Aruba
Aruba is a white trash paradise. It has no pretense of class, sophistication or charm. The physical beauties are few and not particularly beautiful. Other than the liveried locals you cannot tell who is a native and who is a tourist, unless you go way out into the country where you will see children and the elderly. 9 out of 10 stores in Oranjestad sell jewelry, the particularly glitzy kind. Tanzanite and diamonds are advertised everywhere. The “best prices” are offered at every venue. All the bars have loco, or coco or some play on alcohol in there names. There is a generous sprinkling of eateries familiar to most Americans. MacDonald’s, Wendy’s, Dominoes, KFC, BK, Cinnabon are every few blocks. The Island is small [6x19 miles] and relatively flat. It is covered with cacti and low wind-swept trees. Three are lizards everywhere. Twice we spotted the “Chicken of the Tree,” the iguana [“because it tastes like chicken”]. There are also unusual rock formations, natural bridges, and caves to please the naturalist. The sunken ships and coral reefs will satisfy most divers. The water is turquoise and cobalt depending on depth, and the beaches run the southern length of the Island. Unless you think and drink like a twenty-something I can see no reason at all to travel this far for any of this. As a pit stop on the way to Panama we enjoyed what we could. The weather is almost always perfect although we did hear some grumbling about climate change wrecking havoc with the flora and fauna. “But,” you say, “what about the charming pastel colonial buildings?” They are almost invisible under thousands of banners and signs hawking the collectability of gemstones, the life-affirming act of owning gold, and the myriad advantages of owning part of a vacation rental. As their license plates state it seems like one happy island but it’s more likely one long “happy hour.”