The colorful houses enliven the surroundings. They’re humble, grounded, and full of life. There is something familiar in them—almost reminiscent of rural Mexico: the painted walls, the way homes open into each other, the lived-in feeling of a place that has endured many seasons.
But on the same island, there is also a very different world.
Vacation homes overlook the same waters. These spaces feel pristine, perfectly maintained, untouched by the weathering that defines the rest of the island. They come alive only when the rainy season is over, when hurricanes have passed.
And I keep wondering about balance.
Walking the island, I see houses that have stood here for decades—homes that have weathered storms, homes that carry memory. They feel familiar, soft, even a little sleepy. There is humility in them, but also a quiet dignity. And then, across the way, luxury that feels almost foreign to the rhythm of daily life here.
There are places clearly made for visitors. Places designed to be seen, curated for a certain kind of experience. But then there is everything else—how people actually live, how they gather, how they move through their days.
I keep wishing those worlds were closer.
That paradise wasn’t separated into two experiences.
Because the island is truly beautiful—stunning in its palette, in its light, in its simplicity. But its real essence comes through in the softness of its people, in the way their smiles greet you when you walk by, in the groundedness of everyday life.
There is a stark contrast here. And it makes me reflect on what belonging really means, not just for travelers, but for the places we touch.
