their bikini tops to prevent unsightly tan lines; from the side, you can see lily-white breasts spilling into the sand. The favored bathing suit accessory is the complimentary orchid lei that the Royal Hawaiian gives to guests as they check in. But the thick sweet odor of the orchids is mixed with the more powerful scent of coconut oil, and the flowers are rapidly wilting in the heat.

Honolulu is a perfect example of the way tourism can kill a paradise. The minute the retirees show up to buy muumuus for their nieces and the first package tours begin loading up buses with Japanese families paying $50 a head to experience an "authentic Hawaiian luau," the taste makers flee. Movie stars may still visit, but they stay in the remoter reaches of the islands, far from the world of Crazy Shirt shops and plastic leis. The tourists satisfy themselves with a view of the sea and the trappings of old Hawaii, even as the locals move farther away from the cities and the rich and famous move on to St. Bart's.

And still the travelers flood in from around the world, lured by an insatiable tourist industry; the city swells to accommodate them until its main purpose is to sell them the image they came to acquire. Honolulu is the ultimate East-West city: The Japanese who come for cheap Gucci and piña coladas find that they are conveniently catered to in their own language; the Americans, in turn, satisfy themselves with theme restaurants and hula lessons without having to exchange any currency. And never the twain shall meet, except when fighting over the last aloha shirt on the sale rack. Or, perhaps, in the patio bar of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel.

The CocoLulu spring/summer collection concludes with an array of Japanese kimonos: two girls holding hands and wearing neon orange and green kimonos cinched in and tied with a bow. The models wear platform flip-flops instead of the traditional zori sandals -- a look that's half traditional Japanese, half vibrant Hawaiian. For the finale, the kimono girls are joined by the bathing suit models: They squeeze into a big group and pose for a photographer, with big, happy, shocked-looking grins ("Me? You're taking a photo of me?") and demure little waves for the camera, their posteriors arched up and chests pointed down.

The techno is turned off and the models vanish; in the sudden hush the sound of the waves is once again audible. The tourists at the tables order another round of mai tais and resume staring out at the sea.

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