The Caribbean is a destination for all types of travelers—scuba divers, sailors, sunbathers—but when you want a dash of European party to season your vacation, head to St. Barth’s, often called the St. Tropez of the Caribbean. Around St. Barth’s the language is French, the currency is Euro, and the elixir of choice is pink. And nowhere does it flow more freely than at Nikki Beach, a club/restaurant on St Jean Beach where I found myself “stranded” when a friend’s flight was delayed. I blame this day on the rosé. After all, St. Tropez is in Provence, the world’s largest producer of the pink wine. And much like her sister beach club in France, Nikki Beach St. Barth’s uncorks the party at 11am and is packed in by noon with jet-setters. Bikini clad guests sun-tanned on the croissant-shaped beach and six pack abs strutted from the turquoise waters à la a James Bond film. Star sightings, I hear, are de rigueur but my eyes were on this group of about 10 men and women from New York. The magnums of rosé, hoisted on shoulders like summoned heros, arrived at their table every 15 minutes, and by 2pm, so had I. By 3pm we were ON the table. The thumping music from the DJ had us leaping to our feet at every song, and to quench our thirst—more rosé. The joie de vivre was as intoxicating as the wine. By 7pm, closing time at Nikki Beach, I was back in my hotel room, sleeping off the sun and my first day in St. Barth’s. I blame the rosé. No, actually, I thank the rosé.
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La Vie En Rosé
The Caribbean is a destination for all types of travelers—scuba divers, sailors, sunbathers—but when you want a dash of European party to season your vacation, head to St. Barth’s, often called the St. Tropez of the Caribbean. Around St. Barth’s the language is French, the currency is Euro, and the elixir of choice is pink. And nowhere does it flow more freely than at Nikki Beach, a club/restaurant on St Jean Beach where I found myself “stranded” when a friend’s flight was delayed. I blame this day on the rosé. After all, St. Tropez is in Provence, the world’s largest producer of the pink wine. And much like her sister beach club in France, Nikki Beach St. Barth’s uncorks the party at 11am and is packed in by noon with jet-setters. Bikini clad guests sun-tanned on the croissant-shaped beach and six pack abs strutted from the turquoise waters à la a James Bond film. Star sightings, I hear, are de rigueur but my eyes were on this group of about 10 men and women from New York. The magnums of rosé, hoisted on shoulders like summoned heros, arrived at their table every 15 minutes, and by 2pm, so had I. By 3pm we were ON the table. The thumping music from the DJ had us leaping to our feet at every song, and to quench our thirst—more rosé. The joie de vivre was as intoxicating as the wine. By 7pm, closing time at Nikki Beach, I was back in my hotel room, sleeping off the sun and my first day in St. Barth’s. I blame the rosé. No, actually, I thank the rosé.
