Solo in Willemstad: Finding Community and Adventure in Curaçao's Capital

Let me start with a confession: Curaçao wasn't initially on my travel radar. After my transformative experience in Kenya years ago, my destinations typically revolved around either wildlife encounters or emerging tech scenes I could write about. But sometimes the universe has different plans.

I was scrolling through photos of a colleague's recent Caribbean trip when a particular image stopped me mid-swipe—a row of candy-colored Dutch colonial buildings lining a harbor, their reflections dancing in turquoise water. It was Willemstad's famous Handelskade waterfront, and something about those cheerful facades against the deep blue Caribbean sky spoke to me.

The timing couldn't have been better. I'd just wrapped up a massive e-commerce integration project that had consumed six months of my life. My brain needed a complete change of scenery—somewhere with enough infrastructure to stay connected (old tech habits die hard), but with a distinctly different cultural vibe to shake me out of my Oklahoma City routine.

What sealed the deal was learning about Curaçao's unique position as a melting pot of over 50 nationalities, with influences spanning Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, African, and indigenous cultures. As someone with mixed heritage myself, I've always been drawn to places where cultural boundaries blur and blend. Add in year-round sunshine (a welcome escape from Oklahoma's unpredictable spring weather), a walkable historic center, and the promise of world-class diving, and my decision was made.

I booked a modest but well-reviewed boutique hotel in the Pietermaai District, packed my compact travel backpack, and set off on my first truly solo international adventure in years.

If Willemstad were a person, Pietermaai would be its cool, slightly bohemian cousin who studied art abroad and came back with eclectic tastes and fascinating stories. This once-neglected district has transformed into the city's creative pulse—a place where restored 18th-century mansions house boutique hotels, innovative restaurants, and local art galleries.

I chose to stay at the Scuba Lodge Boutique Hotel, a collection of renovated historic buildings with a laid-back vibe that perfectly matched my needs. My room featured original details like exposed stone walls alongside modern amenities, and the oceanfront infinity pool quickly became my go-to spot for morning coffee and evening reflection.

What struck me immediately about Pietermaai was how it fostered spontaneous interactions. On my very first morning, while photographing a particularly vibrant mural, I met Carlos, a Venezuelan expat and local tour guide. Our casual conversation about street art evolved into an impromptu walking tour where he pointed out hidden gems I would have surely missed—like the tiny hole-in-the-wall serving the island's best arepa di pampuna (pumpkin pancakes).

The district's rhythm became my own. Mornings began with fresh fruit and Dutch pastries at nearby cafés, where I'd map out loose plans while chatting with fellow travelers and locals. Afternoons often found me wandering through the neighborhood's narrow streets, camera in hand, discovering architectural details and popping into shops selling everything from handmade jewelry to locally-produced hot sauces.

As the sun set, Pietermaai transformed again. String lights illuminated courtyards where live music—an intoxicating blend of tumba, jazz, and reggae—spilled onto the streets. At Mundo Bizarro, a quirky bar with retro décor and potent cocktails, I found myself sharing travel stories with a Dutch family, a Brazilian solo traveler, and two American retirees who'd been sailing the Caribbean for the past year.

For someone traveling alone, Pietermaai offered the perfect balance—quiet corners when I needed solitude and vibrant social spaces when I craved connection. My portable Bluetooth speaker became my constant companion, providing a soundtrack for lazy afternoons on my private balcony overlooking the district's colorful rooftops.

Willemstad is essentially two cities connected by the Queen Emma Bridge, a floating pedestrian pathway locals affectionately call the "Swinging Old Lady." On one side sits Punda, the oldest part of the city with its tight grid of streets and colonial architecture. Across the water lies Otrobanda ("the other side"), historically the working-class district that now blends heritage sites with contemporary development.

I dedicated two full days to exploring these districts, starting with Punda's historic core. The morning market along the floating bridge was a sensory overload in the best possible way—Venezuelan vendors selling fresh produce, fishermen displaying their morning catch, and local women preparing traditional dishes right before your eyes. I practiced my extremely limited Papiamentu (the local creole language) while purchasing tropical fruits I'd never seen before, earning patient smiles and occasional gentle corrections from the vendors.

Punda's narrow streets revealed layers of history at every turn. At the Mikvé Israel-Emanuel Synagogue, the oldest continuously used synagogue in the Americas, I joined a small tour led by a community elder who shared stories of the Jewish diaspora that found sanctuary on the island centuries ago. What struck me was how the synagogue's sand floors—a tradition dating back to when Jewish worship had to be silenced during the Spanish Inquisition—represented just one thread in Curaçao's complex cultural tapestry.

Crossing the Queen Emma Bridge to Otrobanda offered a different perspective—both literally (the views of the colorful Handelskade are best from this side) and culturally. While Punda maintains much of its Dutch colonial character, Otrobanda feels more distinctly Caribbean in its energy and expression.

The highlight was Kura Hulanda, a remarkable museum built around a former slave yard. The exhibits tracing the brutal history of the transatlantic slave trade were powerful and unflinching. As someone who has always been interested in how destinations acknowledge difficult histories, I was impressed by the museum's approach—educating without sensationalizing and connecting historical injustices to contemporary conversations about race and identity.

What made these explorations especially meaningful was my pocket translator device that helped me communicate with older residents who primarily spoke Papiamentu or Dutch. Through these conversations, I learned about family recipes passed down through generations, heard firsthand accounts of the 1969 uprising that transformed Curaçao's political landscape, and discovered hidden courtyards where neighbors still gather for dominoes and gossip.

By day's end, sitting at a waterfront café watching the Queen Emma Bridge swing open to allow ships into the harbor, I realized that Willemstad's divided geography creates not separation but connection—a physical manifestation of how cultures here don't simply coexist but actively intertwine.

While Willemstad itself offered plenty to explore, I couldn't visit Curaçao without experiencing its legendary underwater world. As someone who discovered the transformative power of wildlife encounters in Kenya years ago, I was eager to see how marine life might affect me similarly.

On my fourth day, following a recommendation from the dive instructor I met at my hotel's bar, I headed to Tugboat Beach on the island's southeastern coast. Just a 20-minute drive from downtown Willemstad, this unassuming spot is home to one of the island's most accessible and rewarding shore dives—perfect for a solo traveler looking to avoid organized tour groups.

The beach itself isn't particularly impressive—a small, rocky shoreline with basic facilities—but what lies beneath the surface more than compensates. I rented equipment from a small dive shop nearby, where the owner, Marcus, spent time explaining the site's unique features. The main attraction is a small tugboat that sank decades ago in shallow water, creating an artificial reef now teeming with marine life.

As someone who prefers independent exploration, I appreciated how this site allowed me to snorkel at my own pace. With my full-face snorkel mask (a game-changer for relaxed breathing and wider viewing), I spent nearly three hours exploring the area, taking breaks on shore when needed.

The tugboat itself, resting in about 15 feet of crystal-clear water, was mesmerizing—completely encrusted with coral and serving as home to an astonishing variety of fish. Yellow-tailed snappers darted through the wheelhouse, while sergeant majors hovered in protective formation over their eggs. A shy octopus played an elaborate game of hide-and-seek among the deck machinery.

What I didn't expect was the social aspect of this solo adventure. In the water, I met a family from Germany who pointed out a well-camouflaged scorpionfish I might have missed. Later, while rinsing my gear, I struck up a conversation with a local photographer documenting the reef's recovery from a recent storm. He invited me to join him and friends for a sunset barbecue right there on the beach—an impromptu gathering that evolved into an evening of shared stories, local rum, and even an impromptu music session when someone produced a guitar.

As stars appeared above us and waves gently lapped against the shore, I found myself in deep conversation with people I'd known for mere hours. We talked about ocean conservation, island politics, and the universal challenges of balancing work with passion projects. It struck me that these connections—spontaneous, authentic, and transcending cultural differences—represent the true magic of solo travel. Without the comfortable buffer of companions from home, I was fully present and open to these unexpected encounters.

Even on vacation, the e-commerce manager in me never fully disconnects. After years balancing remote work with travel, I've developed a knack for scoping out productive workspaces wherever I go. Willemstad surprised me with its emerging digital nomad scene—a growing ecosystem that blends Caribbean laid-back vibes with functional infrastructure for remote professionals.

Number Ten Willemstad became my go-to workspace—a stylish coworking space housed in a renovated mansion in the Pietermaai District. For the price of a day pass (about $15 USD), I enjoyed reliable high-speed internet, excellent coffee, and a community of both locals and international nomads. The outdoor courtyard, shaded by tropical plants and equipped with comfortable seating, proved perfect for answering emails while soaking in Willemstad's perpetual sunshine.

What made this aspect of my trip particularly interesting was connecting with Curaçao's small but vibrant startup community. Through a casual conversation at Number Ten, I was invited to a weekly meetup where local entrepreneurs and visiting professionals share ideas over drinks. At Beyglz, a trendy café with surprisingly fast WiFi, I listened to passionate pitches from young Curaçaoans developing everything from sustainable tourism apps to fintech solutions designed for Caribbean markets.

These interactions offered insights no tourist brochure could provide. I learned about Curaçao's efforts to diversify beyond tourism and oil refining, the challenges of building tech companies on an island with limited resources, and the creative ways locals are leveraging their multicultural connections to access international markets.

For someone accustomed to the startup scenes of Austin and Berlin, witnessing this scrappy island innovation was refreshing. I found myself drawing parallels between these entrepreneurs and the wildlife adaptations I'd observed in Kenya—both demonstrating remarkable resilience and creativity in response to environmental constraints.

My productivity toolkit remained simple but effective: my laptop, noise-canceling earbuds, and my trusty travel power adapter that handled Curaçao's 127V/50Hz European-style outlets without issue. Most cafés and restaurants offered free WiFi, though connection speeds varied widely outside dedicated workspaces.

What struck me most was how easily work and leisure integrated here. A morning of emails might flow into an afternoon snorkel session, followed by an evening discussion about digital marketing strategies with new local friends. This natural blend—impossible in my structured life back home—reminded me why I'm drawn to these working travel experiences in the first place.

If there's one universal truth I've discovered through years of travel, it's that food offers the most direct path to understanding a place's soul. In Willemstad, this principle proved especially true, as the city's complex cultural heritage is perfectly expressed through its cuisine.

Rather than sticking to tourist recommendations, I made it my mission to eat where locals eat. This approach led me to Plasa Bieu (Old Market), a no-frills food hall in downtown Punda where local women have been serving traditional dishes from individual stalls for generations. The setup is communal—long tables shared with strangers who quickly become conversation partners as you navigate the unfamiliar menu together.

On my first visit, I was admittedly overwhelmed by the Dutch-Creole-African fusion options until an elderly gentleman noticed my indecision. "Try the kabritu stobá," he suggested, pointing to a fragrant goat stew simmering nearby. "My grandmother's recipe was better, but this one is still good." This interaction set the pattern for my culinary exploration—local recommendations leading to remarkable flavors and even better stories.

Through these food adventures, I discovered dishes that told Curaçao's history with every bite: keshi yená (hollowed Gouda cheese stuffed with spiced meat—a creative repurposing from plantation days), funchi (a polenta-like cornmeal staple with African roots), and the ubiquitous fresh catch of the day prepared with Dutch-influenced sauces but Caribbean spices.

One evening, following a tip from my hotel's bartender, I found myself at Hofi Cas Cora, a farm-to-table restaurant set in an old plantation house outside the city. Here, I joined a communal dinner where each course came with a story about the ingredients' origins and cultural significance. The chef, noticing my genuine interest, invited me to return the next morning to help harvest herbs and learn about the indigenous plants that form the backbone of the island's traditional medicine.

Even my morning coffee routine became a cultural exploration. At Nieuw Café, housed in a former merchant's home in Otrobanda, the barista explained how Curaçao's position at the crossroads of coffee-producing regions influenced local preferences—stronger than American brews but less intense than espresso, often served with a hint of cinnamon or orange peel.

Perhaps my most memorable meal came from the most unexpected place. Following the sound of music down a residential street in Otrobanda, I discovered a family hosting their weekly "Sopi Saturdei" (Soup Saturday)—an informal gathering where neighbors contribute ingredients for a massive pot of sopí di yuana (iguana soup, believed to have medicinal properties). Despite my initial hesitation, their warm insistence that I join them resulted in not just a unique culinary experience but an afternoon of cultural exchange where my questions about the soup led to conversations about island traditions, family histories, and the changing face of Curaçao.

I documented these culinary discoveries in a dedicated journal, noting not just flavors but the contexts and conversations that surrounded them. My pocket food dictionary proved invaluable for deciphering menus and understanding the historical significance of certain dishes.