St. Barths

St. Barthélemy is eight square miles of French overseas collectivity dropped into the Leeward Islands, and its whole character is a contradiction it carries beautifully: Parisian standards, no shoes. Gustavia's harbor is lined with white colonial buildings under red tile roofs and some of the largest yachts afloat — and the correct outfit for lunch beside them is a swimsuit and a good shirt.

The island is small enough to learn in a day and steep enough to keep surprising you. Roads climb over green hills between fourteen beaches, none of them developed into a strip, most of them empty by mainland standards. Nothing is more than twenty minutes away, which means the day can be reorganized around whichever cove has the better light.

Mornings belong to Saline — the wild one, reached over a dune, with no road noise and no vendors, just a long arc of pale sand and clear water. For the island's best snorkeling, walk in to Colombier, a horseshoe cove inside the marine reserve reached only on foot or by boat; the water is glass, turtles are likely, and it faces west, which makes it the sunset seat too.

Lunch is the main event here. Shellona, on Shell Beach just below Gustavia, is the definitive version — a Mediterranean kitchen on a cove of pearly shells, open daily from eleven to six with lunch service from noon. Book the table and the sunbed in advance in high season; both go early. Afterward, the town's shopping streets are a short walk uphill, and the first Sunday of the month brings a small market to Rue du Général de Gaulle.

High season runs mid-December through April — driest, liveliest, priciest. But locals will point you to May, June, or November: nearly everything is open, the water is warm, the villas are affordable, and the island finally belongs to the people who live on it.