I made
the mistake during the early, poverty-stricken days of marriage to read Vogue magazine. An article on St. Barts
caught my attention. Our first Caribbean cruise (paid for with change harvested
from beneath couch cushions) took us to neighboring St. Martin. Much spousal
cajoling later, we took the ferry to St. Barts. It was tiny and French…and
perfect. Much as I imagined the south of France to be, only with a laid back
vibe overlaying the obvious signs of wealth.
Yachts
filled the harbor at Gustavia and the streets were lined with designer shops
and restaurants run by ex-pat French chefs.
It was
love at first sight. And at first bite.
We’ve
been going back ever since, renting out apartments and villas around the island
whenever the budget allowed. Our favorite spot is high on the hill by the
police station with a view of the sea and the Leeward Islands. We drink our
fill of the scenery, gorge on croissants and cassoulet and
walk up and down steep hills until our calves are screaming in protest.
Sometimes
we stumble upon celebrities. One day, my husband almost clipped a jogger at a
blind corner. He was tall with reddish hair and glasses and was wearing an
Indiana State University T-shirt. It was David Letterman.
Another
day Hugh Jackman worked out shirtless on Shell Beach. Everyone lingered at the
restaurant overlooking the sand, nursing their mojitos and their fantasies.
It’s
not just the celebrities who flock to St. Barts; the locals are equally
entertaining, like the chef at our favorite restaurant overlooking Gouverneur
Beach and a friend down the street from our villa who helps arrange high-end
parties.
St.
Barts is a fantasy come true, the perfect mix of relaxation and inspiration.
The perfect place to set a romance novel.
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