I’m home.
Adobo’s on the stove, boiled eggs doing their thing, and I’m trying to remember what my own bed feels like.
There’s a mountain of laundry in the corner.
But I can’t deal with that right now.
Because sitting in the laundry room — still judging me silently — are my husband’s once-white Vans.
Remember those?
The Vans That Became a Science Project
I bought them right before the cruise.
Clean, white, canvas Vans — because he insisted he didn’t need the leather version I suggested.
I offered. I warned.
“Canvas is harder to clean,” I said.
But he stood firm.
Mr. Big Boss Confident Much.
Fast-forward to Vegas, post-cruise.
He’s perched at the casino sports book — multitasking like a millennial with ADHD: one hand on the slot machine, the other tracking his fantasy football on his tablet and eyes darting between 12 TV screens, clearly having the time of his multi-sensory life.
Then the bartender hands him a bloody margarita.
And it spills.
All. Over. Him.
Pants, carpet, and yes — those pristine white canvas Vans.
They soaked it up like a ShamWow at a crime scene.
He froze.
I stared.
He mumbled, “I’ll clean it.”
He hasn’t.
And now those shoes are sitting in the laundry room like a failed science experiment.
And me?
Instead of washing them, I’d rather daydream about powdery white sands, gentle waves, and clear waters that didn’t once resemble a bloody cocktail crime scene.
So let's rewind.
Back to Aruba.
A for Aruba — Because Apparently We Do the ABCs Backwards
If you’ve been following this saga, you know we sailed to the ABC Islands — except in reverse.
Curaçao. Bonaire. Aruba.
Because of course we did.
CBA: Chaos Before All.
Or maybe just “Cruising But Aging.”
By the time we reached A for Aruba, I had mentally clocked out of cruise schedules, towel animals, and the buffet’s midnight cheese tower.
I just wanted beach.
No plans. No tours. Just sun, silence, and if possible, no spillage.
Into the Deep — Literally
We signed up for the Atlantis Submarine Tour — a real submarine that descends 147 feet below sea level.
No wet suits, no swimsuits, no life vests — just you, a pressurized cabin, and the subtle fear that someone might ignore the one rule they gave us:
“No farting. The air is shared.”
Welcome to underwater intimacy.
The descent? Smooth.
The views? Unreal.
We passed shipwrecks, swam through colorful fish, and watched the sunlight fade as we sank deeper and deeper.
It was like floating through a screensaver — except real, and mildly claustrophobic.
Would I do it again?
Absolutely.
With fewer beans the night before.
Eagle Beach and Fish That Know No Boundaries
After the sub, we needed air.
And salt.
And a flat surface to lie down on like overcooked salmon.
We DIY’d it and cabbed straight to Eagle Beach, one of Aruba’s most beautiful (and widest) public beaches.
No resort fees. No wristbands. Just show up and exist.
The sand?
Whiter than his Vans used to be.
Soft. Cool. Almost rude in how perfect it was.
And while we waded into the water, a big school of fish showed up and swirled around our legs like we were part of their choreography.
No snorkels, no flippers — just our wrinkly toes, their curious fins, and a shared respect not to freak each other out.
We didn’t bring towels.
Or chairs.
We just flopped down in the sand like sea lions on their lunch break and soaked in the moment.
It was peace.
Messy, sunscreen-sticky, slightly sandy peace.
And if you're planning to go to Aruba and want more party than peace?
Let me tell you — Kukoo Kunuku is the bus you want.
We did that tour the last time we were here.
Old, loud, no aircon — basically a 1950s school bus that handed you maracas and dragged you to bar hop across the island.
It was chaotic.
It was hilarious.
And yes, they dropped us off safely at the ship after all that.
No one cared how old the bus was.
We were too busy shaking those maracas and yelling "one more!" like college kids in denial.
Reality: Now Streaming in the Kitchen
The shoes are still dirty.
The adobo’s nearly done.
One grandson is in the Philippines, the other in Vegas.
And here I am, writing flag books for them and trying to stop smelling phantom buffet waffles in my dreams.
But in my head, I’m still there.
Still hearing the waves.
Still seeing fish shimmer in the sunlight.
Still dodging fart danger in a submarine with strangers.
Because that’s what good travel does.
It leaves stains — not just on shoes, but in memory.
And between the buffet bloat, the cruise chaos, and the cursed canvas sneakers, I’d do it all again.
(Except this time, we’re getting the leather version.)
Next up: You want the Filipino adobo recipe? Fine. But no judging my garlic-to-chicken ratio.
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