If you’d asked me two days ago what I knew about Curaçao, I’d have told you: “Nothing, besides it being a small Dutch island off the coast of Venezuela—nice beaches, high costs, and lots of retired tourists, I imagine.”
I had no intention of setting foot there any time soon. Yet, in a characteristic demonstration of the Butterfly Effect, a snowstorm in Toronto—which may well have been caused by a lepidopteron flapping its wings somewhere—canceled my flight and rerouted me to Curaçao, with about 18 hours at my disposal. Here, I’ll share the story of this unexpected visit, along with some information you might find useful if you ever find yourself briefly visiting this vibrant island.
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Accommodation at Curaçao Airport
I landed in Curaçao just before midnight. By the time I cleared immigration and figured out the continuation of my trip, the airport was utterly deserted. Along with a couple of fellow passengers who were in a similar situation, we walked the dark and quiet road for about ten minutes to the Curaçao Airport Hotel.
A jolly girl at the reception booked us in without fuss, her good mood cutting through the late-night fatigue. I grabbed some instant noodles and a beer for dinner and took them up to my room—nothing fancy, but perfectly adequate after a long day of reroutes and waiting. The room was simple yet comfortable, and the small balcony turned out to be its best feature. I sat there for a while, staring into the darkness where the sea merged with the night, the empty runway stretching out below like a paused scene.
Jet lag didn’t allow for much rest, so I slept only a couple of hours before giving up. By morning, I made my way to the hotel’s poolside restaurant for breakfast. Daylight had transformed the view: the sea was now bright and calm, and small, colorful birds darted effortlessly through the air, adding some unexpected liveliness to the scene. Refreshed enough, I finished up, checked out, and headed toward town—ready for a slow, unplanned walk through Willemstad.
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From Curaçao Airport to Willemstad
I asked the (different but equally jolly) receptionist about the best way to get to town. She suggested either a shuttle, which would cost $25—about half the price of a regular taxi—or the public bus for just $2. I chose the latter. It ran every hour and stopped at the bus stop just across the street from the hotel.
The bus showed up in less than fifteen minutes. It was a small, old van—easy to imagine it getting crowded during rush hours, but at that early hour it was almost empty and surprisingly comfortable. I took a seat by the window while the driver chatted incessantly with another guy riding shotgun, their conversation flowing uninterrupted, as if the bus were an extension of a living room.
The ride took about half an hour, extended by several detours through residential neighborhoods. Instead of fixed stops, passengers were dropped off right at their doors, the van weaving casually through quiet streets before continuing on. It was slow but unhurried, and it felt like a gentle, informal introduction to the island’s rhythms before I was finally deposited at the central bus station (location) on the edge of Willemstad.
A Walk around Willemstad
Willemstad is compact but layered, shaped by nearly four centuries of colonial history and maritime trade. Founded in 1634 by the Dutch West India Company, it grew around the natural harbor of Schottegat, splitting into distinct quarters on either side of the St. Anna Bay. Punda, the oldest part, developed first as a fortified trading post, while Otrobanda—literally “the other side”—expanded later, more organically, as the city spilled westward. Today, the whole town feels walkable and legible, its layout dictated less by grand planning and more by water, wind, and commerce.
It was hot, but a steady breeze coming off the sea made it manageable, even pleasant. From certain angles along the waterfront, a couple of enormous cruise ships loomed just beyond the town’s edge, dwarfing everything around them. Against their scale, Willemstad looked almost toy-like—rows of pastel buildings clustered tightly together, as if the city could be scooped up and relocated elsewhere. It was a reminder of how central cruise tourism has become here, even if the town itself still retains a distinct personality beyond it.
I began on the western side, in Otrobanda, which immediately felt looser and more textured. The architecture here is less polished than in Punda, but richer in character: restored merchant houses sit next to crumbling façades, and large-scale murals cover entire walls. Kaya Kaya Street Art Square (location), part of an ongoing urban revitalization project, was one of the highlights—colorful, unapologetic murals celebrating Afro-Caribbean identity, history, and everyday life. A small café nearby played Bob Marley softly in the background, the music drifting lazily across the square and completing the scene.
A few minutes away lies Kura Hulanda Village (location), a carefully restored complex of courtyards, museums, and cafés. The Museum Kurá Hulanda itself focuses on the transatlantic slave trade and African heritage. Outside, the mood lightens: cobbled paths, shaded patios, and relaxed cafés make it an easy place to pause. The contrast between the site’s historical weight and its present-day calm is striking.
From there, I walked along the bay promenade, with uninterrupted views across the water toward Punda. The iconic row of colorful façades—often compared to canal houses in Amsterdam—lined the opposite bank: Handelskade (location), a UNESCO-listed strip once housing merchants and warehouses, now one of the city’s most photographed sights. The resemblance is real but softened by Caribbean light and color; less symmetry, more warmth. The water reflected the buildings unevenly, broken occasionally by small boats and the distant movement of port traffic.
Crossing the Queen Emma Bridge felt like entering a different city altogether. The floating pedestrian bridge swayed gently under the weight of a dense tourist crowd. Above it, the Queen Juliana Bridge—one of the tallest bridges in the Caribbean—arched across the bay in a single dramatic span, carrying traffic high overhead. The contrast between the two bridges—one monumental and fixed, the other humble and mobile—says a lot about Willemstad’s layered infrastructure.
On the eastern side, in Punda, the streets felt busier and more commercial. I passed the Punda Love Heart installation (location), a predictable but harmless photo stop, before wandering through Umbrella Street (location), where dozens of colorful umbrellas hang overhead, casting patterned shadows on the pavement. Nearby, Fort Amsterdam still stands at the entrance to the harbor, its thick walls a reminder that this was once a contested military outpost rather than a postcard city. Floating Market stalls lined parts of the waterfront, Venezuelan traders selling fruit and goods directly from their boats—a living remnant of regional trade networks that predate modern borders.
By the time I finished looping through the area, Willemstad felt less like a checklist of sights and more like a place with a rhythm of its own. Compact, sunlit, and visibly shaped by centuries of movement—of goods, people, and ideas—it rewards slow wandering more than rushed sightseeing. For a town often reduced to its colors in photographs, there’s a surprising amount of substance just beneath the surface.
I returned to Kura Hulanda for a late lunch—a simple pizza and a much-needed cup of coffee, taken slowly in the shade in this cozy place. A little later, I caught the bus back to the airport, retracing the same easy route in reverse. A few quiet hours after that unexpected walk through Willemstad, I boarded my final flight and left Curaçao behind, this time for Colombia.
Top Tours & Activities in Curaçao
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