St Barth’s was everything it was cracked up to be: lots of glamour, delicious food and fabulous fashion (the island is French after all). Every time we went to lunch (always at a beach side place) there was a DJ spinning sexy tunes and a live fashion show for our lunchtime entertainment. In fact, I’m still humming the groovy re-mix of Jim Morrison’s Riders on the Storm. Besides the island being trés chic, it’s also trés Francais. The menus and road signs are all in French and everyone, including the domestic help, speaks French as their first language-- and many of the women go topless (an eye-opening experience for my seven year-old daughter Lindsay and her best friend, Stevie). Most memorable were a trio of beach babes wading through the waves in front of Nikki Beach, flaunting their implants and wearing scrunched up cowboy hats. Who needs a fashion show when you have that?
Scattered along the beaches were skinny French women with skin like brown leather stretched across their skeletal frames, groups of bling sistahs accompanied by their rap-star hubbies and several local surfer dudes. Throw in a manicured-handful of pale New Yorkers, a few sport stars and music producers and you’ve got St Barth’s!
As with any family vacation, we had our share of un-glamour as well. Like the time five of us descended on the only doctor in town (it was two days before Christmas). My seven year-old daughter had an ear infection, Stevie, her best friend, had pink eye (very contagious), my mom had strep throat, my husband’s son had the stomach flu, I had been stung by a jelly fish and needed some ointment, and my husband needed to adjust the dosage on his blood-pressure medicine. I think the shock of 400 Euro lunches day-after-day had taken its toll! Luckily, Stacy our back-up nanny from Salt Spring who’s originally from Montreal, translated and took charge of dispersing the meds after spending an hour getting the details of the life-threatening drug interactions. The French doc had wanted to charge us 100 Euros a person, but since we were in-and-out in less than an hour my husband negotiated a group discount. Phew!
As traffic started to clog the small streets of St Barths just before Christmas (the highest of all high seasons where homes can rent for up to 100,000 Euros a week) we high-tailed it out of there and flew to Bequia, a small island in the Grenadines, just north of Venezuela. For some reason, whenever I board a private aircraft, I never manage to feel like Isabella Rossellini in those slick Samsonite ads--especially when we left St Barth’s on our way to Bequia. We loaded up the luxurious PC-12 (a roomy eight-seat airplane with plush leather seats) like a Volvo station wagon. Boogie boards, dive gear, snorkels, fins and masks overflowed from the luggage compartment into the back of the plane, and our loose duffel bags had to be strapped into the spare seat. Even though the plane is fully catered (I submit a list of food I’d like to have on the plane and it’s there waiting for us) we still can’t shake the habit of bringing our own water, snacks, antiseptic wipes and whatever else we’re accustomed to carrying just in case we get stranded at an airport in some third world country. All this only adds to our bulk and hillbilly aura.
We arrived Bequia in grand style, landing at the brand new Sir James Mitchell airport. Sir James is the former Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. We were fortunate enough to be staying in his house for the eight days. Sabrina, Sir James’s lovely daughter, a lady with dark brown skin who’s as svelte as a top model, greeted us at the airport. Grover and the two little girls drove with Sabrina in her air-conditioned Subaru while another couple, Stacy and I piled into the back of a pick-up truck. The roads were narrow and treacherous, but our driver took the switch-back turns like a pro, honking the horn at every corner, which sent the natives scattering back to their road side wooden homes.
I was truly blown away when we arrived at Sir James’s home, called Helianthius which means Sunflower in Greek. It sat high on a hill overlooking the vast blue ocean and the mile long drive way was flanked by flowering trees and manicured green lawns. Luigi Vietti, who was the master architect for the Costa Smerelda, designed this house so it had a very Mediterranean feel—lots of marble and terra cotta tiles. I later discovered that Mr. Vietti had also designed the Aga Khan's personal compound in Sardinia, Italy as well as many other homes of famous people all over the world. All of the corridors of the home were open to the sky. When we entered we looked straight through the arched hallway across the infinity pool and over the ocean to the island of Mustique. I had never, ever, seen a house and view so spectacular. We were greeted by the staff of 4 with cold fruit drinks and warm smiles. In the middle of the house sat an open courtyard filled with tropical plants. We had dinner each night between the pool and the courtyard. On Christmas eve, my husband’s son Eric, still carrying a bit of the stomach flu from St Barth’s, said he wasn’t feeling that well and didn’t have too much of an appetite. Of course we wanted him to join us for dinner on this special night, so he obliged. But after the first bite he turned white. He then swiftly swiveled his head behind his chair and got sick in the courtyard. For some reason, after that highly appetizing moment, the courtyard didn’t have the same appeal as when I initially saw it.
We finished off the week snorkeling, windsurfing, diving and sailing. Needless to say it way hard to leave.
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Stay tuned for the next episode when the Wetherby Hillbillies fly to Bordeaux where several of the Premier Cru chateaux rolled out the claret-coloured carpet for this motley group. It's shaping up to be a week of debauchery, but can Jill hold her own with the wine snobs and serious drinkers?
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