Starting the day off French style, with an espresso, a croissant, and absolutely no thought of work.
You can tell which one runs marathons.
For a change of underwater scenery it's time to set sail for Creole Rock, just off the Grand Case beach. Supposedly it's a favorite hangout for puffer fish. Rock feels at home already.
Like a pain au chocolat you can't see the good stuff but you know it's there, lurking just beneath the surface. The shallow waters around Creole Rock are teaming with tropical fish cavorting around the coral and there's even a lazy octopus squishing along the seabed.
Watching that octopus sure did work up Mei's appetite. Luckily there's a beach bar just up the road from the jetty. More importantly the tide is out so there's plenty of tables.
Bartender, make it a Carib. Straight up? No, on the sands, thanks.
Chatting with the crepe lady reveals she had to come to Saint Martin because there were no jobs in France. No jobs selling crepes in France? Wow, that place really is in trouble.
Sunset on the Grand Case beach is the cue for the lolos to fire up their grills. Talk of the Town and Sky's the Limit don't just compete in the weird name department, they also do nightly battle for coveted TripAdvisor stars. Tonight's dueling weapon will be bbq ribs at 20 paces.
It's Championship Weekend so it's only fitting the defending champion Seahawks are first up in the huge NFL double-header. Quote of the week: R-E-L-A-X, we've got this one in the bag - Aaron Rogers at half-time.
Or it was quote of the week, until Brady's preference for old, saggy balls was revealed. We always knew he had a special relationship with Belichick, but come on man, too much information. Anyway, there's something to be said for watching football with the beach at your back instead of a driving blizzard.
Much of Saint Martin's charm lies in the fact most of the island is still rural palm groves and there's a cheery lack of pretension, notwithstanding the French accents. They know life is good and there's no rush to be anywhere else. Which makes the contrast with her ritzy sister island of Saint Barth all the more apparent.
If there was ever an island for the 1% Saint Barth is it. Don't bother sailing into this harbor with anything less than a 100-footer. There's a reason Leonardo DiCaprio spent New Year's here.
At least with this yellow submarine you can slink back to the poorhouse from whence you came beneath the waves, and the scorn of the global elite.
If that's how you have to dress to take the inflatable out, you should see what's required to strut around the superyachts. Very little as it turns out.
It seems Dodd-Frank may not be working quite as intended. There's an awful lot of chrome and teak lined up here.
It's basically the Hamptons of the Caribbean.
The hipsters have arrived, bringing with them 50% mark-ups for select adjectives, including but not limited to: artisanal, bespoke, curated, or for an extra 100%, foraged.
The metal in this harbor is worth more than the GDP of a small country. Like New Zealand for example.
Nonetheless, once you get away from the Chanel Avenue and Rue Gucci there are still plenty of secluded beaches to be found.
Not a superyacht in sight. The waters here are probably too shallow for big egos.
Nikki Beach Club is the kind of place where it's hard to tell where the champagne ends and the water begins. It also proves that silicon is useful for buoyancy.
Now that's a beach. Pass the Moet.
On second thought, pass the Heineken and be very thankful the Euro is crashing.
Rock quickly spots the cheapest item on the menu. Hey, we've got sanctions on Russia, otherwise of course I'd hit the caviar.
If you tire of the superyacht you can retire to your cliff top villa. Tough life.
The island is so small it can only fit a runway long enough for puddle-jumpers. Don't let that deter the plane spotting. This seems to be one of the few places in the world where poor people arrive by plane and rich people by boat.
For the price of one of those European café stools one could buy a whole Ikea kitchen.
The streets are empty, must be time to retire back to the yacht for an afternoon siesta and a bit of touch-up botox.
Turns out there's still room for a few local watering holes in between the glitzy designer boutiques. Lucky, because Rock's stash of USD is taking a hammering and it's barely past lunch time.
Is that a new double-hull superyacht? Nope, it's the slow boat back to Saint Martin. Rock's first in line.
Thank goodness for the cruise ships. At least Rock wasn't the only one who couldn't speak French.
On the way to the airport there's a spare hour to catch the greatest trophy in plane spotting, the landing of a 747-400 heavy over Maho Beach. This is just the appetizer.
Looks like Leonardo's back for round two.
Here she comes, the Queen of the Skies.
Hold on to your bikini tops ladies. Oh I forgot, this is Saint Martin, you aren't wearing any.
Forget the pristine beaches, the turquoise water, the superb food and wine, the sea turtles that swim right up to your goggles, this is why you come to Saint Martin. For the thunderous roar of four Pratt & Whitney turbofans and the smell of Jet A. Oh hang on, apparently that's not why Mei came to Saint Martin, go figure right?
