After our quick stint in Curaçao we hopped over to Aruba, The Happy Island. Our hostel was quaint and sunny with a small pool and a serious bed upgrade (a king!) from our previous hostel. We were looked after by the owner’s mother, who spoke only Spanish, and would cook breakfast for us in the morning. After settling in, we walked downtown and spent the afternoon strolling along the waterfront, seeing all the glossy, luxury stores contrasted against the slightly dusty and outdated touristed shops.

We ate dinner at The West Deck, which for the fist time on our trip, was completely packed. A popular beach-front shack featuring tapas-style local dishes and fruity cocktails. We enjoyed fungi, fresh grouper, Balashi (the locally brewed beer) and fresh passionfruit margaritas. After watching the so-beautiful-it-looks-fake sunset, we called it a night.

The next day we decided to have a Patrick-day and Maja-day, where we spend time apart to do whatever we want independently. Patrick spent the day finishing and launching the Primaries website with Parakeet, and I arranged an island tour for myself. My tour guide, J, is a cancer surviver, junior architect, motivational speaker, and part time tour guide. After picking me up in his open air Jeep painted like a tiger, we spent the next four hours together circumnavigating the entire island and getting to know each other.

We climbed down a narrow wooden ladder into the Natural Pool at Boca, a small pool of water hidden inside an oceanside cave. We went off-roading through the entire Arikok National Park, plowing over steep rocky paths, each more tumultuous than the next. “It’s like a free massage!” J would yell, as we were slammed from side to side, smiling the entire time.

We stopped at Conchi, another natural pool, which before becoming a swimming area for tourists, was used by fisherman to raise sea turtles until capturing them for food became illegal.

We crawled through the Guadirkiki Caves, filled with native cave paintings, legends of trapped souls, and many, many bats.

We climbed over the Breathing Rocks to hear them sigh as the ocean flowed in and out below them. We explored the Bushiribana Gold Mill Ruins, where 3 million pounds of Aruban gold was processed starting in 1824.

We saw the chapel of Alto Vista which was completed in 1952 and stands on the same location as the original, built in 1750.

We drove by Boca Catalina, the blackstone beach, Eagle beach, and just about every other beach on the island. We drove past the Wish Garden, where thousands of tourists have built cairns, each rock symbolizing one of their greatest wishes as they stack them on top of each other.

We saw both lighthouses, the Northern lighthouse under remodel to allow tourists to climb to the top, and the Southern lighthouse, nothing more than a 8 foot pole with a light in a cage stuck to the top. We stopped at the oceanside pet cemetery, and walked through the hundreds of tiny handmade crosses, carefully painted with names like Fluffy and Tito.

We drove through the different neighborhoods on the island so I could get a feel for “real Aruba, not just tourist Aruba”. We went everywhere from “The Hamptons of Aruba” to the “left behind neighborhoods”, J pointing out restaurant recommendations and soccer fields he likes as we passed.

Completely happy and thoroughly dusty, J dropped me off at the Hyatt Regency where I met Patrick at the pool bar. He had spent the past two hours walking through town and taking pictures of lizards. We scarfed down a quick snack before hopping on the Dolphin for a sunset booze cruise. We sat in the front nets of the catamaran and drank the special, Aruba Ariba (vodka, rum, fruit punch, orange juice, and a splash of whiskey) as we watched the sun go down.

Back on land, we walked along the strip in front of the high rise hotels until we came across Amore Mio, where we enjoyed Napoletana style pizza. Our waiter Michael, wearing some incredible vintage hightop Nikes, gave us suggestions for Bogotá and free limoncello at the end of the night. After a scoop of Ferrero Rocher gelato next door, we headed back to our hostel for the evening.

The following morning we packed up and headed to the Airport for our next stop, Panama City. Overall, Aruba felt really touristy, but with the unbelievably clear water and perfect white sand beaches, I’ll probably return.

Our next stop was Curaçao! The motherland of that vile blue liquor used to add unnatural color to tiki drinks and frat party punches! Patrick drank some right away.

Curaçao is part of the ABC islands bringing up the rear behind Aruba and Bonaire. It is autonomous within the Kingdom of Netherlands which means it can take whatever cute Dutch stuff it wants and leave all the other junk behind. Curaçao has rows upon rows of adorable Dutch style buildings beautifully painted with bright, pastel colors.

We stayed right by the harbor which is home to two iconic bridges, the Queen Emma and Queen Juliana. The Queen Emma is a footbridge, floating in the water to allow people to traverse back and forth between the two sides of the harbor. When a boat needs to get through, the bridge pivots off one side and swiftly sweeps open 90 degrees so the boat can travel past. Like the magical staircases at Hogwarts. Naturally, Patrick and I sat and watched the bridge swing open and shut a number of times. The locals call the bridge The Swinging Old Lady. What a sense of humor.

The Queen Juliana bridge boasts to be the tallest in the Caribbean at 185’ tall. It’s pretty neat, but not as neat as the bridge that swings open.

Curaçao is hot. Upon landing and again clearing customs and immigration alarmingly fast (no words were spoken) we sweated our way through the 20 minute cab ride to our hostel. Driving down the dry, bright, and colorful roads we passed dozens of slightly rundown roadside strip malls filled with weird stores that I desperately wanted to visit. For example we passed a furniture store that featured children’s bunkbeds shaped like firetrucks and boats and I thought, “How cute, I love bunkbeds!”.

We arrived at our hostel, The Ritz, because when we came across it online we said, “Wouldn’t it be so funny if we…” and we did. The Ritz used to be an ice cream factory and was restored with a brightly colored exterior, sweet little pool area, and pool bar. A friendly staff member in his faded pink Ritz polo led us to our room (private double with ensuite bathroom) where we were greeted with, get ready for it, bunkbeds. And not like, “Oh! Bunkbeds!” like, “Oh… bunkbeds.”

We left the hostel in search of food, and quickly settled into a nice waterfront bar/tourist trap called the Iguana Bar or something. We were joined by loads of squishy cruise ship passengers, lanyards swinging proudly around their necks, as they went lumbering by to catch the ferry back to their mothership. Of course, Patrick and I spent the rest of our lunch discussing how badly we wanted to go on a cruise and where should we go and when and so on. We spent the rest of the afternoon walking along the waterfront and surrounding streets before closing out the night splitting six tiny Polar beers and spaghetti at our pool bar.

Saturday we went exploring. I wanted to try the Cafe Copacabana for lunch and with a lot of luck (none of the streets are labeled) we found it. We enjoyed Amstel Brights (not a typo) and sandwiches while seated in a beautiful square intersection of four alleyways with colorful murals on the walls.

We visited the Maritime Museum and tried to visit the Postal Museum and Kura Hulanda Museum (both were closed).

We walked through the oldest synagogue in the western hemisphere with a sand floor, which was preparing for a wedding that night. The security guard, with a hand gun loosely tucked in his pants pocket, explained it was another American couple who was flying here to get married in the synagogue. “It’s always Americans,” he sighed.

We walked through the floating market, where the fish and vegetables are so fresh they don’t even unload them off the boats. The proprietors just pull up in the harbor and you can buy right off the boat.

After the cruise ships left the town emptied a considerable amount. Everywhere we’ve been has felt really, really empty. We’re wondering if it’s offseason? Or Zika scared everyone? Either way, both St. Martin and Curaçao have been really quiet.

That evening we hopped in a cab to go a few miles down the beach to check out the Kontiki Beach Resort. It was gorgeous. We took a self guided tour through the hotel property and marveled at the millions of dollars of ferns, palms, and giant flowering tropical plants the resort had installed to add privacy and ambiance to the beautiful “rooms”. I say “rooms” because they were like mansion versions of the Robinson Curuso treehouse. Sprinkled in were beautiful saltwater pools, connect via a narrow stream covered in stone footbridges. This place was stunning.

We kept walking until we found the hotel restaurant, which was dead. It looked closed. It was 6:30pm, on a Saturday, we were a resort bar and there is no one else there. When the waiter asked us if we had a reservation I almost snorted. The food was awful, even the wine was bad, and we quickly departed. We walked along the beach to the neighboring resort which was more like a small city.  Every shopping whim, style of restaurant (sushi, indian, pizza, BBQ, crepes, Dutch, American, etc) and activity (everything from design your own flip flops to a real tattoo shop) were provided so the guests would never have to leave the property. I was surprised to find I was looking forward to returning to our dinky little hostel.

The next morning after breakfast (Patrick ordered The Canadian complete with pancakes and maple syrup, of course) we packed up and shipped out to the airport. Overall I enjoyed Curaçao. There was a ton of the island we didn’t see, but based on our small taste I think we’d prefer to explore another Caribbean island before heading back.

Sunday night after a 30 minute delay at the airport we departed on our first flight to JFK. After landing at 6:30am, we grabbed some muffins and got in line for our next flight to St. Maarten. Before we could take off, three drunk passengers were removed from the plane for “harassing other passengers on the jetway”. After they, and their bags, were removed we headed out onto the runway. We were ready to take off when the pilot made an announcement that one of the drunkards had left one of their bags onboard, and for safety, we would be returning to the gate to hand it over. You have to appreciate vacationers so drunk at 9am they can’t keep track of their luggage or common sense.

Our landing into St. Maarten was cinematic. The plane almost clipping the tops of the tall palm trees lining Maho Beach, where tourists stand in hopes of being knocked off their feet by the jet blasts. Apparently this makes for a pretty great Youtube.

Customs took 15 seconds, I don’t even think we went through immigration, and we were quickly in a cab on our way to Grand Case on the other side of the island. St. Martin is split in two halves, the Dutch side (where the airport and cruise ships land) and the French side (where our hotel was). Our cab driver, Tony, upon hearing it was our first time to the island, berated us with with “What is wrong with you?” not accepting our typical excuses of “we’ve never had the time!” and “it’s far from where we live!” until we gave up and told him we were just dumb, irrational people. This answer he accepted.

We pulled onto Grand Case Boulevard, a beautiful road sprinkled with idillic restaurants, tiny bodegas, and local clothing stores. The buildings, once brightly colored, were beautifully faded and patinaed by the weather.

Our hotel, The Love Hotel (when we were booking this name made me cringe, but by the end of our stay I began to, well, love it) was a perfect small beach-front property. With white walls and dark wood furniture, it stood out to us as the gem of the beach. It was modern, unpretentious, and relaxed. One of the owners, Muriel, showed us to our cozy room, separated from the beach by only a tiny rickety staircase. Open the large sliding exterior door and the beach was right there.

We spent the next few days taking walks on the beach and exploring Grand Case. We would go to the hotel’s beach front bar most mornings for breakfast, in the afternoon for happy hour, and occasionally for dinner. We visited the local BBQ shack “The Talk of the Town” twice, dined in two upscale french restaurants (Grand Case is the culinary center of the island) and on our last night ate the best pizza I’ve ever had at a beach-front diner called Bulldog.

Patrick enjoyed bottles of Carib, the local beer (brewed in Trinidad and Tobago) which describes itself as “…a balanced, full-bodied and distinctively smooth lager that takes ‘refreshing’ to another level.’” I sampled a number of strange “house made rums” which as far as I can tell were made by locals put rum into a bottle, adding some other ingredients and then calling it “house made”. The strangest of all being Guavaberry Rum. A local legend, made on the island, from oak aged rum, cane sugar, and wild guavaberries. It does not taste at all like berries, but instead is kind of woody and bitter, like grapes mixed with Fernet.

We explored the Dutch side of the island, which felt like a cuter version of Fishermans Wharf in San Francisco, and hiked to Happy Beach, a beautiful secluded beach 30 minutes from our hotel. We had drinks in Friar’s Bay, at a beach bar where I could have easily spent the entire week.

St. Martin was beautiful, picturesque, and relaxing. It was the perfect way to start the trip, and I definitely want to go back.