Antigua

The small wooden cottage atop a steep hill has no air conditioning, but a soft breeze through louvered windows flutters the sheer white curtains at my balcony door. The trade winds that once carried tall ships from around the world to Antigua today carry to my room the smell of tropical flowers.

Andrew Michelin, whose family came from Europe to the Caribbean several generations ago, says he planned every detail of his small resort so visitors would have a true Caribbean experience. The roof of each cottage, for example, is made of galvanized metal, so if there happens to be a shower during your stay, you'll hear the sound of raindrops popping off a tin roof.

"When you first wake up, I don't want you to think even for a second, 'Where am I?"' Michelin says. "I want you to awaken and feel where you are, smell where you are, hear where you are."

That sense of place, of foreignness, of being far from home, goes a long way toward explaining the appeal of a small resort. Then too there is the intimacy that comes with being one of a handful of guests, rather than one of an anonymous crowd of hundreds moving through a high-rise megaresort.

The Cocos resort, where I spend my first two nights in Antigua, has just 19 cottages. There are no lines of people waiting to register when I arrive around lunchtime. In fact, I'm the only guest in sight, and the receptionist offers me something to drink before asking my name.

This is my Caribbean dream. When I open the door of my room, I want to see not a long hallway and a blank elevator door, but blue water and green hills. I like my flowers alive and growing, not arranged in a giant vase in the lobby. I come to escape lines, not to join them. Sure, I understand the appeal of on-site fitness centers, kids clubs, water sports, organized games, poolside fashion shows and the huge "native" buffets common in megaresorts, but I'll exchange all that for the feeling of escape from the modern world.

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