My perspective on St. Barts spans 30 years, a brief paragraph in the island’s history book but long enough to notice plenty of change. What was once a base for pirates and smugglers … and centuries later, traders and cruising sailors … is now considered the Riviera of the Caribbean. The rich and famous, their families and friends come and go throughout the high season, trailing behind an entourage of bodyguards and worker bees. To accommodate them, chic hotels, restaurants and shops dot the island in abundance. Tiny roads that once held mini-mokes and VW Things are now choked with Mini Coopers, Smart Cars, SUVs and oversized trucks.

Most visitors arrive by small plane, the only size that can fit on
one of the Caribbean’s trickiest runways. Incoming aircraft must first clear the crest of a gusty hill that holds at its peak a busy road. Next they must descend FAST to a downhill-sloping tarmac to grab every inch of it before it abruptly becomes the sea. Flying to St. Barts is a white-knuckle rush for the passengers. I can only imagine what the pilots think.

Arrival by sea is through the Port of Gustavia, a picturesque town that holds at its center a protective harbor. In not-so-long-ago days, boats sailed in and out and anchored at will. Down island
trading vessels lay beside charter cruising boats and local fishing craft. Laidback residents spoke French, Swedish, English and Creole. Most were from St. Barts (Bartians) or its big-sister island, Guadaloupe. It really was a sleepy little fishing village.

Today’s port is concrete and glass, stainless steel and sensational. It’s an orchestrated parking lot for some of the
world’s most ostentatious yachts, directed by a uniformed team from the port captain’s office. Mega-yachts tie stern to the quay that lines the harbor. Pedestrians walk the planked promenade to catch a glimpse of the gilded opulence, but mostly what they see is a relentless demonstration of scrub and polish by large, busy shipboard crews. Little St. Barts is still fishy, but it hasn’t slept in years.

On every visit we head off to find the charm that made the island the exclusive destination it is today. The first place we visit is
Le Select, a small brick bar in the center of Gustavia. Beside it sits the Cheeseburger in Paradise shack and a tree-lined courtyard that fills and empties all day long. Everyone finds a friend there because it’s the center of the St. Barts universe. Proprietor Marius Stakelborough, who built the place over 50 years ago, told us, “The people wanted a bar, a place they could gather. That’s what I made. That’s what it still is. I want it to be the same, even after I’m gone.”

Judging by the interior, I’d say he’s holding true to his word. Inside is a Marius museum of aged post cards, flags, posters and photographs. My favorite is an image of Marius and his pal, Jimmy Buffet, arm in arm, taken on the golden anniversary of the island’s favorite bar.

To slip back even further in time I head out early one morning for the village of Corossol, settled three generations ago by people from Charente in southeastern France. It’s a hilly walk through traffic-jammed roads, before reaching the countryside and the final lane that descends to the fishing village, happily stuck in time. I pass ladies hanging laundry and sweeping porches. A gentleman painting meticulous detail on his house calls to me, “Bonjour. Ca va?”

“Bien,” I answer with a wave. It’s good. All good.

At the beach, traditional open boats lay everywhere, filled with traps and nets. Simple houses perch next to the one-lane road, a few display hats and baskets for sale, braided from palm fronds. A worn sign at the end of the road reads, “Inter Oceans Museum, Coguillages du Monde, Entier.” It’s the shell museum, my destination for the day and one of St. Barts’ best-kept secrets.


I stroll inside, looking for Ingénue Magras, creator and curator. His collection, considered one of the best in the world, sprawls throughout tiny rooms in mismatched buildings. Several clear, segmented containers hold samples of sand collected from hundreds of beaches. In each stands a paper drink umbrella and a handwritten note telling the origin in French and English. Large
glass display cases hold multiple examples of every kind of shell imaginable. Other showcases contain artistically glued shells transformed into turtles, fish, birds … you name it. Big ship models holding fishtank pirates crown the cases. It’s the genius and life’s work of its 87-year-old owner.

Our St. Barts time travel continued through our week-long stay, while Bruce displayed his paintings at Gustavia’s Porte 34. The
gallery is in a thick stone building, erected several centuries ago, that was once used to store smuggled rum and brandy. Sometime in the mid 1900s it was boarded up and forgotten, until 1993 when Bruce was invited by the owner to use the space to show his art. We swept away the cobwebs and a mountain of dust, shoved back the disintegrating cases of aged alcohol and opened The Here Today Gallery. At the end of an entertaining, successful month it was time for us to be “gone tomorrow.” We re-sealed the wooden doors and shutters and placed a sign on the door at the request of the owner: “Future Home of the Bhank of Bhagdad.” A few years ago, when the building was renovated into the serious gallery it is today, everyone called it, “The Bagdad.” Some still do.

During our week at Porte 34 we met many people who, like us, have been coming to St. Barts for 20 to 30 years. They all commented on the changes they’ve seen. Some complained. Too many people, too many cars. Everything is expensive. But still they return each year to this magical little island that somehow remains the same.

Jan