In the morning, Mom and I would get up, go out to breakfast at the Dutch Pancake House directly across from our hotel, and eat outside in wicker chairs among the flitting bananaquits and the other early risers. Oranjestad in the morning was spectacular; locals took the bus or rode bicycles to their jobs, visitors revered the sunrise and enjoyed strong cups of coffee with Frisian Flag evaporated milk mixed in. It was the nectar of the gods, that coffee. The square was quiet. Only the sounds of light conversation between vacationing couples or the occasional clank of a fork against a ceramic plate created any sort of din.
Not only did I savor the absence of noise, but I reveled in the taste of the island. Aruba is home to many cultural influences, but in my opinion, the breakfast foods of the Netherlands cannot be beat. A traditional Dutch pancake is like a crepe, only thicker. The batter is sweet, and the single pancake extends all the way to the very rim of the plate. Covered in butter and powdered sugar, it needs nothing to be delicious; still, the options were endless. Fruit lovers could order strawberries, bananas, brandied raisins, apples and cinnamon, peaches drizzled in Grand Marnier, anything the culinary mind could imagine. For those with a savory palate, the pancake could be slathered in bacon, ham, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, andmore. I tried the Provençale and was served a pancake covered in ham, French brie, chives, honey, and caramelized walnuts. Another day, I tried poffertjes and was delighted by smaller, slightly fluffier versions of the same basic Dutch pancake, only embellished with Nutella and coconut flakes. Coupled with the relaxation on my mother’s sun-kissed face, I dared believe that this trip was precisely what the doctor ordered.
After breakfast, we chose between taking a water taxi over to the Renaissance’s private island and lying out at the beach there for the day or staying poolside behind the hotel. We would find a spot and luxuriate in lounge chairs, alternately reading books, listening to music via AirPods, or loosely chatting. Nothing heavy was to be discussed, we agreed. No talk of ailments, impending visits to the cardiologist; nothing that awaited us back home mattered that week. That was our deal, and I was naively happy to stick to it.
Mom and I would often order lunch from those chairs. If we were at the private island, sometimes we’d visit the restaurant there. If we were poolside, we would either swim up to the pool bar and have lunch submerged waist-deep in the water or we’d order lunch to be delivered to the little table in the sand between the two of us. We learned quickly to mind the iguanas; if you feed them, they’ll come back for more and bring their friends, like seagulls. One day, we saw a guy give an iguana a french fry off his plate. Just minutes later, he was surrounded by an army of over a dozen of the island lizards.
Usually, Beckett would find us after lunch, somewhere around 2:00 p.m. He spent his mornings writing, he said. He’d discovered a spot on the opposite side of the square at the Renaissance Marina hotel, which was adults only. There was Starbucks coffee available and an infinity pool that was very quiet in the morning, likely because the patrons on that side of the street were heavier into the nightlife than on our family-friendly side, thus giving them a slower start to the day. He’d grab a croissant and somefruit, pack a bottle of water, and sit by that pool with his laptop. But by 2:00 p.m., the pool became busier, and he said he grew weary of squinting into the screen. So he’d come look for us. If we weren’t over by our pool, he knew to grab a water taxi and check the private island. There was nowhere else we would be, because despite my mom’s grandiose talk of excursions and such, the truth of the matter was her body craved rest. One might argue that the Renaissance’s greatest gift was its ability to bestow rest on its patrons, and we basked in it.
She napped a lot. Little catnaps, sometimes in the sun, sometimes in the shade. She swam occasionally but not for long, mostly just a quick dip to cool down. She drank a lot too, often starting around 11:00 a.m. with a bushwacker. “To break the seal for the day,” she would joke. Again, I hadn’t seen my mother this relaxed, well, ever. So, I went with it. It was refreshing to see her so effortlessly happy, even if it was partially alcohol induced.
Once Beckett found us, she’d encourage me to go spend some time with him, assuring me that she would be just fine on her own. She would all but shoo us away, conjuring up her most charming side, cooing at Beckett with a salacious side-eye. Never before had my mother been so eager for me to couple up with someone, and while on the one hand it was a little bit surprising, on the other it was so nice to have endless permission to go fulfill my heart’s desires in paradise at Christmastime.
We went snorkeling together. We walked through town and shopped for things we didn’t need: a necklace made of shells for me, a leather strap bracelet for him. We talked to the locals about their holiday traditions and learned that Sinterklaas (Santa Claus) visited the island by boat and gave little gifts to the children on the dock at Renaissance Square. We rented WaveRunners. I always made sure we were close enough to keep an eye on my mom—well, sort of. But we never really left her for more than two hours so that we could be back for showers and to get ready for dinner at 5:00 p.m. Every single day,upon our return to her lounging location of choice, my mother would invite Beckett to eat with us.
And every day, he said yes.
After our delicious meal at the Cuban restaurant on our first night, we decided we should try all of the food options in the square at least once. So, the second night, we went to the Chinese restaurant at Beckett’s suggestion.
“I mean, if nothing else, it’s got to be pretty cool to see what Chinese food is like on a tropical island, right?” he asked us. “Plus, tonight’s dinner is on me. Since you treated last night.”
My mother smiled at the chivalry. “I have never said no to a man paying for my food,” she announced.
The restaurant, called Hung Paradise, offered Dutch-Asian fusion cuisine, the idea of which got us all pretty excited. As with all offerings in the square, it was al fresco dining, so we made ourselves comfortable under the canopy in the open-air seating area. We had a view of the marina and the Seaport Casino, and between watching the last water taxis of the day float down to the marina-side hotel and people lazily strolling in and out of the casino, there was plenty to look at.
“A rijsttafel,” Beckett said, butchering the pronunciation as he pondered the menu. “I wonder what that is.”
“Oh my gosh, look!” my mom exclaimed. “They have a giant egg roll. Would you two want to try that?” she asked.
“Sure,” I shrugged. “I’m going to have the roast pork lo mein, if anyone wants to share.”
“We can all share,” Mom suggested. “How about the pineapple shrimp fried rice?”
“Love that. Are you good with beef and broccoli?” Beckett asked.
We nodded. The waiter came and took our order. Beckett pointed to the menu and asked, “What does this mean?”
“The rijsttafel is a traditional Indonesian rice table. We give you many small bowls to try.”
“Small bowls of what?”
“Side dishes. It is good if you want to taste many things.”
“Oh,” he smiled. “So, like, tapas.” Beckett nodded. “I’ll have that.” He pointed at the menu again. The waiter gave Beckett a mildly amused look, nodded, and went inside to the kitchen.
Before we knew what was happening, we were amid a feast. Seriously. It was enough food to feed an entire classroom of children. The waiter had to drag another table over to ours just to accommodate all the dishes we were being served. Between the rice table and the tremendous egg roll, we could have all eaten for a week, but add to that the three full entrées we also ordered, which included a scooped-out, halved pineapple overflowing with rice, and we were becoming quite the spectacle for tourists walking past. I could only imagine how much all this food was going to cost Beckett.
He didn’t flinch, though. My mom clapped her hands at the absurdity, and we all took turns with the various dishes. “Taste and pass, taste and pass,” Mom sang. Before long, the roaming mariachi band appeared at our table and began serenading us. The singer placed his sombrero on my mother’s head, and she fed the guitarist spoonfuls of fried rice.
When the band moved on to the Mexican restaurant several feet away, Mom asked the waiter for two large glasses and a big handful of forks. He quizzically acknowledged the request and brought her the utensils. She dug into her purse and pulled out a marker and a small notebook. Flipping open to a blank page, she wrote, “We ordered too much! Come have a taste of this amazing food!” She tore it out and set it at the head of the table for passersby to read. Then, on another sheet, she drew two arrows, one marked “clean forks” and the other marked “dirty forks.” She placed all the forks in one glass and placed the page beneath it, with the clean forks arrow pointed in its direction.
Beckett laughed when he realized what she was doing. “You think anyone will really stop, Miss Paulson?” he asked.
“Beckett, I swear, if you don’t drop that Miss Paulson nonsense and start calling me Birdie, I will have every last dish here wrapped up and sent right to your room,” she warned him. “And furthermore, yes, I believemanypeople will stop.”
She scooched her chair away from the table then and turned ninety degrees to face the people as they passed. “Aruba is one happy island!” she exclaimed. “Come and share our feast!”
A group of what appeared to be bachelorettes giggled their way past, one politely mumbling “No, thank you” as the others looked at my mother as though she had a few bulbs out on the proverbial Christmas tree.
