The Art of Adaptation in St. Barts

Travel, as they say, is the ultimate test of patience and flexibility. No matter how meticulously you plan, the universe often throws in its own set of curveballs, daring you to pivot, adapt, and sometimes surrender.

After waking up in a mild panic and scrambling through what felt like a construction zone, we make our way to the ferry dock for our first full day of exploration on St. Barts. Naturally, in true “nothing goes as planned” fashion, we end up at the wrong dock because—surprise—there’s more than one, and the locals are like GPS systems set on chaos mode, giving us conflicting instructions. By the time we arrive at the correct dock, the ferry staff insists we don’t have tickets. My eye begins to twitch at this point. Cell reception is basically nonexistent, so I can’t pull up my email receipt to prove otherwise. I pay for two more tickets while muttering to the Brit, “I’ll just dispute them later.”

Next, to our surprise, we need to go through immigration to leave St. Maarten, because we’re not just hopping to a different island, we’re technically leaving the country. At this point, an immigration official—who was clearly thriving on her power trip—decides to make life even more interesting by threatening not to let us board, even though the ferry was parked right there, basically taunting us from a few feet away, completely empty. The Brit, in his very British calm and rational manner, steps in and explains the situation to her. Miraculously, our passports get stamped with the largest immigration stamps I've ever seen, and we board what is essentially a glorified water taxi to St. Barts.

We aren't alone on this adventure. An Australian girl was in our same situation and followed our lead, but had to present paperwork along with her passport.

“That woman was clearly on a power trip,” he said of the immigration officer. “But, you won’t get what you want from someone like that by pushing back even when you’re right.” Hmm. Advice applicable for all of life, perhaps?

Finally, the ferry ride itself is peaceful—shocker. I down a Dramamine, just in case, but it’s totally unnecessary. The sun is out, the water is sparkling blue, and for the first time, I feel calm. The Brit and the Aussie begin chatting. It turns out that she works on a private cruise ship catering to the rich and famous. The paperwork that she had to show immigration is a letter from her boat's captain allowing her leave. They bond over Below Deck, a reality show I’d never heard of, but by this point, I’ve given up pretending I’m in the loop and just enjoy the weather.

As we approach St. Barts, it’s like the clouds part and the universe, in its infinite wisdom, offers us a cosmic apology for the disaster that has been the past few days. It’s perfect.

St. Barts, or Saint Barthélemy more formally, has a history as colorful and lively as its modern-day charm suggests. Originally inhabited by the Arawak and Carib peoples, the island was claimed by Christopher Columbus for Spain in 1493 but was largely overlooked due to its rocky terrain. In the 1600s, French colonists settled on the island, and it later became a trading post for pirates, including the infamous buccaneer Daniel Montbars, known as "Montbars the Exterminator." The island passed between European powers before being sold to Sweden in 1784, a rare colonial exchange that left a lasting impact on the island’s culture, including the capital’s name, Gustavia, after the Swedish king Gustav III. After nearly a century of Swedish rule, it was returned to France in 1878. Despite its turbulent past, St. Barts today exudes a laid-back, luxurious vibe—mixing French chic with a dash of Caribbean cool, all underpinned by its rich history of colonial struggles, piracy, and trade.

We dock in Gustavia and part ways with the Aussie. Upon first sight, t’s immediately clear St. Barts has a completely different energy than St. Maarten. The vibe screams money. Everything is shiny, new, and covered in high-end fashion logos. We head to the rental car building near the dock, where I’ve reserved a car through Hertz. Naturally, no one is at the Hertz counter. We wait, nothing happens, and after about fifteen minutes, we give up and head back toward the oceanfront for brunch.

We settle in at a restaurant, and I’m mildly surprised that the staff doesn’t speak English. Not because I’m that American who expects everyone to speak my language, but because we’re in a major cruise port near the U.S. and British territories. Fun fact I learn at this point: The Brit speaks French. Turns out, kids in the UK learn French in school like we learn Spanish in California, except they actually become fluent.

After brunch, we return to the car rental building. Still no Hertz employee, so I rent from Avis instead and decide to let Hertz deal with my wrath via credit card disputes later. First stop? A grocery store. We’ve heard about one of the world's best beaches through an app called Most Traveled People, and decide to stock up on snacks before heading over. Walking into this French grocery store is like stepping into a pastry lover's paradise. We pick up artisanal treats, rums made on the island - vanilla and passionfruit - with labels that appear to be designed on a home office computer, and cream-filled puff pastries, the likes I've never seen before called religieuse (meaning "nun," but is supposed to represent the pope's hat). But honestly, they just look like the most delicious thing I’ve ever seen.

Supplies in tow, we head to Anse de Grande Saline (translation: big salty cove), a beach that, judging by the dead-end road and makeshift cigarette butt receptacle (a feature that is both very French and environmentally conscious, because, after all, is there anything more to life than smoking while relaxing at the beach?), we’ve found correctly. The beach is beautiful and quiet, and we finally relax with our rum and pope-hat pastries. Cue Joe Jonas' “Cake by the Ocean” on repeat in my head.

After we’ve had our fill of beach pastries, we take a leisurely drive around the island, not really knowing where we’re going, which turns out to be the best part. We stumble upon hidden coves, watch daredevil planes land at the tiny airport (rivaling neighboring Maho Beach), and drive along narrow roads hugging scenic cliffs. It’s like St. Barts is determined to make up for all we have endured on this trip.

We eventually find ourselves in a bustling little beach town, where we stop at a bar that greets us with a surfboard sign reading, “Beach Rules: Take a Dip, Have a Sip, Catch Some Rays, Chill All Ways.” I think to myself, "These are some rules that I can get behind." We order drinks, scroll through Instagram, and soak in the vibe, at Eden Rock, where we've apparently found ourselves but where we’re definitely not hotel guests. No worries though. No one seems to care. The laid back energy almost makes me uncomfortable.

After our first round of drinks, we move outside. We grab a couple of beach chairs, unsure of they’re only for hotel guests, but no one questions us as we order a couple of the local light beers called Carib.

After enjoying the cold bear and we’re walking along the beach, we reluctantly stumble into a lively bar filled with people dancing on tables under American flags. I’m bewildered—I left the U.S., right? This is in stark contrast to the quiet island that we've experienced thus far. None of this makes any sense.

I manage grab a bartender's attention through the crowd to order drinks (mine in a coconut and the Brit's in a tiki head, naturally) and ask the bartender what’s going on. Turns out, it’s a Super Bowl party.

Even in the French Caribbean, America’s penchant for a good party can’t be denied.

Suddenly, chaos erupts.

An ATV, of all things, drives through the bar. Girls with sparklers and magnums of champagne parade in behind it, while the Star-Spangled Banner blares from the speakers. It’s all so surreal, I half expect to wake up. But nope, this is real life at a French Super Bowl party, minus any actual football. Probably the best Super Bowl party I've ever experienced.

After the U.S. national anthem is complete, regular music begins again and the partiers jump back on to the tables.

Eventually, we tear ourselves away from the madness to return the rental car (where a Hertz employee finally makes an appearance but no use bringing up our wasted morning hours now) and catch the ferry back to St. Maarten. As we board, the sun is setting, casting a perfect glow over the water. It’s the cinematic end to a day that was equal parts frustrating, bizarre, and unexpectedly magical.

While sailing back to St. Maarten at sunset, I realize that the journey isn't about sticking to a rigid itinerary or battling every inconvenience. It's about learning when to let go, when to laugh at the absurdity, and when to pivot gracefully. From navigating the ferry ticket debacle to switching rental car companies mid-day, every hiccup forced us to improvise and find the beauty in the unexpected. The lesson? Some battles, like fighting with an immigration officer or getting worked up over a delayed rental car, aren’t worth your energy. More often than not, peace comes from adapting, not resisting. Whether you're traveling or navigating life, the ability to pivot gracefully is what turns missteps into memorable adventures. And who knows? You might just end up with cake by the ocean.