After arriving by small plane to the island of St. Barthelemy (by way of St. Maarten), we’re greeted by a rep from Carl Gustaf to drive us to the resort. The roads on St. Barth’s are unpaved and unlit, extremely narrow. It’s a rocky but adventurous ride up to the resort which sits on a hillside overlooking a harbor full of yachts.

A staff of four young French women welcome us warmly, “Welcome and good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Kim!,” and offer us the island’s signature tropical drink, the planteur (rum with fresh guava, pineapple and passion fruit juice) on the veranda. I dream of owning a house with a veranda like the one at Carl Gustaf. White linen and bamboo chaise lounges, planted palm trees, cocktail tables decorated with fuschia and tangerine colored blossoms, sliding glass doors, a pool separating the bar area from the dining terrace, and sweeping views of the harbor.

A bottle of champagne and a lovely bouquet of red roses to welcome the honeymooners.

Despite slathering on SPF 100, you can see that I’ve gotten some sun. My face looks bronze for a change! On our first night on the semi-deserted island, we dine at the resort’s restaurant: French chardonnay, jumbo prawns for me, sea bass for Peter, and a tremendous warm chocolate cake.

The first beach we explore is Baie de St. Jean, a stunning beach about 5 minutes away from the resort. It’s nearly empty, as it’s low-season in St. Barth’s. Though the island has near perfect temperatures all year round, it’s mostly crowded during the months of December and January, when travelers from all over the world escape their harsh winters by vacationing in the Caribbean. On this day, there are only a handful of people sunning on the beach.

Peter stays close to shore (he doesn’t swim very well).

By the way, the French-speaking natives here do not believe in umbrellas. Peter and I manage to find a miniscule patch of shade provided by some palm trees, but Peter’s legs burn badly anyway. The rest of the sunbathers lay out in all of their topless glory. I believe I do not see one person applying sunblock other than Peter and myself.

Did I mention that Peter picked out the rental car without my permission? It’s a wee-little, stick-shift Jeep Samurai with “stunted” power. As a passenger, the first day of driving is nerve-wracking for me. Peter thinks the car is better than sliced bread and spam. “It was either the jeep or a Smartcar, which I can’t be photographed driving,” he explains.

On our concierge’s recommendation, we choose a French-Creole restaurant called Le Gommier for our second dinner. The restaurant is hidden away among residential cottages and driving there is challenging since it’s pitch black outside. We park on a dirt driveway and blindly walk down a steep slope to the restaurant in the dark. I love the feel of Le Gommier—a mix of tropical Caribbean flavor, Polynesian tikki-town, and laid back French shabby chic. Unlike the snooty people in Paris, everyone in St. Barth’s is warm and inviting, especially when they know you’re honeymooners (our concierge had called ahead to let them know). We’re welcomed by the hostess with glasses of champagne and a smile. I eat conch for the first time (very similar to abalone), dressed in a smoky, curry-like sauce, and a baked crab appetizer. Peter starts with a fiery Andouille sausage and devours the fish special, mahi mahi. The Kims drink another bottle of white wine. Viva la honeymoon!

On the way to our third destination Plage de Columbier, we stop to take photos of another beach, Anse des Flammands. The trick to getting to Columbier is driving part of the way and then hiking by foot through the hills to the beach. This proves to be challenging in my flip flops and Peter’s “man-dals,” but we survive. I love my black Reef flip flops. Take it from an experienced flip flop devotee—you will never find any slippers more durable or comfortable than Reefs. I’ve had this particular pair since my sophomore year in college and I pray to God they will last through multiple pregnancies.

Columbier is a surfing beach… so a tad more rough in the wave department. That’s Peter out there learning the freestyle on his own; though you can’t tell from this photo, I’m anxiously watching him like a hawk.

I can count the number of people at Columbier on this particular day. Five. Peter and I are two of them. There is no end to water here, and you can’t help but want it to be touching you at all times.

During the hike back to our jeep, I’m charmed by the tiny butterflies littering the path. There are dozens of them, fluttery and sweet, some with orange, Bengali motifs on their wings. My favorites are the yellow ones in a perfect lemon chiffon color. If you stare hard, you can see some of them near my right shoulder.

Lunchtime at Guanahani resort, the largest one on the island, approximately 10 minutes away. There I am standing near the entrance, next to the fuschia flowers that are blooming everywhere on St. Barth’s. I wish I knew what kind they were! I’d buy them in the summertime in New York and put some petals in my friends’ cocktail glasses like they do here.

Is this outstanding or what?

The view from our lunch table…

At L’Indigo, Guanahani’s bistro, we eat poolside… then bring our planteur cocktails over to the lounge chairs underneath the palm trees. Yes, that’s the beach at our feet.

Life is good.

Attempting to tan my legs…

Right outside our resort, about to walk down a very vertical slope to a restaurant called Pipiri Palace.

Another memorable dinner. Like every single restaurant on St. Barth’s, Pipiri is an outdoor establishment, and we’re seated on the patio underneath a grass hut. I start with a planteur and the special appetizer of the day, fresh tomato and mango slices with basil, doused with virgin olive oil, a Caribbean version of insalata caprese. Peter tries a salad as well, and lo and behold, eats almost all of it!

I tell our server I’d like a “smallish” lobster. Fifteen minutes later, the owner stops at my table holding a wiggly crustacean. It passes my inspection, and he slaps it on the grill. The entire place smells like a summer picnic… real charcoals add that extra sensory oomph. Peter tries the ribs and licks the plate clean. Tonight, we down a bottle of medium-bodied red wine from the Loire region.

The next morning as we’re about to eat our breakfast of croissants, fruit confit and cheese, we see a large iguana cross our private terrace. I’m afraid it’ll jump in the pool (gross), but it lingers a bit before slithering away into the brush.

My favorite beach on St. Barth’s, Plage de Saline. Breathtaking. You park your jeep or moped a meter away and walk down the tiny hill to an ocean that goes on forever. The blues are intense, totally electrifying.

I’m standing on the ledge of our private plunge pool. You can catch a glimpse of the harbor view between the leafy palm treelike things. I’m wearing a silk sarong I got in St. Jean the day before. Can you tell my current favorite color is fuschia?

My legs look darker… RIGHT?

My second favorite beach, Shell Beach. Legend says the shore was naturally created with only orphan shells from the Caribbean Ocean. I hoard away a few of them for my scrapbook (okay, fine, I don’t technically have a scrapbook YET).

Ready to head out to our last dinner in St. Barth’s…

Peter and I nurse a drink before dinner: Johnnie Walker on the rocks for him, island rum “neat” for me. I’m pretty sure we’re being bitten by mosquitoes at the moment.

Peter digs into the most expensive meal we will ever eat. St. Barth’s makes New York and London feel like third world countries.

Sorbet, mid-course, to cleanse our palates…

A nightcap? Cognac and cigars? Why not??? It’s fun being hung over on a tiny commuter plane.

Boarding the plane for our connection into St. Maarten. Au Revoir, St. Barth’s! We’ll be back soon.