Wow!” exclaimed my college-aged daughter as she transferred my digital pictures of Curacao to the computer.

“I know!” I yelled from the kitchen. “Incredible sunsets!  Especially at Sunset Point, behind the Hilton.”

“Yikes! Rather impressive!”

“That lobster?  Your dad ordered two at Perla del Mar which is part of the old fort in Willemstad, The water lapped at the rocks; ocean spray flew over our table. He didn’t ask the price! You should’ve seen his face when he got the bill.  When changed from guilders to dollars, not quite as bad.  A gust of wind came and blew the bill into the water!” I chuckled as I loaded the dishwasher.

“I can’t believe you took pictures of that!” exclaimed Heather, clucking her tongue with disapproval.

“The Curacao liquor bottles lined up?  All those hues. The distillery fascinated me. They call it Senor’s Curacao liquor.  The founder’s name was actually Senor!  Edgar Senor.”

“This photo is colorful but not of bottles,” she murmured.

“The coral with the red spots?  Those rocks lay all over the beaches. In front of the hotels, they’ve cleared them away.  Dad and I snorkeled right in front of the Marriott. Spectacular!  I spotted at least eight varieties of fish, even a trumpet fish.”

“You’ve a bunch of this same view!”

“The cliffs shots? We were drinking Polar Beer (that’s from Venezuela) and this young guy jumped off into the sea, right next to our table. I snapped his picture.  It was at the west point of the island.”

“Jeesh! You’ve got more than 10 shots of …”

“That pontoon bridge? It floats to the side to allow the ships passage. We sipped Amstel Brights and watched folks dressed up for Carnival stroll by. It was like being in a movie.”

“Are you a pervert?”

I threw my dish rag in the sink. I stared hard at my college –aged kid.  “Am I what?”

“Who took these photos?”

“Me, mostly.  Sometimes, your dad.”

“Dad’s in this one; look in the background. Dad didn’t take this.” My daughter tapped on the picture.  “A woman’s sunning—only she’s mooning!”

I fixated on the row of images of ladies in thongs with ample, curved buttocks exposed.  “Oh, that,” I said, dismissing the rounded bumps with a wave of my hand.

“They look surgically enhanced,” she announced.

“Marge said she didn’t know there was such a thing as “butt envy” till she saw those girls at Curacao.  Marge and her husband got a kick out of watching the Russian sailors flirt with them.”

“Who took these centerfold shots?” she asked again.

“There’s one of Marge with a South American beauty with a well- endowed Aphrodite in the background.   My camera was lying about. Marge was asked to pose in front of the subjects of interest.”  I laughed.

“Her husband’s the shutterbug?”

“Case solved, Sherlock!”  I scanned the next row of images. “Look some photos of oil refineries, “Bon  Bini” signs, and cacti.”

“I bet you took those,” said my daughter. I looked at her and thought how roles reverse as we age.  Here’s she in her twenties and me entering my senior discount age bracket. How she’s becoming more prudish and me…more tolerant.

“Those pictures of the flora?” I asked.  “Mine all right!  You recognize the artistic eye, do you?”




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