According to a recent mention in the NY Post, it seems St Barts is once again teeming with God-awful showbiz/mogul types, who in one-week’s time, will pump more money onto those sleepy shores than George Clooney will spend on the uber-sophisticated satellite monitoring system he’s funding out of his own pocket to prevent civil war in the Sudan.
Come December, my skin starts to flinch at the decadence and holiday hijinx taking place at Nikki Beach or gasp, my beloved La Plage. Of the nefarious characters sucking the soul out of this quiet little island paradise. Of the abrasive New Yawk accents and the heavy, cloying scent of entitlement mixed with bad taste and cigars, all feeling like a slickly-packaged, hyped-up episode of Real Housewives of Wherever (does it really matter?) meets TMZ meets Wall Street, with a hot dose of MTV Cribs to give the street cred needed to attract the newly cashed-ups.
And as I slip into a mild seizure considering all of this, I find myself asking this one, simple question.
Who in the hell is in charge of marketing for Mustique?
For Nevis or Anguilla. For Aruba, Bahamas, c’mon pretty mama. Because by God, they need to step it up! My dog could do a better job wooing people to Mustique for the holidays! If a fraction of the fractious crowd overwhelming (underwhelming?) St Barts’ charming nooks and crannies over Christmas and New Years could be amortized against even one more Caribbean island – well, in the words of Louis Armstrong, “what a wonderful world this would be”.
Certainly someone must know someone who knows someone who could take on this role of savvy marketing stiff, charged with spending obscene amounts of money to promote reasonably competitive (as if) Caribbean locales as alternative bright and sparkly December destinations to the glitterati? I mean, how hard could it be to build a business case for spending the holidays on St. John or even the Grenadines? What about Vieques? A rustic and rural little charmer – some go as far as saying Vieques is St Barts thirty years ago. Perhaps the lure of being in on the ground floor might serve as a sufficient destination distraction to off-load the St Barts holiday mayhem. I mean, all you really need is a few divine villas, a handful of excellent chefs to open chic little bistros, a smattering of exclusive boutiques & hotels, power boat charters, container ships of champagne and a few spectacularly, effortlessly gorgeous people lounging around and cavorting in the turquoise waters. Throw in Nikki Beach, et voilà – a perfect holiday locale that the rich and fabulous will be drawn to as naturally as fish to water; as Lindsey to a crack pipe.
I say we mobilize and start an aggressive search for the right shill, I mean candidate, for the job. A destination marketeer extraordinaire. In the meantime, I will no doubt, continue to whine (wine) myself to sleep as I do every holiday season, with convulsions of envy and disgust, like gentle waves lapping the shores of St Jean beach, and I will wait patiently until the Spring, when the crowds are gone, the stores re-stocked and there’s not a Diddy in sight.