Curaçao doesn’t do subtlety, and it doesn’t apologize for that. This is an island that paints its 18th-century Dutch colonial mansions in lemon and coral and mint, then lets the trade winds bend its cactus sideways on the wilder side of town. It has a bar that’s been pouring green rum since 1954 and feels no need to change a thing about it. It built a cathedral out of ninety-two million thorns, because apparently a beautiful garden wasn’t going to cut it.

This is Curaçao, unfiltered — every color, every contrast, entirely itself.