No French Around Saint. Barts
I am momentarily terrified and I have flown a lot. One minute the 20 seat aircraft is skirting effortlessly over crystal blue Caribbean water. In an instant a mountain juts out in front of us. The pilot simply increases the plane’s altitude. Up we soar over the peak. But, below and in front is a very short runway which drops off quickly to a narrow white sand beach. I am close enough to see bathers rushing for a swim in the calm sea. Will we crash into the sea and perish?
Welcome to Saint Barthelemy, a French island paradise sitting and waiting patiently for me to walk her intriguing interior. After unpacking my one lone suitcase I waste no time trotting up and down the razor thin streets of the island’s capital Gustavia. Every where there is an feeling of sophistication. Shops are immaculate. Even the sun worshipers right off flights from Western Europe wear fancy bathing attire. Sheik sunglasses are the rage. I am dressed down, as usual, with soiled running shorts and a former race singlet.No matter, I am moving fast and feel like I have arrived in paradise.