The query persisted into the next morning, when I checked into Lodge Kura Hulanda's sister property, a hotel, spa and casino in the Otrabanda section of Willemstad, just across the river from Punda, the central historic district. Kura Hulanda ("Dutch Courtyard") is a sort of Hollywood Holland, an irresistibly charming recreation of a colonial Dutch village complete with cobblestone streets, a town square and elegant, wood-paneled rooms with four-poster beds. The hotel, a major catalyst of the neighborhood's revitalization, is the brainchild of Dutch philanthropist Jacob Gelt Dekker, who in 1998 bought a rundown mansion in what was then a crime-ridden district. When he discovered that the property sat on the site of a former slave depot, Dekker decided to build Museum Kura Hulanda and made it the focal point of his urban resort. I could have spent a whole day at the Caribbean's only slave museum, fascinated by its collection of documents, artifacts and African art and the chilling experience of descending wooden stairs into a re-creation of the claustrophobic "living" quarters on a slave ship.
After the intensity of the tour, I needed an emotional and literal cool-down, so I headed for the hotel pool, nestled amid African-themed statues and leafy courtyards. Named the Bolivar Pool in honor of the South American freedom fighter who spent several years in Curaçao at the turn of the 19th century, it was further evidence of the island's rich, multinational history. 
When I said as much to hotelier Tone Møller later over cocktails, she beamed. As an owner of Curaçao's legendary Avila, an 18th-century Dutch colonial mansion that's evolved into an über-chic hotel (home to Queen Beatrix of The Netherlands when she's in town), history is all in a day's work. "Dushi!" she greeted Trevor when we arrived at the Avila, using the ubiquitous Papiamento word for "sweetie" as she escorted us to a lounge for champagne and chitchat. "I loved New York," Tone reminisced. She spent years there, working for Leona Helmsley and relishing her Sex and the City lifestyle until she decided to move back home to help run the hotel her father had acquired in 1977.
"My friends said, 'Are you crazy, moving back to an island?' But they didn't realize how cosmopolitan this island was," Møller crowed. She and her father molded the Avila into a cultural mecca, with musicians who played Carnegie Hall performing in its restaurant and a café that has become a haunt for writers and artists. On the way out, I met Mr. Møller, who was excitedly hanging a poster advertising a writers' prize he'd inaugurated, named for Curaçao legend Boeli van Leeuwen, a novelist who passed away in 2007 and a former Avila habitué. We dined at Blues, Avila's restaurant and live-music venue, set over the sea at the end of a pier. I feasted on grilled snapper and tuna tartare as the jazz band played, and Tone and I toasted to Curaçao's dynamic live-music scene, which Blues had had a leading role in creating.
Later I rejoined Trevor, night-life concierge extraordinaire, and we made our way through the throngs at De Heeren, a popular drink-and-dance spot where the crowd spilled into the street. A Cuban jazz band blared from the stage as couples sashayed across the floor. "Geography definitely trumps history," I shouted to Trevor, over the horns. "Why's that?" he asked. "Because the soul of this island isn't Dutch or West Indian; it's Latin, thanks to your neighbors."
"Don't be so sure," came Trevor's reply. Within minutes we were crossing a velvet rope into Europe. At restaurant-cum-club Cinco, amid clouds of cigarette smoke and a riotous sound system, I drank Venezuelan Polar beer and watched what might as well have been the Dutch edition of Girls Gone Wild. As the music switched from "La Bamba" to Jennifer Lopez to European techno – easily the most bizarre musical mash-up I'd ever heard – blonde Dutch girls shook it with sheer abandon. But later that night, tiptoeing over cobblestones to my room at Kura Hulanda, I felt as if I'd suddenly been thrust backwards into another, more civilized, century.
"BON DIA!" Tour guide Gigi greeted nearly everyone who crossed our path as she guided me through Punda, whose collection of pastel-colored historic buildings is the UNESCO World Heritage Site's claim to fame. We traversed the cobblestone interior of imposing Fort Amsterdam, erected in 1635 to defend Peter Stuyvesant's new Dutch colony, and continued to the temple at Mikve Israel-Emmanuel. Completed in 1732, it's the oldest synagogue still in use in the Western Hemisphere. Then we visited the Penha building, a baroque yellow landmark that looked like a giant gingerbread confection and celebrated its 300th anniversary last year. We browsed the floating market, where oblong boats from Venezuela are laden with wares ranging from banana leaves and avocado oil to fresh fish and tomatoes. Then we feasted on kuminda Krioyo (Creole cuisine) at one of the many public tables in t
he old market. Like everything else hereabouts, Curaçao's food is a hybrid – a tangy mélange of African, Dutch and Latin flavors – and the scent of Surinamese curries, chicken stews and seafood wafted from the stalls. I'd developed a minor addiction to funchi (polenta), so I ordered a side of it with my stewed fish, dousing them both in another staple, pika, a pepper-and-onion relish.
Ostrich is another local delicacy, but after looking one of the beastly birds in the eye the next day, I knew I'd never even give it a try. The Ostrich Farm on the east side of the island is a working ranch owned by a South African who relocated here and discovered that the climate and Dutch-influenced culture made him right feel at home. His farm, which also has black-bellied sheep, guinea fowl and pot-bellied pigs, is no shoestring venture; a single ostrich costs about $8,000.
"God, they're ugly," I said – understatement of the year.
"And dumb," replied my guide. "But they taste very good."
That claim can be put to the test by those less squeamish than I at the farm's Zambezi Restaurant, where the décor is African Lodge and the menu is an homage to all things ostrich. Ostrich burger? Check. Ostrich croquettes? Check. Ostrich jerky and ostrich sausage? Check and check. I sipped an ostrich-free Coke while shaking my head at the rust-hued vista, a familiarly unfamiliar scene: I was once again back in that disorienting place – South Africa via Curaçao.
The next day I returned to someplace familiar: the beach. I'd spent so much time ogling Curaçao's colorful above-water world that I hadn't yet seen the one beneath it – a shame on an island renowned for its diving. So I spent the afternoon on a snorkel trip to Caracas Bay, where thousands of yellowtail snapper, blue parrotfish and thin tarpon darted around my legs; I'd never seen so many fish. Later, a mojito and I sat by the beach at Lions Dive resort, watching the sunset. Nearby, a gaggle of girls chatted loudly in Dutch. Michael Jackson songs blared from nearby speakers, and I heard merengue in the distance. But now, the disjunction of it all felt perfectly natural. As the sun played on the water, I sunk my toes in the sand and felt at home. Yes, Curaçao was "real different," but this setting, with its palm trees, sand, sea and playful people, was hardly disorienting. It was a blissfully familiar scene – as classically Caribbean as it gets.
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