Saint-Barthélemy wears its identity like one of its famed beach caftans: light, expensive, and layered. Yes, it is French. Yes, it is Caribbean. Yes, it is almost entirely filled with Americans in the high season. And yet, it manages to be none of those things completely—and all of them at once.

New data from France’s overseas economic office (IEDOM) confirms what every lobster-salad regular and rosé loyalist already knows: this tiny island of 9,000 residents is profoundly shaped by, and quietly dependent on, American travelers. But that doesn’t mean it’s become American. In fact, quite the opposite. It has doubled down on its uniqueness—and the U.S. loves it for that.

🛬 Yes, the Americans Come—in Droves

In 2022:

• 63.3% of hotel guests were American, with French mainlanders a distant second (17.5%) .
• Overall, 70–80% of all tourists hail from North America .
• Most arrive via Sint-Maarten (66.2% of air traffic), often routed through Miami, though they originate from New York, Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Aspen, LA and beyond .

They stay for an average of 5.5 nights, book villas (over 1,100 registered), dine in beach clubs, and often return—40% of hotel guests are repeat visitors.

So yes, if you think you heard someone in a linen shirt ask for almond milk in a Vermont accent, you did.

🍷 They Come for France—But Stay for the Fantasy

American visitors don’t come to make St. Barts familiar. They come because it isn’t. It’s French without the froideur, Caribbean without the chaos, luxurious without insisting on it.

They like that the waiter won’t rush them. They like that the wine list isn’t digital. They like the silence in Flamands at noon. They like that no one is selling them excursions. They like rules, especially when those rules involve tablecloths and noise limits.

They also like pretending they live a simpler life—villa dinners, beach walks, barefoot afternoons—even when they’re flying in chefs and ordering magnums of Provençal rosé.

And yes, while they might tell you they’re here for the foie gras ravioli and poisson en papillote, they’ll also grab a slice of pizza from Mamo and eat it in a €450 Poupée de St. Barth dress—with great pleasure.

🍔 This Isn’t Margaritaville—Except It Kind of Was

Here’s the twist: Jimmy Buffett lived here. And not just lived—he played here, on the island that he called home, long before “Margaritaville” became frozen on a cruise ship playlist. “Cheeseburger in Paradise”? Written about a real burger here. The irony is not lost on anyone.

So no, this isn’t the Florida Keys. But the fantasy of Caribbean ease with a French twist—that lives here in the best way. A kind of barefoot theater that everyone is in on, and no one wants to end.

🇫🇷 The Locals Know Who They Are

Ask any Saint-Barth resident and you’ll hear the same refrain: “We are French—but not quite.”

This is a place that values independence. Politically autonomous from France since 2007, the island governs its own finances, runs its own policies, and—more than anything—protects its scale. 70% of the island is green-zoned. There are no chain hotels. No cruise ship docks. No billboards.

The people here are Saint-Barths first, French second, Caribbean always—and they’re not trying to be anything else. They welcome Americans not because they aspire to be American, but because they understand their own value.

“They like that we’re different,” one Gustavia shop owner said. “And so do we.”

🎭 The Paradox Is the Point

Saint-Barthélemy is not where you go to escape the world. It’s where you go to curate your version of escape—a place where reality is softly suspended, but never ignored. Where everything looks casual, but nothing is unconsidered.

And maybe that’s why it works so well. Because the lobster is fresh. The baguettes are warm. The Wi-Fi works. The customs line is short. And the ocean is always the right shade of blue.

What else would you need?

Saint-Barthélemy: Not French. Not American. Just perfect enough to make both believe it was made for them.