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| Les Amis du Vent |
I have been trying to think of a way to describe what the
election was like for us here in paradise, and the best way is
for you to imagine a cartoon where the characters are on a roller coaster. You
know the one where they descend a near vertical
slope in a tiny car? And their eyes are wide open but they are not screaming? But then they go
up again? and then down...up and down, up and down. Like idiots.
On November 3,
we were assembled at our table (happily so because we thought we were going to
crush this due to last minute tropical confidence), waiting for our talented and
lovely chef, Margaux, to serve dinner. Then Thomas tells us Florida is
going for Trump and all hell broke loose. I blame Thomas because he was the one
that told me. Andrew starts to moan; Margaret (thank god we married her) goes
into therapist mode and tells us something useful and kind that we ignore. The poor chef...she presents dinner: TA DA!! and none of us eat. This lasted for a maximum of an hour or two before I decide to retreat to my
beautiful, silent bedroom to stare at the overhead fan. That is all I could
think to do. Andrew does the same in his room (Brighams fell first..like the
largest trees in the forest). Thomas stays near MSNBC and his secret stash of
polls. Peter calls Andrew from London and cannot fathom that we are scattered
around the house and "don't know where Ellie is". If there were any
doubt about having Andrew or me in the fox hole with you, let this make it
clear that you probably don't.
So we somehow sleep for a few hours, and then stumble awake to what I think will be a new world hell-scape, but instead see a beautiful St
Barths sunrise and a tiny ray of hope:
Biden won Arizona. Fox news called
it; Trump is pissed.
So we have breakfast. Every morning between 6 and 7 am
our disturbingly handsome "butler" drops off baguettes and chocolate croissant
and regular croissant and orange juice. We eat it all, because Arizona is worth a
croissant. The yoga teacher we have hired shows up and is such a mean,
critical person that we fall in love. She is all sharp edges and competence; she
hates Trump, and us...and we welcome her loathing, because we hate us too. It
had a distinct dominatrix vibe to it actually: all pain and insults. But we stay in the
moment and now we feel better. Votes are still coming in. The odds have
gone from 70 percent chance Trump win to 70 percent chance he will lose. Andrew
is now dabbling in euphoria and decides to drink at lunch. He doesn't tempt fate
with champagne, but he downs a few beers. Now the mini rollercoaster car is chugging up a steep rise hill, and we are virtually on our backs looking at the sky.
And so it goes for the next few days...but each downhill ride is shorter. Until finally, mercifully, my phone blows up while we
are scouting a lunch place and then and only then we drink champagne on the
beach. But truth be told Trump screwed us on that too...it just wasn't the same
as that night when Obama won.
Ok I know you just want to hear about St. Barths. I am here to report that it is in fact as good as they say. I was thinking that I wouldn't be seduced, that it was all rosé and celebrities; but it is beautiful. Yes, there are many drunk people- depressing couples where the man is penniless and gay and the older woman is the only one who doesn't know. And there are the armies of 20 year old girls who spend 82.5% of their time taking selfies in front of the restaurant. But there are also the largest collection of handsome French men I have ever seen. (Who knew this was where they all went?) The pilots who flew us, and couldn't figure out why we didn't want champagne on the flight, the man who takes care of us, the construction workers, the waiters...it is crazy land of beauty. And the whole island is filled with happy people, except for the yoga teacher (who comes 3 times a week). It is almost shocking to hear that accent paired with a cheerful smile. I would say the island is so spectacular that it deserves a little more reverence than it is given: less traffic and fewer Russian oligarchs would be nice perhaps. But St. Barths can withstand it-such is its grandeur.
One side of St. Barths looks like Scotland, but with turquoise water crashing below cliffs. .The island has numerous natural pools, and there are goats and turtles everywhere, including our house. We love the turtles so much, we stop the car wherever we are to help them cross the road (they really are slow.) Some of the beaches we go to are at fancy hotels on the beach with lovely service and models wandering through showing what is available to buy; and some are more remote. Below is a photo of me at Columbier beach, below the old Rockefeller estate, that can only be reached by 20 minute hike, or by boat.
Of course when we got there a group of four rather fit, middle aged nudists came strolling by, rosé in hands; and yes they were Americans.
The tans made me think they may have been partial to Trump.
