When the Universe Swipes Right

It’s a Friday afternoon on the island of Curaçao and I'm lounging on a hotel balcony, deep into Jen Kirkman’s I Know What I’m Doing and Other Lies I Tell Myself thanks to another recommendation from Amazon and her appearances on Chelsea Handler's late-night show. The Caribbean breeze dances with the pages as I bask in the vivid hues of the Hilton Curaçao’s weathered teal and pink decor. The hotel looks as if it’s been marinated in years of frat parties, but the view of the turquoise sea and the private beach is worth every frayed detail.

Why did I take this picture the night I was sitting alone at a bar in Curacao? No idea.

I’ve been here before—twice, in fact. In 2016 and 2017, this very room was the backdrop of a relationship that felt, well, as colorful and chaotic as this hotel. Now, as I sit alone, the place feels eerily familiar, and frankly sad. It turns out visiting a tropical honeymoon destination by yourself isn't as fun as with someone else. This trip to Curaçao is a bit of a paradox: I’ve returned because I extolled the island’s virtues to friends and family, and now, a family friend is here with me, seeking retirement real estate. The flights were booked through Avianca with a layover in Bogota, Colombia, which we decided to explore before heading to Curaçao for ten days.

The previous night, upon arriving at this hotel, a familiar feeling of emptiness engulfs me. The hotel bar becomes my refuge, but its limited Dutch-regulated alcohol selection offers little solace (pro tip - stick with wine and beer as it can't be watered down).

The next morning, Family Friend and I awake for a driving tour around the island that I had arranged. Our driver, Andy, is someone who I had found on TripAdvisor in 2016 and was still giving tours, having upgraded from minivan to minibus. After arranging a tour via email, Andy pulls up in front of the Hilton resort and casino. Curaçao is one of my favorite places in earth and isn’t lacking in beauty and history. We drive around all of the main attractions and then head back to the hotel. Family friend hits the sack early and I’m sitting on my balcony reading Jenn Kirkman.

What do you do after a night of drinking alone at a hotel bar? Take photos of your hotel room, of coarse.

I come across a quote that she included in her writing… There are two questions a man must ask himself: The first is where am I going and the second is who will go with me? If you ever get these questions in the wrong order, you are in trouble. ~ Sam Keen

The page sticks out to me enough for me to take note of it and snap a pic with my phone, but I figure I’ll think about it more later.

As the evening wears on, I grapple with the idea of spending another night alone or making the arduous journey to the hotel’s bar or the downtown waterfront, with all its potential risks—especially given a recent disappearance of an American girl in nearby Aruba. It's not sustainable to sit at the hotel bar racking up huge bar tabs every night for ten nights, but I also don't want to go out on the town alone.

I text my trusted fiends affectionally known as "my lesbians" at home as I vacillate between staying in and going out by myself on a Dutch Caribbean Island after, not too long before, an American girl had disappeared on nearby Aruba.

Just then, the universe plays its hand. A message dings on my dating app: “Hello.”

I scrutinize his photos with the same intensity I’d use to inspect a mysterious package. He seems presentable enough. I respond with a casual, “How’s it going?”

Turns out, he’s just arrived on the island and is staying at the boutique hotel across the street.

"I just arrived on the island. Are you local or visiting?"

"I'm from California, but it's my third time here. I feel like I have the entire place memorized given its size," I reply.

Our conversation topics range from what there is to do in Curaçao to our hotels and the fact that the app shows that he's only a couple hundred feet away. It turns out that he's at the hotel across the street from mine and it doesn't contain a restaurant. I text my lesbians and ask if it's crazy if I invite him out to dinner, though I'm unsure if I want a stranger at my hotel, particularly since there are security guards at a gate in front of the property and I haven't a clue how one would describe the scenario to a pair of security guards.

My lesbians suggest a meet-up in the waterfront area to ensure my safety and ease.

"I'm uncomfortable driving. I have a British driver's license and I've been living in New York City for several years. I'm not used to driving on the righthand side of the road and it's been years since I've driven. It's also dark and raining and I hesitated to drive from the airport to my hotel."

His inability to drive due to British driving habits and the dark, rainy night turns his journey into a no-go. Despite the lesbian's continued encouragement, I waver. The notion of driving to a different hotel, picking up a stranger, and navigating pitch-black, unlit roads in a foreign country is daunting.

"Just be friends," they say in a supportive tone, knowing everything that I had been through during the past two years. I ponder while I weigh my options: stay at my hotel and rack up another exorbitant bar tab alone or take the rental car to pick up a total stranger at a different hotel and drive 30 minutes to the downtown area of the island's capital of Willemstad down dark roads in a foreign country.

"Perhaps we should wait until tomorrow," he messages me. My resolve solidifies when he suggests postponing our meeting.

We set a time for me to pick him up. I continue filling in the lesbians at home and they're urge me to proceed, even though I'm unsure how they'd help me if something were to actually happen to me given they are in California and I'm off the coast of Venezuela. I take screenshots of all of this profile photos and send them to the lesbians with a text that says, "If I'm murdered tonight, this is who did it."

I shower and throw on a polo shirt with jeans, walk out to the rental car among the sounds of tropical Caribbean bugs and frogs, and drive down the Hilton's road to the main two-lane highway, and drive across the highway to the property across the street. I feel a little naughty taking the rental car while the family friend was down for the night even though I'm 38 and put the car on my credit card.

The rental car that I felt like I was stealing even though it was in my name.

"Here we go," I think to myself while wondering if this is a huge mistake. "All I know about this guy is that he's British, lives in New York City, is in his mid-30s, and his hotel doesn't have a restaurant. That's all I need to know, right?"

As I pull up, a handsome man awaits in the roundabout, his appearance far exceeding my expectations. even though my goal for the evening is to make a new friend with whom to break bread.

I pull over and wave at him through the passenger side window. He gets in. I reach out to shake his hand, "Hi. I'm Doug."

"Hi, I'm (I'll call him the Brit). It's hot and muggy out tonight," he observes while greeting me.

The weather seems like a very British opening statement, and quite the understatement.

We're making small talk when a confluence of items occurs. First, navigating the car with Waze proves challenging; the road is a labyrinth of tiny turns, and the map doesn't give advance notice to account for being located on a tiny island with tiny intersections that I keep passing. Second, it starts to pour, I can't figure out how to use the windshield wipers, and there aren't any streetlights outside of Willemstad. Third, the windshield starts fogging up and I can't locate the defroster on this European-style SUV. The icing on the cake is that there's nowhere to pull over on the side of the roads in the brush.

I slow the car to a glacial pace and turn to the Brit, "I'm going to ask for a favor. Here's my phone. Please give me directions before the navigator does so I don't miss any turns out while I figure out how to use this car."

The Brit takes the lead in directing me while I wrestle with the vehicle, turning a potentially stressful situation into a shared adventure.

He rolls with it and watches the map on Waze while I figure out how to work the car, which I regretfully should've thought of prior to driving it. He continues providing me with directions once I figure out how to use the vehicle, perhaps sensing that I was a little stressed out by this drive. It feels odd to have a stranger holding my phone, but it seems like the best solution.

Our destination is Willemstad, the island’s capital, known for its vibrant architecture and historical charm. Curaçao, with its Dutch colonial influence and Caribbean spirit, is a fusion of history and color.

When you go to Curaçao, Helga, the one-woman Hertz Rental Car welcome committee with a Dutch Caribbean accent, tells you about the dirt parking lot across the street from the Renaissance. It's not actually a parking lot, but rather a vacant field laden with muddy potholes that locals use to avoid paying for parking. I park in the dirt lot and the Brit follows my lead to the waterfront. I begin listing off a few options for us to do along the waterfront that feels strangely quiet for a Friday night, including the restaurant that I found during prior visits to the island because it was the highest rated one on TripAdvisor.

He looks at me with a grin on his face, "I travel to eat at restaurants," he says. "Let's go there."

I try to temper his expectations given Curaçao isn't the place for the foodie elite as we walk into a bustling restaurant. Gouverneur de Rouville, overlooking the water, sets the stage for a night of delightful conversation.

"Everyone on the island is here tonight," the Brit dryly observes.

We're eventually seated in an exclusive spot overlooking historic Willemstad that typically requires reservations, but we lucked out. I mention how much I love all of the Dutch cheese on the island. He suggests that we start with a cheese plate and a bottle of wine. I'm somewhat blown away by the fact that I'm having dinner with a Bonafide adult. He suggests that I pick but I talk through the list with him, and I'm impressed with his wine knowledge - not something you find outside of wine regions in the States.

The wine list at Gouverneur de Rouville

We place our orders. The wine comes out first. He appoints me as the wine taster when the bottle is opened. The waiter fills our glasses.

"What do you do for work," he inquires.

"I run a museum."

"Really? That's not a profession that you ever hear people say when you ask what they do. What type of museum do you run?"

"Natural history," I say and then show him photos on my phone of projects that I've worked on.

As we taste Dutch cheeses and sip on a well-chosen bottle of wine, the Brit’s knowledge of all things edible impresses me. Our conversation flows effortlessly, touching on everything from Curaçao’s allure to travel tales and dating disasters.

My meal with Willemstad as a backdrop, a feat typically impossible without advance reservations.

"What do you do," I ask, feel a little odd that it took me so long to get around to inquiring about him.

"I'm a doctor," he replies.

He’s a doctor, a fact that surprises me more than it should. One doesn't expect to hop around tropical island countries having dinner with attractive and funny doctors with cute accents.

The conversation flows exceptionally smoothly until he asks why I've been back to this island three times. I want to avoid talking about my ex but here we are. I explain that he hated traveling but liked Curaçao. This time around, I'm here looking at real estate with a family friend.

This seems to intrigue him as it's the stuff that HGTV shows are made from. It just doesn't feel as glamorous as it looks on TV.

My curiosity must be apparent when I tell him, "I'm surprised your single in New York. It's a huge city with so many people in it. I live in a rural area and there just aren't a lot of people to date. I always thought that the reason that I'm single is the tiny dating pool."

He shares a few New York dating horror stories, and I take them in like sponge given how out of practice I am.

In turn, I tell him about being on a year of adventures, trying to have a new experience for each letter of the alphabet, for example climbing pyramids in Egypt for the letter C.

"Have you heard of a travel website called Most Traveled People?" he asks. The Brit then explains that it's an extreme travel game of sorts that lists all of the world's top beached, UNESCO World Heritage Sites, Michelin star restaurants, and more.

I'm floored to learn of a community of people with my shared interests. Up until this point, I thought I was just crazy for wanting to see the world and have new experiences. This is what living in a small town leads you to believe.

We wrap up dinner and stroll through Willemstad’s picturesque streets. The vibrantly colorful historic buildings are an amalgamation of Dutch architecture and Caribbean flair are made from local stone consisting of fossilized coral. They reflect in the water of the inlet that bisects Willemstad.

A unique feature of Willemstad is its pedestrian bridge that connects the two parts of the city, the Punda and the Otrobanda “other side”. The Queen Emma Bridge, a pontoon bridge built in 1888 and restored in the mid-2000s, is a marvel of Dutch engineering and local ingenuity. It swings open to allow boats through, an elegant and functional relic of the past. It’s attached to an engine and a man sits in a kiosk and opens the bridge when a boat needs to come in.

We cross the bridge and find ourselves at a seemingly closed waterfront restaurant and bar called the Iguana Cafe where we inquire about ordering a drink. They are about to close so limit us to beers. The evening’s warmth and the reflective waters combined with an ice-cold beverage create a perfect setting. Most of the conversation is about where we've been and where we'd like to go next, and I mention St. Maarten's famed airplane beach. People on a beach with beautiful blue water as they brace themselves from being blown over from jet air from planes across the street makes me chuckle.

Sometimes you just need to climb a giant iguana statue with the word "Dushi" behind you.

We finish the beers, and I walk the Brit around the downtown area. We walk past a store called Mr. Tablecloth that I explain has been closed every time I've been to the island and how perplexed I am that it's somehow able to stay in business even though I'm sure rent is high in a cruise ship port. We stumble upon a small park, home to a giant iguana statue and letters that spell out the word Dushi - a word you hear everywhere on the island. Dutch and the local creole language, Papiamento, are the most widely spoken languages on the island. Dushi always means something positive like sweet (the word may come from the Spanish word 'dulce'), babe (every morning I was greeted by the waitress at the Hilton when she called out "Good morning, Dushis!" in her thick Caribbean accent), tasty, nice, and also sexy (for good measure).

I look at the Brit and ask him if he thinks the giant Iguana statue can hold me. "Sure, why not," he says. I hand him my phone and he captures a few photos of me. We get a few laughs. It's always fun to act like teenagers when you're in your late 30s.

The Brit's Instagram post of the two of us on Queen Emma Bridge.

We walk across Queen Emma Bridge again. He asks me if I'll take a selfie of the two of us and I agree.

From here, we spent the next four days together nonstop. We went on an underwater diving motorcycle adventure known as an "aquafari" where I blew out an eardrum, but mostly we had fun at the beach. He flaked on his surfing yoga retreat, and I went through the awkward motion of having to introduce him to the family friend as someone that I had met at a bar. He got a little embarrassed when he realized that he had posted the photo of the two of us on Instagram, because, in his words, he never posted photos of people on social media, only food.

I was so happy. I found someone who shared my same interests and had my same dry sense of humor. I want to say that Instagram stories used to be live for longer than 24 hours back in the day, because I took an opportunity to take a screenshot of the Brit's story of the two of us on Queen Emma Bridge.

The morning came when it was time for the Brit to head back to New York to go to work. I think we were both sad, but neither of us wanted to admit it. The feelings quickly dissipated when his rental car wouldn't start. I tried it myself and it sounded like he had a dead battery. I stayed with him until an agent from the rental car company was able to come resolve the issue.

The aquafair in Curacao, where I'd later learn that I ruptured an eardrum.

Once the Brit was gone, I headed back to my hotel room and felt a huge sense of loss. I didn't want to text him for fear of seeming desperate of chasing after someone who didn't want anything to do with me after past experiences (volleyball player, cough cough). After awhile, I convinced myself that I was grateful for my time with the Brit even if I never heard from him again. This allowed me to fall back asleep.

I awoke an hour or so later and laid in bed and wondered what to do with myself for the day. I rolled over in my groggy state, peeked at my phone, and read a text message that said, "This lounge is vile and they don't have real champagne, but at least I can make a mimosa," accompanying a photo of a champagne glass and luggage.

I hadn't been ghosted.

Pretty sure this was the point in which my ear drum ruptured and the diver couldn't figure out why I didn't want to go any deeper.

I spend my last couple of days in Curacao with Family Friend bumming around the old city, being forced undercover along a hiking trail during a torrential rainstorm, and low and behold, we catch the Mr. Tablecloth store open. I feel like I can't leave emptyhanded, but have no tablecloth needs of my own, so I buy my mom a set of nice white cloth napkins. I ask Family Friend to take a photo of me with my Mr. Tablecloth bag and shoot it to the Brit. He laughs, so I follow up with a photo of the same type of beer at the same table we sat at several nights earlier and a message that says, "So, when are we going to St. Maarten?" I'm normally not this gutsy, but what did I have to lose?

The airport lounge mimosa photo that gave me faith in humanity again.

I think there are several lessons I learned from my time in Curaçao

It takes being sad to realize when you're happy. Life can be sad but still full of meaning. I’ll never regret a person that I had an amazing time and experience with. Even if we fall off. This person made my life special at a certain time.

I learned what it felt like to be part of a team facing an obstacle instead of fighting. I traveled with someone who helped me maneuver pitch-black roads while it was pouring, and it all went so smoothly, whereas me and the ex would fight even in the best of weather because he couldn't tolerate less than perfect infrastructure. I think I needed to learn this as all I really knew prior to this was conflict. When he was unhappy, he made me unhappy.

Perhaps most importantly, I’m not completely dead on the inside. I joke about having no soul, but the reality is that I’m still a feeling human and I shouldn't be scared of other people.

In some bizarre twist of fate, Jenn Kirkman's book included a quote about traveling that was a remarkable confluence of events.

Actual image of my Mr. Tablecloth purchase.

I continued reading Jenn Kirkman's book throughout the duration of this trip. She included a paragraph about how we dream about what we'd like, assume we'll be getting exactly what we ordered from the menu of life, but it turns out we get something slightly different than what we imaged. So, we adjust.

In my case, I met a handsome unassuming Brit with a wicked sense of humor on a tropical island out of a magazine that reminded me that I could feel happy again. This is not a turn that I ever expected life to take.

I'll forever be grateful for meeting this person. And the timing and location couldn't have been better.

Well played, universe. Well played.