Less universally appealing is crack seed, a snack of preserved fruits and seeds that is sour, sweet, and/or salty. Chinese in origin, crack seed is carried by virtually all convenience stores, as well as specialty shops like the Crack Seed Center. You'll even find pieces of it wrapped up and strung into leis -- a sure sign something has been assimilated into Hawaiian culture.

One restaurant that nicely embodies the state's new mix is the Days of Aloha café, in Kaimuki, decorated with nostalgic Hawaiian posters and photos and run by a young couple originally from Tokyo. The menu is a little bit mainland (bagels), a little bit island (homemade guava jam), and a little bit Japanese (wasabi tuna sandwiches with sheets of nori seaweed tucked inside).

If you're baffled about how Oahu acquired such a diverse population, stop at Hawaii's Plantation Village, an open-air museum in Waipahu. Many Hawaiians have relatives who once lived in plantation villages, and this earnest re-creation provides a fascinating look at the lives of the immigrants (primarily Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, Puerto Rican, Okinawan, Korean, and Filipino) brought over to work on the sugar farms. Restored homes from the early 1900s show how workers lived with a minimum of amenities and cherished precious reminders of home. Besides contributing to the culinary mix, the immigrant groups shaped what is now considered quintessentially Hawaiian. It was the Portuguese who plucked small string instruments and inspired the Hawaiian "jumping flea," or ukulele. And the pidgin language (featuring terms like Shaka brah, which roughly means "Cool, man") developed as a lingua franca among workers. As a tourist, you're unlikely to hear much pidgin -- it's more of a private language for locals -- but the Hawaiian restaurant You Hungry provides a taste. Instead of regular and large, the menu offers "sorta hungry" and "hungry" portions, and a toothpick jar is labeled like pick teet?

Clearly, and mercifully, Oahu doesn't take itself too seriously. While there's plenty of respect for history and culture, there's also an appreciation for the kitsch inextricably linked to Hawaiian tourism. So although true hula bears only a passing resemblance to the tourist variety (grass skirts, never a Hawaiian practice, were incorporated for their sex appeal), Oahu makes room for both. A traditional hula performance may require a trip to the Bishop Museum, but modern hula is on display every night in the pink glow of sunset on Waikiki Beach. Likewise, locals and visitors go for hula-girl bottle openers and aloha belt buckles. Only a coldhearted snob could resist such trinkets. If you have serious shopping stamina, brave the stalls at the International Marketplace in Waikiki. Otherwise, retreat to two surprisingly good sources for cheap souvenirs: Kmart and Longs Drugs. The King Street branch of Longs also carries a wide selection of inexpensive leis, made from fresh flowers, dried kukui nuts, or candy.

These cheerful knickknacks, an integral part of the Hawaiian tourist experience, are talismans; they link us to a simpler time. We long for the era when ukulele-wielding serenaders sang "When My Wahine Does the Poi," when pineapples were the height of exotica. This version of Oahu may exist only in our imaginations -- could it ever have been that pure? -- but nonetheless we're all nostalgic, and the hope of touching even a little of it is what lures many of us to Oahu. A few cherished relics of the era remain. The most pristine and spectacular is Shangri La, the estate built in the 1930s by the late tobacco heiress Doris Duke. The famously reclusive Duke found refuge from fortune-hunting paramours and the media in Oahu. She learned to surf from the Kahanamoku brothers -- Duke Kahanamoku was the father of modern surfing -- and filled Shangri La with rare Islamic art. The house is now open to small tours, which start at the Honolulu Academy of Art (reserve weeks in advance). If you're lucky, you'll meet Jin de Silva, the charming Sri Lankan who was the caretaker and one of Duke's few trusted employees. He usually stops by to answer questions and reminisce about guests like Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson.

A less intimate retro experience can be found in some of the hotels in Waikiki. The hot-pink Moorish-style Royal Hawaiian must have seemed very grand when it opened in 1927; today it's dwarfed by its neighbors but maintains a certain dignity. Having cocktails at the beachfront Mai Tai Bar still feels like a swanky event. Located a few streets back from the beach are a handful of properties that look like nothing has changed since they opened in the '50s and '60s. These time capsules (among the best: the Breakers, Royal Grove, and Hawaiiana) are relatively small, and rooms flank modest swimming pools. Some of the lobby furniture is original; think bamboo lounge sets. The effect is decidedly laid-back.

Things get even sleepier once you leave Honolulu. Beyond the sprawl, Oahu has the quiet countryside, roadside fruit stands, and deserted beaches you expect. Even if you don't rent a car, you can circumnavigate the island on the Bus; a single ride is only $2. The biggest town on the North Shore is Haleiwa, a hippie holdover that looks like little more than a few battered shacks, some surf shops, and an occasional handwritten sign (mango pickles for sale). In the back of Celestial Natural Foods, a health food store, is Paradise Found, a sweet vegetarian café that's a favorite of local surfers. A bit further along is Kua `Aina Sandwich, a beloved burger joint where paper towels take the place of napkins. At the landmark Matsumoto's Shave Ice, the big draw is yet another local specialty -- a version of what mainlanders call snow cones.

The main event on the North Shore is the epic surf at places like Waimea Bay and Sunset Beach. During the winter, surfers from all over flock here for the big seasonal swells, when waves can easily reach 20 feet. Surf contests are also held during this time; grab a free seat on the sand and watch the pros rip (surf well), get barreled (ride inside the tube of a wave), and wipe out (no explanation necessary). Swimmers need not despair -- plenty of winter days are flat and waders rule the beaches. There's also prime snorkeling in the non-winter months at Shark's Cove in Pupukea (a good alternative to popular Hanauma Bay, outside Honolulu). In Haleiwa, Surf -N- Sea is the place for gear and surf updates. The shop staked its claim back in 1965 and is now a legend in the community. A small road opposite, home to fuchsia bougainvillea and wandering pet peacocks, leads to the Surfhouse, a lush property offering simple accommodations. The amiable owner, Lee, has spent most of his life in and around the South Pacific.

In the end, despite Oahu's qualifications as a romantic dreamland -- sunsets and starlight, blue sea and white sand -- the most memorable experiences are the ones that fall outside this everyday perfection. On a recent visit I showed up at the Kapiolani Bandstand to watch the Kodak Hula Show, a tourist spectacular since the 1950s that's still listed in all of the tourist publications. I expected another satisfying display of kitsch, but instead I found a few other dazed visitors and, onstage, a small group of women in shorts and flip-flops. I asked one about the Kodak show. "They stopped doing that a long time ago, honey," she told me gently. "But I've been a hula dancer for 20 years." She popped a CD in her portable player, and the women spread out into rows. It was a community group having its weekly hula lesson. They began to dance, swaying their hips and slowly fluttering their hands.

A few of the other tourists hurried away. The rest of us sat under the trees, Waikiki Beach behind us, and enjoyed a private show. Being able to see the ladies dance, purely for their own pleasure, is the kind of experience no guidebook can lead you to. It was the innocence we hoped to touch when we came: an unvarnished moment amid the good-natured artifice of Oahu, an honest bit of genuine joy in Paradise.

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