Martinique & Dominica: Making Room for Both
- Mar 27
- 13 min read
Updated: Aug 17
Martinique, December 2025
As I stepped off the ferry in Martinique, I could immediately feel the difference from Saint Lucia.
In Saint Lucia, people spoke English.
In Martinique, French.
In Saint Lucia, they drove on the left.
In Martinique, on the right.
In Saint Lucia, I used Eastern Caribbean dollars with Queen Elizabeth II's face.
In Martinique, I pulled colorful euros out of my wallet.
British plugs. Now European.
I was prepared for those differences.
Before leaving Saint Lucia, I'd learned something about the history of these four islands. During the 18th and 19th centuries, they had changed hands between Britain and France fourteen times altogether. In other words, they spent seven different periods under French rule and seven under British rule.
That long colonial tug-of-war left the islands with a fascinating blend of languages, cultures, and traditions.
Even today, French, English, and different forms of Creole weave in and out of everyday life.
Saint Lucia and Dominica gained their independence from Britain in the late 1970s.
Martinique and Guadeloupe still belong to France.
Martinique wasn't just another Caribbean island.
It was literally France.
I was excited to start polishing off my rusty French. Just like in mainland France, I soon discovered that very few people in Martinique spoke much English.
Fort-de-France
When the taxi pulled up to the Hôtel L'Impératrice, I immediately fell in love. This place had character. The long balconies curved around the corners, like an old-fashioned ocean liner and it sat right on the main square, La Savane, between the stunning Schœlcher Library, with its Eiffel-inspired ironwork, and the Belle Époque post office. I could walk out of the lobby and feel the original French town.
Later, I learned that L'Impératrice, named after Empress Joséphine—Napoleon's wife, who was born in Martinique—had been a gathering place for artists, writers, and musicians for nearly seventy years. Somehow, that didn't surprise me. I often choose hotels intuitively before I even know very much about them. The history usually confirms what I already sensed.
The first thing I like to do when I arrive in a new place is take a guided city tour. It's my way of getting acquainted—beginning to understand the history, the culture, and the rhythms of a place before setting off on my own.
My first afternoon in Fort-de-France, I climbed into the front seat of a little golf cart for just such a tour.
The local guide, Louis, picked me up first, and then headed off across town to pick up a Dutch couple from one of the cruise ships.
One minute we were puttering through the small streets surrounding the square. The next minute, Louis was heading up an entrance ramp onto one of the city's busiest thoroughfares. I couldn't believe we were zipping along in a little golf cart, keeping pace with the fast-moving traffic. It was a little scary—and a little thrilling at the same time.
Once we'd collected the Dutch couple, I was soon surprising them with some of the Dutch I'd learned while living in Amsterdam many years earlier.
As we scooted around the historic center, Louis shared stories about the city's history, culture, and the people who had shaped it.
Our grand finale was the bustling market.
This is the kind of stimulation that Reach craves—not crowds or adrenaline, but discovery.
Ok, maybe a little bit of adrenaline too.
But mostly…
Curiosity.
Learning.
Getting acquainted with a place until it comes alive in 3D.
But it was mid-December, and the Caribbean Christmas celebrations had already begun. Every afternoon, loud reggae/rock bands started playing in the square right across from my window and kept going strong until 2am. The hotel even supplied earplugs in every room.
Reach may love adventure, but twelve hours of pounding music wasn't quite what Reach had in mind.
After spending a few days exploring Fort-de-France, I picked up my rental car and headed south to Sainte-Anne.
This was what Depth had really been looking forward to.
Sainte-Anne
Before leaving San Francisco, I'd spent months researching calm beaches where I could safely get into the water with my new knees. Pointe Marin sounded perfect, so I'd rented a little bungalow about a ten-minute walk from the beach. I imagined spending my five days there writing, working with clients on the phone, and walking down to the beach for a dip in the warm Caribbean Sea.
The drive was easy. Since Martinique is part of France, everything felt familiar. They drive on my side of the road, the roads were excellent, the signs were clearly marked, and my GPS guided me straight to the address.
Finding my bungalow should have been easy too.
The bungalow looked nothing like the photos. Still, my GPS had brought me to the correct address, Number 20, on the correct residential street so I parked in the designated driveway and climbed the outside stairs to the covered porch.
My first clue that something wasn't right was the clothes hanging outside the front door—beach towels, swimsuits, the sort of thing people hang up after a day at the beach.
That's odd, I thought.
Then I tried the keypad.
Nothing.
I checked the address again.
Yes.
Number 20.
I tried the code again.
Still nothing.
I texted the owner. When we weren't getting very far by text, I called her through WhatsApp.
I can usually communicate pretty well in French, even with plenty of mistakes. But when I'm frustrated, my French almost disappears.
I assumed she was nearby and could come help me.
She wasn't.
She was in French Guiana, on the northern coast of South America.
Then she asked, "Are you sure you're at the right Number 20?"
I remember thinking, What kind of question is that?
Of course I was.
I was at Number 20.
Then she said something I couldn't believe.
"There is more than one Number 20."
What?
Somehow there were five little beach bungalows next to each other, and every one of them was Number 20.
Not five matching bungalows.
No.
Five completely different bungalows and cottages. All with the same address.
It made no sense.
Finally she said,
"I'll call my friend Pascal and see if he can come help you."
A few minutes later, Pascal appeared with a warm smile.
When I asked him in French if he spoke English, he shook his head apologetically and said only, "Bye-bye."
Fortunately, now that I'd calmed down, my French was coming back to me. Before long, I was laughing at my own funny mistake-riddled French, and Pascal was laughing right along with me.
He led me to the right Number 20 and carried my luggage up the outdoor stairs into my bungalow. Before he left, I asked if he could help me get my devices connected to the internet.
My brain divides languages into two groups: English and Not English. Whenever I can't think of a word in French, it cheerfully jumps in to help.
"Here's a word that means exactly what you want!"
Unfortunately, the word is usually in Spanish.
Pascal had a variation on the same theme. Since "bye-bye" wasn't very useful at that moment, his brain kept reaching for the only other foreign language that he knew even a little—German.
I'd laugh and say to him in French,
"Pascal, I don't understand German. Speak to me in French. I can understand French."
"Ah oui, bien sûr."
Five minutes later, he'd be trying to speak German again.
Before he left, Pascal told me how to get to Pointe Marin beach.
After unpacking, I walked down to relax in the sea after the ordeal of finding my bungalow.
The beach was everything I'd hoped for. The water was calm and protected. Gentle swells rose and fell around me. I was floating in the warm water when I heard someone call my name.
"Lucinda!"
It was Pascal.
We chatted for a while in our own special blend of French, sprinkled with Spanish and German.
The next afternoon, after working with clients and getting some writing done, I walked back down to Pointe Marin for another soak in the sea. As I waded into the water, I saw Pascal waving to me.
It turned out this was his routine. Every morning and every afternoon, he'd spend an hour or so at Pointe Marin. He had moved from mainland France to Martinique because he loved the Caribbean sea.
I told him that I was thinking about driving to another nearby beach that I'd heard was beautiful—Plage des Salines. I asked him if it was worth visiting and if it was easy to get there. He started explaining the route. Then he stopped.
"How about if I just take you tomorrow?”
The next day Pascal picked me up and took me to Plage des Salines.
On the way we stopped at Étang des Salines, a salt lagoon near the beach. It's part of a nature preserve with mangroves, birds, and wetlands.
It was also apparently home to some particularly relentless mosquitoes.
The Les Salines beach was completely different from Pointe Marin, which had begun to feel like home to me. The waves were bigger and rougher. If I'd been alone, I wouldn't have dared to go in the water.
I told Pascal I was afraid.
Not going into the sea had never occurred to him. Of course we were going in the sea.
He took my hands and walked me into the surf. We were both laughing as the waves tossed us around. It was exhilarating, and because Pascal was keeping me on my feet, I didn't feel afraid anymore.
The following morning, I discovered a fresh crop of mosquito bites. Some were swollen with angry red streaks, and a few had started to ooze.
Before I left home, my knee surgeon, Dr. Cox, had given me two instructions:
"Don't fall."
"And don't get an infection."
With two brand-new knees, an infection could have serious consequences. After looking up several nearby clinics, I called Pascal to ask which one he recommended so I could drive there.
Instead, he said, "I'll come get you."
Pascal drove me to the clinic. The wait was going to be at least two hours.
"Call me when you're finished," he said.
"Oh no, Pascal. I'll just take a taxi."
"There are no taxis,” he smiled. “Just call me when you're finished."
Later that afternoon, I saw Pascal again at Pointe Marin.
"Pascal," I said, "you've helped me so much. Please let me take you to lunch tomorrow."
The next day, of course, he insisted on driving.
He showed me around Sainte-Anne—the harbor, the market, and the church—before going to a little restaurant he liked. We laughed a lot, my funny French still endlessly entertaining to us both.
The following morning, before I left for Fort-de-France, Pascal came over to say goodbye. He carried my luggage down the steps.
We hugged.
Then, Pascal looked me deeply in the eyes and said in English, "Bye-bye."
As I started the engine, it felt strange to finally be driving the rental car that had been waiting patiently in its parking place for five days.
I had driven it from Fort-de-France to Sainte-Anne, and now I was driving it back to Fort-de-France.
In between, Pascal had driven me everywhere else.
As I pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Pascal was standing there, waving.
Five days earlier, he had been the kind stranger who solved the mystery of Number 20. Now I was leaving Martinique, sad to say goodbye to my new friend.
Dominica
Seeing Dominica rise out of the sea is dramatic—green, mountainous, almost theatrical.
I stepped off the ferry, smiled at the first person I met, and said, "Bonjour."
He smiled back and said, "Good afternoon."
After more than a week in Martinique, my brain hadn't gotten the memo that I'd just arrived in an English-speaking country.
I kept saying bonjour, pardon, and merci automatically, even though everyone answered me in English.
Back in June at home in San Francisco, Jason from my travel club for people who have been to over 100 countries and territories, told me about Mango Lodge and the charming French couple who had designed and built it from scratch. I knew back then that this was where I wanted to spend Christmas.
A driver from Mango Lodge picked me up at the ferry. I kept speaking French, and he kept answering me in English. Traffic was heavy, so by the time we reached the lodge about forty-five minutes later, my brain had finally adjusted back to English.
Mango Lodge
Then I met Stéphane and Karine.
They were French.
"Bonjour," I said.
This time, I got it right.
Jean-Pierre, who was from French-speaking Haiti, showed me to my room by way of my new little rustic front porch overlooking the sea.
By this point, my brain decided that French was the default language again.
My room was called Ocean. It was painted a deep blue.
A mosquito net surrounded the bed like a protective cocoon.
Perfect.
After weeks of being at the mercy of mosquitoes, I finally had a sanctuary.
Then I spotted three fans.
A ceiling fan. A standing fan. A wall fan.
Even better.
I hate windows that don't open, and I hate air conditioning. Here I could leave the windows cracked, keep the fans running all the time so the mosquitoes couldn't land on me, breathe fresh air, and retreat into the safety of my cocoon whenever I wanted to read, write, work with clients on the phone, or simply be.
It was wonderful to have nothing on my schedule until later in the evening, when I'd have a coaching session with a client in New York.
Every morning, I'd make myself a cup of decaf in the lightweight metal travel mug I got in Mexico years ago—the one that comes with me on every trip—and carry it out to my little front porch overlooking the sea.
I'm never hungry first thing in the morning. I like to wake up slowly with my coffee and just be for a while.
Some days I'd read.
Some days I'd write.
Some days I'd work with clients.
Some days I'd wander down to the pool.
I was curious to explore the beach I could see from my front porch.
Karine offered to drive me to the beach.
"Don't worry about taking your purse,” she said. "Just have someone at the café call me when you're ready."
Unfortunately, the surf was too rough for me to feel safe going in without Pascal. But I enjoyed walking along the beach and chatting with people I met there, seeing if my Saint Lucian Creole worked. Most of it did.
Most days, though, I was perfectly content right where I was at home in Mango Lodge.
Since discovering twenty years ago that I'm one of the roughly one in five people born with the trait of High Sensitivity—what I call Depth—I've learned to honor a different rhythm when I travel.
I also have another, seemingly contradictory trait, generally called High Sensation Seeking—which I call Reach.
Reach loves novelty, new languages, and new experiences.
Depth loves those too—but it needs time to absorb them.
After several days of novelty, activity, and interaction, my nervous system needs a few days of spaciousness. That slower rhythm lets me enjoy the next adventure even more.
Mango Lodge turned out to be exactly what my nervous system needed after the accumulated stimulation of the past few weeks.
Nowhere to go without transport.
No need to speak French unless I felt like it.
No need to do anything except talk to clients that I enjoy on the phone.
After a couple of days of that, Reach was beginning to get restless.
Reach started tugging at my sleeve. ”Okay...that's enough downtime. Let's go have an adventure.”
Exploring Dominica
Stéphane connected me with a wonderful private guide named Lincoln. Over two different days, he showed me some of Dominica's highlights, including Trafalgar Falls, several historical sites, and Indian River, where the eerie boat ride through a mangrove swamp to a voodoo priestess's hidden hut was filmed for Pirates of the Caribbean.
Along the way, Lincoln taught me a lot about Dominican history, culture, and everyday life.
On our first day trip, I immediately showed off my Creole. Lincoln quickly became my next Creole teacher—the Dominican version this time.
Everywhere we went, he knew someone.
Before introducing me, he'd whisper, "Okay...get ready."
That was my cue. It felt like stepping onto a little stage. I'd take a tiny breath and launch into whatever new Creole phrase he'd just taught me.
We began to fall into a rhythm. It wasn't long before Lincoln and I had our own little traveling vaudeville routine.
He would direct the performance.
I would deliver the punch line.
His friends—the audience—would stare in surprise before breaking into huge smiles.
And Lincoln would stand there grinning, delighted by the success of our little act.
But as much fun as exploring Dominica with Lincoln was—learning about the history and culture, taking in the natural beauty, and entertaining people with our little vaudeville routine—it was still a long day of constant stimulation.
By the end of it, I'd already passed that invisible line where my nervous system had absorbed as much as it could. I was relieved to retreat to my cocoon back at Mango Lodge and settle into the slower rhythm that had brought me to these islands in the first place.
Reach got its adventure.
Depth got exactly what it had been needing, too.
Christmas
For Christmas Eve at Mango Lodge, Stéphane and Karine were busy preparing a fabulous seven-course French feast.
Dinner wasn't until 8pm, much later than I usually eat. Around lunchtime, I mentioned to Karine that I was worried I'd be starving by then. She smiled and said, "I'll bring you your appetizers early."
Late that afternoon, while everyone gathered around the pool visiting and enjoying drinks before dinner, she quietly brought me two appetizers.
Problem solved.
Stéphane and Karine sat with their daughter and French friends.
A Dutch couple invited me to join them.
There was soup, a delicious main course, a cheese plate, several desserts, Christmas music, and the relaxed feeling of people genuinely enjoying one another's company.
Then, somewhere between dinner and dessert, Stéphane quietly disappeared.
A few minutes later, he reappeared wearing a St. Nicholas hat.
"Ho, ho, ho!" he announced in his wonderful French accent. "Santa has gifts!"
One by one, he handed everyone a small Christmas present. Mine was a little coffee mug with Dominica on it. It's sitting in my kitchen as I write this.
The next day—Christmas Day—I did almost nothing at all.
I lingered over my morning coffee, enjoyed leftovers from the feast, called a few friends to wish them Merry Christmas, and spent most of the day in my little blue room overlooking the sea.
For me, that was one of the greatest gifts of Christmas 2025—the feeling that it's perfectly okay to do absolutely nothing.
And somehow, on a tiny Caribbean island, people I'd only known for a week made that Christmas feel completely like home.
Finding My Rhythm
Looking back now, I realize these two islands weren't really just about Martinique and Dominica for me.
They were about continuing to learn how to listen to two traits that are both part of my nature—High Sensitivity and High Sensation Seeking, what I call Depth and Reach.
Years ago, Reach did most of the trip planning.
Reach wanted new countries, new languages, new friendships, and the satisfaction of getting acquainted with another little corner of the world.
That's still true.
Reach hasn't changed.
What has changed, though, is that over the years I've gradually become more intentional about planning trips that honor Depth as well.
Martinique gave Depth long soaks in a gentle sea, one unexpected friendship with Pascal, and five unhurried days in one place.
Dominica gave Depth a front porch overlooking the sea, a little blue room with three fans and a protective cocoon, time to read, write, work with clients I love, and the feeling that, for a while, there was nowhere else I needed to be.
I used to think recovery happened after I got home.
Now I build it into the trip itself.
That's the rhythm I'm still learning.
Reach gets to discover.
Depth gets the space to take it all in.
And each gets to take the lead when it's their turn.
A Note Before You Go
If you recognized yourself in this story, you’re not alone.
I’ve created a free 30-second quiz and a free short booklet, An Introduction to Depth and Reach, to help you learn a little more about these two traits.
I hope they help you understand yourself a little better.
I’d love to share them with you.
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