Three Perfect Days: A trip to the U.S. Virgin Islands

The road climbing St. Peter Mountain zigs and zags past palms and chickens with places to go. I thank God that Lou is driving and not me. As a former mason (a fitting occupation on St. Thomas, an island they call Rock City), he takes turns with, no doubt, the same precision he used to cut stone. And he doesn’t think cars are being driven on the wrong side. “We drive on the left, but have American cars with steering also on the left,” he says. “We are all mixed up!”

I consider how much this sounds like a metaphor for the U.S. Virgin Islands, a territory that’s been ruled under seven flags since Columbus. Soon we reach Mountain Top, a shop and bar where tourist kitsch (and spellbinding panoramas) shush such pondering. At the entrance, a giant Cruzan Rum bottle is besieged by life-size pirates dressed like the Village People. Out on the deck, some 2,100 feet above sea level, I meet Angela Payne, a guide from the tourism board. She helpfully puts names to the land masses out yonder: Puerto Rico, St. John and Magens Bay, with its white-sand beach and turquoise water. St. Croix lies to the south, out of view. Scanning the fruit-bearing trees around us, she shakes her head and adopts what in the islands is a tone reserved for omens of bad weather. “Before Irma and Maria, the fruits—the mangoes!—were in such abundance. People would say, ‘Come, take my mangoes, please.’ It’s looking like that again, so it’s something on our minds.”

A sign above the bar boasts, “Home of the world famous banana daiquiri—7 million daiquiris sold,” and while it’s only 10 a.m., duty calls. A two-finger-deep lake of rum floats at the top of the glass. Lou, sensing we could be in trouble if we go for round two, shuttles us back to the car and down the road toward the capital, Charlotte Amalie. On the way, we pass the wood-frame houses of Savan, a district carved out in the 1760s for free Africans and, later, waves of immigrants. We stop at Weekes & Weekes Bakery for a Caribe classic: raisin bun and cheese. We wash it down with a bush tea, which Payne says is “made of whatever’s growing in the backyard!” This one tastes like lemongrass and mint.

Wandering the historic center along the huge harbor, I imagine life in the 1700s. Back then, the town was a hub for trading commodities at the docks and humans in the market squares. The output of the slave population was so huge that sugar production from the three main islands bankrolled the entire kingdom of Denmark. Today, the stone commercial buildings in this neighborhood house shops and restaurants, and there’s an air of renewal. We stop in at 81C, an 1810 warehouse that Brooklyn transplant Zack Zook transformed into a gallery space that hosts weekly happenings.

“Downtown is revitalizing,” Zook says. “We’re using the momentum to raise the bar in terms of things to do in the community. Our gallery is one of the more professional, in terms of art presentation, on all three islands, which says a lot about the potential here. People walk in and they’re impressed—many heavy hitters have visited and said it was amazing.” Abstract prints by Laurie Smithwick hang on the walls, and waiting in boxes are works by Puerto Rican painter Nel Figueroa. “We’re not too folky,” says Joseph Hewes, a partner. “We offer contemporary curation, as opposed to paintings of palm trees and starfish—no offense to starfish.” There's also a modern two-bedroom loft where guests can stay, and a café and wine bar that doubles as an event space.

Filled with the magic of possibility, I focus on manifesting a delicious lunch. A short walk later, I’m seated on the harbor patio of Petite Pump Room, filling my fork with blackened mahi-mahi and a buttery okra polenta called fungi. Calypso is playing, and on cue, like a Vegas fountain show, a seaplane fires up its propellers and takes off.

Hankering for a swim, I jump on a safari shuttle, the centaur of public transport—half open-air bus, half pickup truck. I jump out at Brewers Bay, handing the driver $1. The vibes on the beach are relaxed, with a Rasta playing “Redemption Song” on a flute and old men absorbed in games of dominoes. I wade into the clear, warm water, where turtles and stingrays swim around me without a care.

After a quick snooze under a palmetto tree, I grab a taxi back downtown. I visit Zora of St. Thomas, an accomplished French horn player who has been making custom sandals for 60 years. Wearing her trademark headscarf, tiny but fierce Zora Galvin is tracing a woman’s feet, stopping only to scold. “Don’t scrunch your toes, look straight, don’t look down.” A couple from Nebraska marvel at her every move. “We come for new ones every year,” one of them says, “even though they last forever.” Galvin lifts her hazel eyes, flattered but nonplussed.

On the way up Government Hill toward my hotel, At Home in the Tropics B&B, I stop at a little green cottage, E’s Garden Teahouse. Owner Judith Watlington-Edwin, who has a magnificent head of gray dreads, tells me how a trip to China changed her life. “Seeing all the teahouses there, I thought, That might be a nice thing to do when I retire… and voilà!”

I finish my homegrown hibiscus tea and hunt down the island’s most famous “step-street,” 99 Steps—which everyone loves to point out has 103. Built from ballast bricks taken from ships, stairways such as this one offered an elegant solution to the problem of steep hills. They remain in amazing condition, considering they’re about 270 years old.

After a quick shower, I’m spruced up for a culinary treat at Blue Eleven, Ritz-Carlton-trained chef David Benjamin’s restaurant in the waterfront development Yacht Haven Grande.

Given the choice of a 6-, 8-, or 11-course menu, I answer, “Yes, and the wine pairing.” With an open kitchen taking up nearly half the room, and Chef Benji, as he’s called, making the rounds, every table feels like the chef’s table.

When the small plates arrive, the heartbreak begins. The presentations are too beautiful, the flavors too captivating. Especially cruel is the butter-poached halibut with cassava foam and passion fruit butter. It leaves a scar on my heart. As I chat with my fellow diners, a refrain emerges: The room is filled with “Michelin-star foodies,” and this meal ranks among the best any of us has had.