He hardly recognized this island anymore. He’d been returning every winter, cleverly skipping Seattle’s misty bone chill for these white-sand beaches, sweet-spicy noodle dishes, obsequious service for pennies on the dollar. Maybe it was inevitable that the rest of the world would discover its turquoise swimming spots, the debauched nightlife, the powerful local coconutty liqueur. But this time the streets were different (paved), a resort was going up where the night market used to be, and his old host family had, apparently, moved. Was this even the right island? Hard to say. Why did tourists always have to ruin everything?