The warm, welcoming island of Aruba is a vacation, not a trip

A month before our planned family road trip to see my cousin and her kids, we received a counterproposal. Texting me a photo of a hotel pool edged by palm trees, my cousin posed the one-word question: “Aruba?”

One month later, we both relaxed in front of the very same pool, piña coladas in hand, as the wind made the palm shadows dance in the sunshine. My husband and the boys had wandered off on foot down the coast in search of jet skiing. The girls scouted the beach across the street.

My initial hesitancy about Aruba had morphed into excitement when I easily found inexpensive, nonstop six-hour flights to the Caribbean island from Minneapolis-St. Paul. So the plan changed, with one request from my two teens.

“Let’s make this a vacation,” they pleaded.

It turns out we typically take “trips,” defined due to my meticulous research and activity planning. The shift to “vacation,” it seemed, required little more than an idyllic island setting and my own restraint.

Poolside in Aruba, I secured the next night’s dinner reservations, then put my phone down and focused on the moment. Clearing my mind, I noted my only concern was that a strong gust might overturn my tropical drink. Eventually, it did. So I got another.

I had existing warm feelings toward Aruba, due to my months spent studying abroad in Netherlands years ago. Semi-autonomous Aruba is the A in the Caribbean’s ABC islands that share Dutch history and citizenship (Bonaire and Curaçao round out the trio).

We decided to stay agile and skip the rental car. Taxis are easy to come by and government regulated, and we could likely get anywhere on the roughly 20-by-6-mile island for $40, max. We easily grabbed a taxi from the airport, then mined the driver for information. He happily obliged, taking a 20-minute scenic route and narrating a mini-tour along the way.

In a blink, we were in Oranjestad, which is Dutch for “orange town” — orange represents the Dutch royal family and is the Netherlands’ national color. Oranjestad is a compact little port city with luxury shopping, markets and casinos. It’s regularly flooded with tourists spilling out from cruise ships that tower above the squat, brightly colored buildings.

“We only have one red light in Aruba. And it’s not working. For, like, 15 years,” the driver deadpanned as he tightly zoomed through roundabouts. The next highlight was Eagle Beach, which he said had shallow, warm waters and ranked among the world’s best. He left us at our hotel with serious insistence that we wear sunscreen and kind parting words: “Welcome to my island.”

I’d be lying if I said I’d successfully resisted picking out a few Aruban attractions to casually toss out when conversation allowed. The group humored me, though the majority elected to keep our range of exploration tight.

It made sense. We were based out of the Embassy Suites by Hilton Aruba Resort, with that alluring pool as well as signature Embassy draws including free breakfast and happy hour.

Delphi Watersports’ catamaran dolphin snorkeling cruise, for example, was based out of Palm Beach. The crew of young Aruban men kept the party vibe strong, blaring “Ice Ice Baby” and pouring a brightly colored signature drink so freely we had to flag the 15-year-olds in our group as not partaking.

The boat stopped at a shipwreck, where the kids swam through rough waters to get a proper look. At the second, calmer spot near shore, we all swam among fish and one friendly sea turtle. As a finale, the crew opened a swing off the back of the boat that drew a line of kids and adults, then handed out tuna wraps and small cups of fruit.

Our vacation rhythm became some combination of pool and beach by day, capped with a dining experience by night. The dinners out were wonderfully varied. Driftwood, tucked off a cobblestone alley in Oranjestad, felt like a Wisconsin supper club, Aruba-style, with cozy booths, a steak- and lobster-dominated menu and walls covered in windworn wood. Over an al fresco pasta and seafood meal at Azzurro, we toasted the new 13-year-old in our group as the sun set over Palm Beach — a scene that felt ripped from a movie screen.

The Old Cunucu House, a 150-year-old restaurant based out of a restored traditional home, sits just outside the busyness of Palm Beach. We savored what its website calls “grandma-style cuisine,” heavy on seafood and stews, on the patio decorated in twinkle lights and palms.

Eagle Beach did not disappoint. We scored a pair of huts with lounge chairs to serve as our beach-time base. There was a tent offering watersports like jet skiing and parasailing, as well as a beach bar for food and drinks. But what it had was as striking as what it didn’t have: loud music, lots of people or a constant parade of vendors selling bracelets and beach wraps. Just a clean, white-sand beach leading into translucent water in so many shades of sapphire it seemed unreal.

Turns out that if you tip your head back, the water muffles the sound in a way that makes it feel as if you’re all alone, riding warm liquid turquoise waves and bathed in sun and sky.