The Divi Divi tree grows only in Aruba; attempts to plant it in other parts of the world have always failed. The tree’s unique leaning shape, used for centuries to show the direction of the trade winds, looks like giant hands have come along and gently pushed it, molding it like soft clay. It’s the giant hands of the trade winds, gentle but persistent, shaping the growth of the trunk every day, year after year.

For a New Englander like myself, Aruba in late winter is almost too abruptly paradise-y to handle. The day the plane took off, the streets of my neighborhood were still muffled with snow and ice:

Four hours later, I stepped into a warm tropical oasis where the average  year round temperature is 81 degrees. My skin couldn’t quite believe the sensation of warm sun and wind. I would start to reach for my down jacket and boots before I remembered the beach stretching for miles outside the hotel door. But soon those trade winds take hold of the deeply rooted winter psyche and blows it away, far out into the Caribbean sea. Like the iguanas that slink across the landscape, adapting effortlessly to the colors of the environment, it’s an easy transition to shed winter sweaters and run barefoot out into the sun. You start to blend in with the easy island way of life.

Aruba is one of the ABC islands, originally used as a fortress by the Dutch during the “Eighty Year’s War” with Spain, but is now an independent nation that relies heavily on tourism for economic survival. The tourist footprint is inescapable, especially in the cotton candy-colored Palm Beach area (a landscape of international hotel chain highrises, cars, and European sunburns). But there are pockets of original Aruban flavor tucked here and there if you’re looking.

Here’s a desert vista, drawn while hiking in the Arikok National Forest:

cave paintings by the Arawak Indians– postcards from 2500 BC:

Snorkeling along the rainbow reefs at Boca Catalina:

And of course the famous pre-Lent party, the Aruban Carnival:

I won’t lie– after a week in Aruba, it’s nearly unbearable to return to a wintry urban Northeast, even if you get to do so with a tan and a baggie of seashells.  But my sketchbook still smells like suntan lotion, so when I’m stuck inside (like during today’s cold rainstorm), I can go back to the island of the Divi Divi for a while… I think there’s a part of me that’s been shaped by those trade winds, just like the tree, a part that hears our snorkeling boat captain’s smooth voice over the PA system of my daydreams: “jus’ take it cooool… and….calm…. jus’ be happy, no?”