What it is that makes Room Three at the Pakalana Inn in Hilo, Hawaii. A meld of vintage, funky, tropics. The Farmer's Market through the slats. The Antheriums in the glass. The Papaya Tree with one ripe. The back alley with the Passion Fruit creepers winding around the fence. The cats. Especially the black one. The village, the church spire, the dark jungle beyond, pidgeon speakers with bandy legs, black, unintelligible, the steam. The sunlight in the afternoon warming the old wood, somewhat battered but well rubbed and the cup of Volcanic coffee. So many phrases about Hawaii jingles to sell tourists. Tawdry. But beyond that there is the real Hawaii. A torrid place. A lost world. Ravished and ravishing. That after twenty years and then some I am only now beginning to see, getting past the other self crumbling like so much ancient paper mache. More pictures of Room Three. If "luxury" bores you, leaves you empty, you might be interested in a bit of vintage (another overused word). But if you didn't come to lie by the pool in a row, you can sit up in Room Three and listen. And watch. Maybe take a walk. Think. And be somewhere different. 
