I am currently writing to you, dear reader, from within a Windows screensaver. For the last six days, I have been languidly drifting through the Yasawa Islands of Fiji, drinking in the scenery with yet another pineapple cocktail. I'm scribbling this column on the inside cover of a Lionel Shriver novel, a practice I find more in tune with the ethos of this place than the use of stodgy lined paper.
The Yasawas are a group of astoundingly remote islands with paradoxically accessible English names. The islands are so small that walking the circumference of one can often be accomplished in less than 30 minutes. Each spot in the cluster represents an idea, another iteration of a Eutopic theme. Octopus Isle hides its isolated coves and quiet conversation, while Manta Ray Island presents its swaying army of hammocks that slip through coconut-scented breeze. Beachcomber Island smells of greasy breakfast food, used to sop up late nights of dark over-proof rum. The unrealistically blue water, pillowy white sand, and almost clich
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