Landing in Saint Martin

Here is something I did not know until I started planning this trip: Saint Martin is the smallest landmass in the world divided between two sovereign nations. Thirty-four square miles, split between France and the Netherlands since 1648 under the Treaty of Concordia — one of the oldest international agreements still in effect. The French got the northern half (Saint-Martin, an overseas collectivity of France). The Dutch got the south (Sint Maarten, a constituent country of the Kingdom of the Netherlands). No border posts. No passport checks. No signs, really, unless you count the occasional monument that says something vague about friendship. You cross from one country to another and the only way you know it happened is the road surface changes and the restaurant menus switch languages.

I flew in on a Saturday in early November, three days before my 36th birthday. That felt like exactly the right kind of reckless. November is technically still hurricane season, but the tail end of it — the part where the weather is warm and the rates are low and the high-season crowds have not arrived yet. Low 80s, occasional afternoon showers that last ten minutes and leave the air smelling like wet concrete and frangipani. A good deal, assuming no one named a storm after you that week.

Princess Juliana and the Art of the Low Approach

The flight lands at Princess Juliana International Airport on the Dutch side — SXM — which is famous for exactly one thing: the approach path has jets descending at rooftop height over the fence at Maho Beach. Wide-body aircraft, runway ending just metres from the shoreline, engine exhaust loud enough to knock a grown adult off their feet. There are YouTube compilations of exactly that. Signs on the fence warn you that engine exhaust can cause “serious injury or death,” and people line up there anyway with their phones out. I respect the commitment to content creation in the face of structural risk. Genuinely.

I was on the plane rather than on the beach, so from my side of the equation it was a normal landing, notable mostly for how quickly the runway ran out. What I did not know yet: I would spend my last afternoon on the island standing on that same beach, watching planes come in from the opposite direction. The arrival and the departure, same piece of sky. That is the right kind of symmetry for a birthday trip.

The airport itself is small and functional. Customs was straightforward, though November 2021 was a particular moment for Caribbean travel. COVID protocols were still very much in play — health passes, testing documentation, the kind of paperwork that makes you triple-check your email at the gate. The French side had its own vaccine mandate, and by the time I landed, protests were building over it. More on that later. For now I had my documents in order and a rental car waiting.

One thing I would do differently: get an eSIM before departure. The Dutch side uses different carriers than the French side, and depending on which part of the island you are on, your roaming situation can change. An eSIM from Airalo lets you add a Caribbean data plan before you leave home — no hunting for a local SIM, no roaming surprises when you accidentally cross the border for lunch.

The Rental Car and the Club

I rented a car at the airport, which turned out to be the best decision of the entire trip. Saint Martin is small enough that you think you might not need one — taxis exist, shuttles exist, the resort areas cluster together. But the island opens completely when you have wheels. The mountain roads, the remote beaches, the ability to pull over because something looks interesting: none of that happens without a car. I am glad I did not talk myself out of it.

The rental agent walked me through the contract and then paused. “Do you know what this is?” She held up a steering wheel Club — the heavy steel anti-theft bar from the 1980s and 1990s, the thing your parents used to lock across the wheel of the Buick when it was parked at the mall. I recognized it immediately. It was in the contract. Not as a suggestion. As a legal requirement.

The reason: vehicle theft rates on the French side are significantly higher than on the Dutch side. The rental agreement required using the Club whenever the car was parked anywhere on the French side — binding clause, not optional. This is one of the most tangible ways a tourist feels the actual difference between the two countries sharing this island. The Treaty of Concordia says the border is friendly and open. The rental car insurance contract has a different opinion about where the risk is.

Simpson Bay: First Impressions

The resort area near Simpson Bay is what you picture when someone says “Caribbean” and means the tourist version of it. Palm trees, tin roofs in every shade of turquoise and coral, low-rise buildings that look like they were designed by someone with very strong opinions about balconies. The Dutch side is the commerce hub — more casinos, more nightlife, more neon per capita than the French side, which trends quieter and more upscale.

Simpson Bay Lagoon is the thing that orients everything. Largest lagoon in the northeastern Caribbean — twelve square kilometers of protected water that has been a prime anchorage for as long as people have been sailing the region. The superyacht situation is genuinely absurd. Vessels that look like floating hotels line the lagoon, and a quick glance at the marina confirms that money is distributed very unevenly across this planet. The lagoon runs on its own rhythm: twice a day, the Simpson Bay Bridge opens to let boat traffic through, and the road traffic on either side just stops and waits. No honking. No one argues with the bridge. The bridge does not care about your plans.

The whole area sits with a lagoon on one side and the ocean on the other — this odd feeling of being sandwiched between two different kinds of blue. Both look good at sunset.

The Roosters

I need to talk about the roosters. They are everywhere. Not in a charming, pastoral, “oh look a chicken” kind of way. In a “there are feral chickens patrolling the parking lot of the grocery store like they own the franchise” kind of way. This is not unique to Saint Martin — feral chickens are a fixture across the Caribbean — but the density here is something else. The backstory involves colonial-era food supply, cockfighting birds released when the practice was banned, a near-total absence of natural predators, and generations of unchecked reproduction. The result: an island where roosters walk through hotel lobbies, restaurants, and gas stations with the confidence of someone who has never once been told no.

I saw my first one within twenty minutes of arriving at the resort. He was walking across the pavers near some tropical plants with the slow, deliberate swagger of a middle manager doing a site visit. He did not look at me. He did not care that I was there. I was a guest in his territory, and he was making sure I understood the hierarchy.

First Night on the Dutch Side

The Dutch side comes alive after dark in a way that the French side does not really attempt. The strip near Simpson Bay is a string of neon-lit bars, boardwalk restaurants, and the kind of casual beach spots where the dress code is “shoes optional, shirt negotiable.” Not fancy. Not trying to be. It is exactly what you want on Night One of a Caribbean trip: a cold drink, warm air, palm trees lit from below, and the sound of someone else’s bad music coming from a bar you are not going to.

I found a spot, ordered something with rum and mint and too much ice, and sat there watching the light change over the water. The lagoon went from blue to gold to pink in the span of twenty minutes. Someone at the bar was laughing at something I did not catch. A rooster walked past the patio, unimpressed. The drink was exactly right.

This was going to be a good week. I could feel it in the specific way you can only feel it on the first evening of a trip you planned carefully, when the planning turns out to have been correct. The kind of trip where you stop checking the time because it stops mattering. The kind where a rooster is your welcome committee and you are completely fine with that.

Three days until my birthday. I had plans for that. The car was parked with the Club locked on — apparently that is how things work on this particular island. The Dutch side had a capital city to show me.