Hawaii, the land of no windows

It was fully our intention to book a hotel room or condo for our upcoming stay in Hawaii—something close to the beach, with restaurants and everything else good and necessary for normal civilization. Instead we suddenly find ourselves a month away from staying in what appears to be a remote jungle tree house.

Our hosts' names are Peter and Barbara. This, at least, is somewhat reassuring, certainly more so than if they'd been named Mean Dog and Cruella. Their online profile indicates that it is mostly Peter who watches after the place and his visitors, while Barbara commutes to "the mainland."

This gave us pause. The Hero expressed doubts over what, exactly, she commuted for. The profile does not strictly indicate that it is for "work." For my part, I struggle to identify just what mainland one commutes to, on a regular basis, from the Big Island of Hawaii. True, there is my rather fuzzy grasp of geography, but still.

But we are willing to suspend judgment, because really the place does sound quite lovely and adventurous.

Take the windows, for example. Actually, someone must have already done so, because no windows appear in any of the 39 photos of the house that I was able to view. Walls appear to be something of a suggestion.

"So this will be a little different," I said to the Hero. "Things might...move in with us." I trailed off when I saw his face.

A few years ago the media reported the scientific discovery of a giant squid that had eyes described as the size of dinner plates. Those eyes engulfed the smallish submersible where the scientists were filming the creature. This is how the Hero looked upon hearing this news.

"What does that mean?" he demanded.

"Well, the place is kind of...open air."

The dinner plates got a little larger.

"What kind of bugs do they have in Hawaii?" he said.

"Big ones," I said. I based this on a fiction book I'd read some time ago, set in the rugged 1800s, in which insects and creatures of malevolent appearance seriously outnumbered people in Hawaii. And nearly outweighed them.

The website through which we booked our accommodations encourages asking questions of hosts. We decided this topic would give us our first questions: "How large would you say the average insect is around your property? Based on this, which would you recommend: insect spray or armor? Do we need shots? Does your house have windows? Can we come stay with you?"

This encouraging of questions is a practice the website might seriously consider abandoning after our stay.

Given all the lush vegetation surrounding our, uh, tree house, the Hero was concerned that perhaps we wouldn't have much of a view from our lanai, or open patio (a word that means, literally, "yes, you have a wonderful view, but you are also unprotected from huge bugs"). I directed him to a photo of an open window, through which could be seen a fantastic view of the ocean. "See? What more could we want?"

He looked closer at the photo. "Is that a...bathtub in front of the window?"

Okay, so perhaps the best view is from the bathroom. We'll be really, really clean on this trip.

Of course, there is no indication in the photo as to what the rest of the bathroom is like. Is there actually running water? A toilet? Who knows? And who cares? We can see the ocean from it.

No doubt this is exactly the attitude intended by the photo poster, in the hopes of distracting guests from realizing that this glorious view is unimpeded by an actual, enclosed window.

Instead of staying in the jungle tree house, maybe we'll just abandon it to the wildlife, and sleep outside ourselves.