St. Barth's - Before the Glitz

In February of 1991, I spent a week on St. Barth’s, which at the time still felt like a quiet, tucked-away gem in the Caribbean. The island had a reputation for understated elegance, but without the heavy layers of glitz and development it would later acquire. For me, it was a week of slowing down, soaking up the sun, and enjoying the easy rhythm of island life.

Days drifted by at a gentle pace. I’d find a stretch of sand—Shell Beach, St. Jean, or Gouverneur—and settle in with nothing more demanding than the decision of whether to swim, nap, or read. The beaches seemed almost private, the kind of places where you could hear the breeze move through the palms and the waves quietly lap the shore. It was the perfect antidote to the rush of daily life back home.

The evenings belonged to food. St. Barth’s French heritage was everywhere on the plate, from fresh baguettes and croissants in the morning to elegant dinners featuring local seafood and classic sauces. I remember long, leisurely meals where the conversation and wine flowed just as easily as the trade winds outside. It felt like Paris had been set down in the tropics, but with fewer rules and shoes optional.

What struck me most, though, was how mellow the island felt. There were no crowded resorts, no giant cruise ships disgorging day-trippers—just a handful of villas, small hotels, and friendly locals who seemed content to let visitors blend into the pace of their everyday lives. It was a Caribbean experience that felt both refined and refreshingly simple.

Looking back, that week on St. Barth’s was pure relaxation, an escape defined less by activities and more by atmosphere. It’s one of those trips where the memories aren’t tied to big adventures, but to the ease of warm sun, good food, and the sense that the whole world had slowed down for just a little while.