The many faces of St. John

'Ah, St. John!" was the typical response I got when I began announcing my vacation plans last year. Stories about traveling to St. John in the US Virgin Islands were shared like secrets by those who had already been there. "You'll love it," I was told. "You won't believe how blue the water is," murmured my hairdresser. "There's no other place quite like it," remarked the mother of a friend.

I imagined that traveling to St. John would be like discovering a small, out-of-the-way urban cafe that was still enough of a dive to keep the fashionably self-conscious at home.

In a way, that proved to be true. St. John lacks the commercial bustle of neighboring St. Thomas and St. Croix. It's smaller, and people tend to turn in for the night when darkness falls (and it falls fast and hard; no lingering sunsets near the equator, I discovered).

And getting around is no island breeze, either. Not only does everyone drive on the left side of the road, English-style; the roads are unsettlingly steep and winding. Chickens roam free, mongooses wander, and wild goats graze under the trees along the steep road banks. Donkeys show up looking for handouts at the most unexpected moments.

But traveling from one end of the island to the other gives meaning to the words of my friend's mother: "You won't believe what you are looking at is real."

The white-sand beaches (39 total) rendered the coarse sand of the New England shore, where I live, a distant memory.

It is paradise minus the paper umbrella in a frosty drink.

St. John, a Dutch sugar plantation in the 1700s, is now more than 50 percent national park.

A visit to the Annaberg ruins - remnants of one of the Dutch sugar plantations - provided some historical context. A self-guided tour wound around the site, explaining the sugaring process once used in the shadow of an impressive windmill.

Occasionally, the National Park Service will host cultural demonstrations and guided tours here.

The ruins also whisper of the island's more somber history. The West Indian skipper who ferried us over to the British Virgin Islands one day pointed out the legendary, jagged cliffs where slaves threw themselves to their deaths rather than face horrible lives spent working in the blistering-hot mills.

St. John's main "city" is Cruz Bay, where the Red Hook ferry drops off those arriving from St. Thomas or day-tourists from cruise ships. Coral Bay - a mere 7- 1/2 miles away, but a good 30 minutes of tricky driving - is the other, smaller hub.

With a jeep borrowed from our hosts, our adventuresome group of four was able to avoid relying on the steady fleet of open-air taxis that transport tourists to beaches from Cruz Bay.

But that meant maneuvering the roller-coaster ride of endless hairpin turns on our own. The roads were so steep, we would often stop at the top of some stomach-dropping bend to make sure the way ahead was clear. (I took up a permanent position in the back seat.)

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