Around 6 p.m. I found myself on Zeb's porch, watching the lights of Waikiki slowly emerge from the pink clouds of sunset. Every now and then it rained -- sometimes hard and furious, sometimes soft and silky, and always with no warning.

Zeb's place was perched on a hillside overlooking the University of Hawaii. Below the porch: playing fields, freeways, and a random tumble of buildings that run up to the blind concrete towers of Waikiki. A little further along, the skyline crumbled then rebuilt itself with increased sophistication as downtown Honolulu.

I'd been in Hawaii for a little more than 24 hours and already I was beginning to feel that strange traveler's comfort that comes not from knowledge but a subtle understanding of place and atmosphere. Inside, four strangers and a long-ago acquaintance were watching a video, slowly laughing off the effects of an over-consumed Thanksgiving meal. I was sitting on a stool, outside, taking pictures and watching the darkness slowly open the skyline.

I'd arrived at the meal accompanied by three beautiful women, all members of the university tennis team. Lynn, another tennis teammate, welcomed us into her boyfriend's home with a warm smile that sparkled with orthodontics. Zeb was introduced and we filled the apartment with comfortable familiarity.

This was Zeb's first Thanksgiving as host and he played the part well. "Steve, my friend, can I get you a drink?"

I asked for a soda. I come from a place where friendships imply dependencies and expectations and to be called a friend on such short notice caught me off my guard -- in a good way. He returned a few moments later with my drink. "Here you are, my friend." His pleasant, unassuming familiarity seemed quintessentially Hawaiian. Zeb stopped in the middle of his living room and addressed us all. "Welcome to my hale," he said, and bent down to play with his new puppy.

Back on the porch, I could see across the Manoa valley to the darkening hills of Oahu. Those lush hills, the misty rain, the jumbled skyline -- all of them were completely foreign to me. Even the air was exotic -- much too warm and a little too clean.

The strangeness of the place was nearly overwhelming and I suddenly realized that, as a traveler, it doesn't really matter where I am. I was in Hawai'i, but I could have been anywhere. Adelaide, Acapulco, Athens -- they probably all look the same from a porch high in the hills. It's the people you meet, the strangers who call you friend, that make the travel experience worthwhile. It's the relationships that endear the location.

The movie ended and I was joined on the porch by my new friends. Susie pointed across the valley to where bursts of light occasionally flashed from the hillside. "It's a lookout," she said. "There's a highway up there and people stop to take pictures of the city." The tiny flashes on their idiot-proof cameras were trying to illuminate an entire city from miles away and Susie and I laughed at their futility. The others were taking boxing lessons from Zeb, and Vickie showed some promise as she leaned into the punching bag. A few minutes later it started raining again so we turn our backs to the lights of Waikiki and wandered back inside.

Dinner had been a simple, cozy affair: six friends, from five different countries, gathered around a small table laden with the recipes of other people's grandmothers. The window shades were closed against the hot afternoon sun, filling the room with a warm, intimate glow.

Before we ate we went around the table, each sharing the things for which we were thankful. Lynn began with food and family and by the time she ended with thanks for her friends she was smiling through tears. Zeb continued on a similar theme. I was next. I said simply, "I'm grateful for the kindness of strangers," and passed the prayer on to the friend on my left.