Previously in ‘The Faster Lane’, your columnist was at sea on Explora 1, enjoying perfect weather in the Caribbean, about to disembark in St Kitts. Since then, there have been cancelled flights, emergency aviation interventions, a soirée in Paris, the ongoing real-estate hunt in the 1st and 2nd arrondissements and a staff pow-wow in London (see Andrew’s column in yesterday’s newsletter). But let’s cast back seven days for a bit of shore leave.
My expectations for St Kitts were neutral at best and the duty-free theme park that hugs the port wasn’t the best welcome. I made a hard left out of the port, popped into a local market to check out the island’s produce and then out of town, past a few paddocks of well-fed donkeys and some scruffy goats. There was a vaguely defined destination (a Canadian-owned hotel along the coast) and, after an hour of walking, I turned into the property, relieved to be away from road racers in their clapped-out Subarus. I had a quick lunch before heading back to the boat, which involved a search for a functioning ATM. A couple of failed attempts to secure some cash later, the burgundy-and-gold logo of CIBC (the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce) came into view and the machine obediently dealt out a sheaf of local notes. We paid the driver and hustled back to the ship. Perhaps I needed a few more days – rather than hours – on St Kitts to change my take on the place. Or perhaps not.
Back on board I sat down with the captain and she informed me that, due to a change in the weather, we would be pulling into St Barth’s seven hours early. The channel beyond Gustavia’s port was prone to violent choppiness and she didn’t want any issues with the tenders that would be shuttling passengers back and forth. As this was set to be my St Barth’s premiere, I tried my best to look a little disappointed about disembarking half a day early. But as the captain seemed equally enthusiastic about dropping anchor in EU waters, I relayed that this shift in the schedule was not only prudent but also rather exciting.
After four nights on Explora 1, it received high marks for exceptional service, proper coffee, excellent pizza (Italian owners help), very good retail, a serious investment in the best in porcelain, glassware and cutlery, and plenty of space indoors and on deck for privacy and quiet time. On the improvement side, a dress code would be useful for those passengers who think that Havaianas go with everything. And, in my books, lighting can never be too dim or golden. At 09.50 sharp the next morning, we were weaving our way through the yachts in Gustavia harbour. A few minutes later, Marion from Rosewood’s Le Guanahani hotel was helping place bags in the back of the car and offering a briefing on St Barth’s life. Some 15 minutes later we pulled up at the hotel. Within five minutes I was in the bungalow, where there were cloudless skies and a persistent breeze. I was starting to get to grips with what all the St Barth’s fuss has been about – strict building codes, lots of well-stocked wine shops and a cosy scale that made the place feel like a Frenchie, tropical toy town. After a few hours zipping around in a Mini Moke and sampling other resorts and beach clubs, another stand-out feature came into view: super hot 27-year-old French waiters, waitresses, bartenders and shopkeepers everywhere you looked.
Over lunch at Rosewood Le Guanahani, the sommelier (29, tanned, cute linen jumpsuit, sporty pony-tail) explained that many of her co-workers saw their time in St Barth’s as a moment in paradise – but not one that lasted more than three or four years. “We work hard here but it’s a lot of fun and you meet amazing people,” she said. What she couldn’t quite answer was how the service industry of St Barth’s had managed to attract all the prettiest, most polite and attentive twenty-somethings from Toulon to Grenoble and taught them to be sunny like Australians, while also allowing them to remain coolly French.
On Monday morning I went in search of a retail space that might work well for Monocle (found one), surveyed some windows at real estate agencies (why not?) and then headed to Le Toiny for lunch. As it says on the label, I like to keep moving at speed but, as I made my way back to the hotel, I found myself saying, “I don’t really feel like leaving”. At about the same moment, my phone beeped and local carrier Winair advised that my flight had just been cancelled. What to do? The captain had been right. The weather had changed and the tiny airport was hit by challenging crosswinds. “I wouldn’t bother going to the airport as it will take a few days to sort the flights,” advised the concierge. But what about my meetings in Paris in less than 24 hours, the mingler at Midori House and dinner at Royal China on Thursday? I reluctantly abandoned the bungalow, headed for the airport and was confronted by clusters of passengers trying to figure out how to get off the island. After visiting the desks of the three main carriers serving the island and being told that I should just enjoy the island, a gentleman approached me and asked how light I was travelling. “Just two of you? No big bags? Are you ready to go now?” he asked. Half an hour later we lifted off and flew out over a foamy, choppy channel and connected with our Air France flight from SXM with 20 minutes until pushback. In this case, a few hours convinced me that I needed a few more days of the place. St Barth’s, I’ll be back soon.