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Winds Of Change
Rediscovering The CaribbeanA Visit To Hurricane ravaged St. Thomas, St. Barthelemy And St. Martin Finds The Islands Patched Up And Ready For VisitorsSt. Barts Reclaims Its Image Of Luxurious French Resort
ST. BARTHELEMY, FRENCH WEST INDIES To travel from St. Martin to St. Barthelemy is to enter a more exclusive sphere of Gallicness. It hits you as soon as you arrive at the airport.
A gendarme in a powder blue shirt and circular hat studies your passport. Taped to a wall is a poster advertising a concert: a Botticelli inspired nymph standing in a seashell and speaking eloquently of academies and aperitifs and the Boulevard St. Germain. You have moved, in 10 heart pounding minutes, from a French island to an island of France.
In the aftermath of Hurricane Luis, the feeling doesn't change when you arrive in Gustavia. Here is Cartier, and there is Bvlgari, and around the corner is Little Switzerland. The windows of boutiques recall a strangely sunstruck Rue de Rivoli. And the cafes Le Bar de l'Oubli and Le Select (where Jimmy Buffett found his paradisiacal burger) are decorated with their own, slightly less vacuous mannequins.
The people are notable. They are almost all French (St. Barts never had slavery, so there are few blacks on the island), young, tanned, slim, rich and attractive. They smoke cigarettes. The women glide through the streets with their hair pulled back and their flat, brown stomachs exposed, or straddle mopeds,cartier copy ring gold, their miniskirts stretched by equally dark thighs. The men wear long shorts and brooding expressions. When good Americans die, it used to be said, they go to Paris. When beautiful French citizens turn 20, it seems, they go to St. Barts.
''Ninety nine percent of our economy is tourism,'' Marielle Greaux said while standing behind her counter in the Tourism Office . ''The rest is building and construction and a little fishing.''
I questioned her about the island. She said it started changing in the early '80s, when tourism really took hold. Though the first tourists had arrived in the 1950s. Now more and more people were expressing concern about the environment and calling for a slowdown in new construction.
In September 1995, Hurricane Luis had caused quite a bit of damage; the office we were now standing in had lost all its windows.
Few hotels were still closed, including the popular hilltop Les Castelets (whose future is uncertain) and some of the places on Flamands Beach. The French army arrived for the cleanup by helicopter and boat from St. Martin because the airport runway was half buried in sand. And yet looking out the window at the red roofed houses stringing the hill, the place looked untouched.
The sound of hammers greeted me as I coasted down the hill into Flamands Beach. In the middle, a battered two story hotel, the Baie des Flamands,gold copy cartier love ring, sat in a grove of defrocked palms. A palm without fronds is as pitiful a sight as a thrown out Christmas tree. At the far end another hotel, Taiwana, was closed for repairs.
But between the two, guests were eating lunch on the terrace of the St. Barts Isle de France. ''We lost our swimming pool,'' the receptionist told me. ''But we're going to build a new one in the summer. And we still have the one in the back.''
The Isle de France was a typical island luxury resort: open air lobby, marble floors, wicker chairs, and, filling up the wide perspectives as if having just received a fresh coat of paint,cartier copy love ring men, the turquoise sea. It had that almost clinical air of civility and privilege, and walking to the beach I was not at all surprised to see a woman reading a Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
She was a former French professor from Yale and had come with her husband and teen age daughter who had insisted on a beach for her spring break. Even if it were one that had recently been hammered. But except for the bald palms and the closed hotels on both sides, there was little sense of devastation. The waves lapped gently on the debris cleared sands.
Any visitor to St. Barts who somehow doubts its similarity to France need only rent a car. Back on the road I was immediately tailed and then overtaken on a hairpin curve. Where can you be in a hurry to get to on an 8 square mile island?
I hugged more bends and climbed more hills and came to a collection of handsome wood cottages overlooking a valley. The sign in front read: ''Hostellerie des Trois Forces.''
The cook, cutting dough into triangles for morning croissants,cartier copy ring box, called outside for the manager, and shortly a small, bright eyed man appeared carrying the high rounded straw hat of the island. A friend had suggested I stop by and see how Hubert de la Motte's ''holistic New Age inn'' had weathered the storm.
''When the hurricane came,'' Hubert said, ''I established around my place a circle of life. And I asked St. Germain to protect us.''
It appeared to have worked. Hubert had lost all his balconies and gutters and had to replace the air conditioners, which were damaged by salt. He is still working on repairs. But the place never closed.
Rediscovering The CaribbeanA Visit To Hurricane ravaged St. Thomas, St. Barthelemy And St. Martin Finds The Islands Patched Up And Ready For VisitorsSt. Barts Reclaims Its Image Of Luxurious French Resort
ST. BARTHELEMY, FRENCH WEST INDIES To travel from St. Martin to St. Barthelemy is to enter a more exclusive sphere of Gallicness. It hits you as soon as you arrive at the airport.
A gendarme in a powder blue shirt and circular hat studies your passport. Taped to a wall is a poster advertising a concert: a Botticelli inspired nymph standing in a seashell and speaking eloquently of academies and aperitifs and the Boulevard St. Germain. You have moved, in 10 heart pounding minutes, from a French island to an island of France.
In the aftermath of Hurricane Luis, the feeling doesn't change when you arrive in Gustavia. Here is Cartier, and there is Bvlgari, and around the corner is Little Switzerland. The windows of boutiques recall a strangely sunstruck Rue de Rivoli. And the cafes Le Bar de l'Oubli and Le Select (where Jimmy Buffett found his paradisiacal burger) are decorated with their own, slightly less vacuous mannequins.
The people are notable. They are almost all French (St. Barts never had slavery, so there are few blacks on the island), young, tanned, slim, rich and attractive. They smoke cigarettes. The women glide through the streets with their hair pulled back and their flat, brown stomachs exposed, or straddle mopeds,cartier copy ring gold, their miniskirts stretched by equally dark thighs. The men wear long shorts and brooding expressions. When good Americans die, it used to be said, they go to Paris. When beautiful French citizens turn 20, it seems, they go to St. Barts.
''Ninety nine percent of our economy is tourism,'' Marielle Greaux said while standing behind her counter in the Tourism Office . ''The rest is building and construction and a little fishing.''
I questioned her about the island. She said it started changing in the early '80s, when tourism really took hold. Though the first tourists had arrived in the 1950s. Now more and more people were expressing concern about the environment and calling for a slowdown in new construction.
In September 1995, Hurricane Luis had caused quite a bit of damage; the office we were now standing in had lost all its windows.
Few hotels were still closed, including the popular hilltop Les Castelets (whose future is uncertain) and some of the places on Flamands Beach. The French army arrived for the cleanup by helicopter and boat from St. Martin because the airport runway was half buried in sand. And yet looking out the window at the red roofed houses stringing the hill, the place looked untouched.
The sound of hammers greeted me as I coasted down the hill into Flamands Beach. In the middle, a battered two story hotel, the Baie des Flamands,gold copy cartier love ring, sat in a grove of defrocked palms. A palm without fronds is as pitiful a sight as a thrown out Christmas tree. At the far end another hotel, Taiwana, was closed for repairs.
But between the two, guests were eating lunch on the terrace of the St. Barts Isle de France. ''We lost our swimming pool,'' the receptionist told me. ''But we're going to build a new one in the summer. And we still have the one in the back.''
The Isle de France was a typical island luxury resort: open air lobby, marble floors, wicker chairs, and, filling up the wide perspectives as if having just received a fresh coat of paint,cartier copy love ring men, the turquoise sea. It had that almost clinical air of civility and privilege, and walking to the beach I was not at all surprised to see a woman reading a Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
She was a former French professor from Yale and had come with her husband and teen age daughter who had insisted on a beach for her spring break. Even if it were one that had recently been hammered. But except for the bald palms and the closed hotels on both sides, there was little sense of devastation. The waves lapped gently on the debris cleared sands.
Any visitor to St. Barts who somehow doubts its similarity to France need only rent a car. Back on the road I was immediately tailed and then overtaken on a hairpin curve. Where can you be in a hurry to get to on an 8 square mile island?
I hugged more bends and climbed more hills and came to a collection of handsome wood cottages overlooking a valley. The sign in front read: ''Hostellerie des Trois Forces.''
The cook, cutting dough into triangles for morning croissants,cartier copy ring box, called outside for the manager, and shortly a small, bright eyed man appeared carrying the high rounded straw hat of the island. A friend had suggested I stop by and see how Hubert de la Motte's ''holistic New Age inn'' had weathered the storm.
''When the hurricane came,'' Hubert said, ''I established around my place a circle of life. And I asked St. Germain to protect us.''
It appeared to have worked. Hubert had lost all his balconies and gutters and had to replace the air conditioners, which were damaged by salt. He is still working on repairs. But the place never closed.
The Wall