St. Barts: Two words practically synonymous with glitz, glamour, and gorgeous beaches. This is the French Riviera in the Caribbean, as eternally chic as a little black dress and every bit as pricey. St. Barts has its historic sites and thrilling aquatic activities, but visitors go for pampering without pomp, inimitable French flair, world-class beaches, and the promise of eternal sun and blue skies (it rarely rains). It's a place where mega-yachts preen for other mega-yachts, where the well-heeled come to chase eternal youth under the tropical sun. Yet despite its reputation as a playground for the rich, casual dress -- sandals, sarongs, tousled hair, bangles, little else -- prevails, though the sandals are likely Manolo and the bangles 24-karat gold.
New friends call this tiny island "St. Barts," while old-time visitors prefer "St. Barths," short for St. Barthélemy (San Bar-te-le-mee), named by its discoverer Columbus in 1493. With its arid climate and poor rocky soil ill-suited to sugar production, St. Barts never developed a slave-based agro-economy. Most longtime residents are descendants of Breton and Norman fisherfolk, intermingled with Swedes (whose colonial influence lingers in place names), as evidenced by their fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. The year-round population of about 8,500 occupies just 21 sq. km (8 1/4 sq. miles), but the distances seem longer because of the folds and creases of the hilly topography and the hairpin-turn roads.
Despite an influx of young French arrivals, the old ways endure. Many locals still speak 18th-century Norman, Breton, or Poitevin dialect. In little Corossol, you might glimpse wizened grand-mères wearing the traditional starched white bonnets known as quichenottes (a corruption of "kiss-me-not"), which discouraged the close attentions of English or Swedish men on the island. The bonneted women can also be spotted at local celebrations, particularly on August 25, St. Louis's Day. Many of these women are camera-shy, but they offer their homemade baskets and hats for sale to visitors.
For a long time, the island was a paradise for a handful of millionaires, such as David Rockefeller, who had a hideaway on the northwest shore, and Edmond de Rothschild, whose compound graces the "other end" of the island. Development was inevitable, but perhaps conscious that the in crowd is always decamping for other hot spots, the island diligently maintains its quaintness, natural warmth, and quiet exclusivity. It has almost an old-fashioned storybook quality, with gaily painted gingerbread houses tucked into hillsides and flower boxes spilling over with colorful blooms. Picturesque Swedish cemeteries are ringed by white picket fences. Cruise ships are discouraged and there are no sterile high-rises or all-inclusives. Indeed, new hotels are restricted to 12 rooms maximum (the largest by far offers only 68). Nevertheless, the A-List, who need only be identified by first name (Brad, Beyoncé, Tom, Harrison), still makes a beeline to its golden coves -- or to clamber aboard the superyachts bobbing just offshore. In February, the island guest list reads like a roster from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, seeking discrete privacy and refuge from personal trainers and stalking paparazzi (the latter often unsuccessfully).
