In America, we lived on the California coast but rarely went to the beach. The water was too cold and the waves too big. Longing for warm water one year, we decided to vacation in Hawaii. My father booked a one-week stay in Waikiki. “We’re staying right on the beach!” he announced. Having never been to Hawaii, I expected a relaxing tropical paradise, somewhere like Gilligan’s Island.

We arrived in Waikiki to discover that an “ocean view” room meant we had to stand on our balcony and crane our necks to catch a speck of blue in the far corner. In between the high-rises sat shops declaring “I Got Lei-d in Hawaii!” on T-shirts, mugs, and towels. Everywhere I went, I saw the same carved coconuts, the same seashell frames, and the same hats, all made in the Philippines. I tried to hang loose, but Waikiki felt more like 7-Eleven-by-the-Sea.

The following year, we decided to vacation on Kauai, an island in Hawaii that the travel agent described as a true tropical paradise. The description was accurate. Our one-story hotel sat in the middle of a lush forest. On our first day, we experienced quick tropical rains followed by spectacular rainbows. Vibrant flowers, so big and rich in color that they almost looked fake, dotted the plants around our hotel. We had found God’s hideaway.

On our second day, my parents announced that Kauai was boring. “There’s nothing to look at, just plants and rainbows,” my father declared. “There are no stores,” added my mother. Instead of staying for another week, we left the next day.

The following year, my father decided to take us to Yosemite National Park for a week. Uncle Nematollah was staying with us then. My father booked two cabins and off we went for another taste of paradise. Eight hours later, we arrived in the beautiful Yosemite Valley. We oohed and aahed at the spectacular scenery. The first day, we explored the surrounding area, wading in a nearby stream. All was perfect until my uncle, who didn’t speak English but who could nonetheless identify a picture of a bear’s head with a line through it, asked my father to translate the signs posted near our cabin. My father explained that the signs warned campers of bears that often came looking for food. Upon hearing this, my mother and uncle decided we had to leave Yosemite right away. My mother was convinced that the bears were lined up in the nearby bushes waiting for their chance at the all-you-can-eat Persian buffet. “We can’t leave!” I protested. “We just got here!” My mother was already packing the suitcases. I tried my best to reason with her. “The signs say that the bears are attracted by the smell of food, not people.”

An hour later, we were in the car, headed for the bear-free suburbs.