St. Barts

Sunday, October 30th
Amazing Amazon
Day 6
M/S Regatta
Gustavia, St. Barthelemy
Leeward Islands
Lesser Antilles
French West Indies
Arriving: 8:00 AM
Departing: 4:00 PM
Mostly Sunny - 88 Degrees

St. Barts is the destination of your dreams, the French Riviera in the Caribbean. Haute couture with island style. Refined elegance with a shot of rum punch. Fine food and wine. Pretty people in Speedos and bikinis, or nothing at all, on white sand beaches bobbing in the crystalline waves. Mega yachts in the harbor, exclusive boutique resorts hugging the cliffs above. Red tile roofs set against the verdant green of the tropical paradise.

No tour could do this vision justice. No worries. The guide book said, "This is one place where you don't have to take the ship's shore excursions to have a good time." Well, OK then.

We'll just wander the streets. Duck into the shops and pretend that we can afford what they're selling, and that it will fit. We'll have a light lunch al fresco at a dock-side bistro with a French menu of local ingredients prepared a la classic technique. Sip a dry white wine and watch the world go by. Spend the afternoon at the beach, worshiping the sun, dipping into the surf for sweet relief from the searing heat.

The perfect day.

But not today. It's Sunday. At the end of the season. The windows are shuttered, the gates are down, the lights dark, the streets empty, kitchens cold, wine corked.

We walked the harbor, alone save for our fellow passengers. We ran into a group of Brits from the ship. We heard one to say, "This island is shit," with which we heartily agreed. Turns out she actually said, "This island is shut," as in the Queen's English translation of closed. Yep, that too.

This place is postcard pretty, but it's hard to find the right angle. The big picture doesn't stand up to close scrutiny. Even on a good day, it's hard to imagine that St. Barts delivers on the dream.

There are some charming well-weathered old buildings. The Swedish consulate, a relic of their short-lived dominion over the island. The Anglican church dating from 1855. A cross up on the hill. An anchor for the town square.

Our walk was pleasant, but less than enchanting.

And hot. Really, really, really hot. The sun reflected off the harbor, the water concentrating the radiation like a parabolic mirror, focusing the energy in a nuclear laser beam trained on our souls, boiling our blood and blistering our skin.

Too hot for the beach. Back to the ship.