Take me back to St. Barth's!

We all squeezed our way onto our tiny charter flight to St. Barths, and sat down in seats seemingly meant for five year olds. I had never been on a plane so small, let alone one in which I could see the pilot and the tiny fan next to his head that was keeping his heat stroke at bay. With every bit of turbulence in the air my life flashed before my eyes and I prayed that the plane would not go down before I could see the paradise we were approaching. If the plane was going to get knocked out of the sky, my only hope was that it land on the beach so I would at least get a little bit of time to relax in the sand.  Thankfully the plane landed safely, with the captain making an incoherent speech into the mic which would have been much better understood if he had just turned around.

When we got off the plane I couldn’t help but smile. The wind was slight, but noticeable in the leaves of the tropical trees, and the sun felt like it was at max capacity in terms of power output. We all threw our bags and ourselves in a van that would take us to our villa, which had gained a mythical status in my mind in the weeks prior to the trip. Some of us took a red mini cooper convertible that seemed to embody the island we had just landed on. The only thing missing was for someone to yell “woo” and throw out their silk scarf while driving.

To say that people were excited when we got to the villa would a massive understatement - like saying the pope is excited for Jesus to come back. It quickly became apparent that the mythical status our villa had taken on was nothing but a lack of imagination.  Before I could climb the steps leading to the dream I would be staying in for the next week, people were yelling “oh my god” as if Oprah Winfrey was floating in the pool with a mimosa and a cigarette in her hand. No such luck though.  

The infinity pool was looking beautiful and untouched for a few seconds until one of us jumped in enthusiastically like bottled milk into a refrigerator. 

Surrounding the pool were some lovely seating areas, a living room enclosed by columns and flowing curtains, a huge open kitchen and an area where a stone-carved greek looking face was serving as a fountain. 

With tears in my eyes I found my bedroom and my eyes welled up even more. There was a big soft bed surrounded by mosquito nets, making it look like either a queen or an angel had slept there. I was fine pretending to be either one. In the bathroom I found the usual goodies, a toilet, a shower, and two sinks. At first I didn’t think I would need to use both sinks, but if I was going to live like a queen I had to live in senseless excess. I would need to find a servant to bring me martinis and aged cheeses.

That first night we went to a restaurant where most of us ordered plenty of mojitos and everyone shared an assortment of delicious foods. Judging by how much everyone enjoyed every dinner we had, I will say that I don’t think anyone has ever been disappointed in a meal while at St. Barth's, with the possible exception of our last dinner.  This was not due to the food, which was par-for-the course-incredible, but because of our waiter who made some off-color jokes and had a suspiciously thin moustache.

Either way, the whole week was pretty much spent eating the food of the gods, drinking the nectar of the gods, and laying on the beach of the gods. 

The water at the beaches was exactly as one would imagine it would be, warm enough to pee in and not notice a change in temperature, and clear enough to see your own happy toes. I would also say something nice about the sand but in reality it was very similar to other sands I’ve felt between my toes.

The views surrounding us as we splayed out on the beach were what made it truly memorable. There were cliffs and pint-sized uninhabited islands in the distance, with tropical trees dancing merrily in the breeze.

One day there was even a little goat family eating a grassy lunch. On one of our beach excursions we swam out to a cliff where we spent an hour or two jumping off into the water and building up the courage to do it again and again. Needless to say our daytime activities were magical.

Most of our nights we would walk to a small club where there was a somewhat secret back room, in which we found an assortment of costumes and wigs. This provided me with a great way to overshadow my ridiculous dancing with an even more ridiculous outfit. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire, and peter pan with an afro looks almost natural when dancing/stomping around on a table. Maxwell, the man in charge of the costumes, truly had an artist’s eye in assessing the person in front of him and choosing a perfectly absurd getup.

After a week of discussing the merits of a wig with Maxwell and eating fish tartare, waking up on the last day was not much fun, to say the least. I just couldn’t understand why I was leaving. I had spent a week in paradise, waving hello to the sun every morning, and now I was returning, not very willingly, to the icy tundra that was New York. I wished I could have gone back to being four years old so I could throw a big hissy fit and shed some of the tears that had come back. These were not the tears of joy from earlier. Unfortunately, I had to keep my angst inside and leave a vacation that was better than anything I could have imagined.

As sad as returning to real life was, I now have a week’s worth of great memories of eating and drinking like a very portly king, relaxing like the naked old men at the beach, and spending time with a group of amazing people that were really the main reason for all of the fun had.

~Guest Blogger: Mark Milbrandt

If you want to spend a week in a luxurious villa, lounging, dancing in costumes, cliff diving and eating tuna tartare daily like Mark, or even just to find out more about this Godly Paradise, 

check out St. Barth's!