Discovering Marigot, Saint Martin’s French Capital: Baguettes and Bay Breezes

Marigot, Saint Martin ✈

Marigot Bay on the French side of Saint Martin

I woke up early in Sint Maarten, the Dutch side of the Caribbean Island, left my air-conditioned one-bedroom suite at The Villas at Simpson Bay Resort, and walked the short slope to Welfare Road to flag one of the vans that serve as public buses. The driver collected the fare in cash, waited until every seat filled, and then rolled west through Cole Bay, skirting the lagoon before crossing the invisible frontier where Dutch Sint Maarten becomes the French Collectivité of Saint-Martin. No officer checked passports, and no barrier hinted at a border; the only sign of change was the switch from “Thank you” to “Merci” as passengers stepped off. Roughly forty minutes after boarding, the van eased into the small terminal beside Rue de Hollande in Marigot.

Marigot is the administrative capital of the French side, a compact waterfront town laid out beside the tidal ponds that gave it its name—marigot means “swamp” in French. Bilingual street signs alternate between French and English, and storefronts accept euros and U.S. dollars without protest, though change usually returns in euros. Catamarans bob in the marina, and most mornings a trace of sea salt mixes with the aroma of butter from nearby bakeries turning out baguettes by the rack.

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Fort St. Louis seen from street level in Marigot, Saint Martin

“Borders here exist mostly on paper. Marigot Bay’s calm water, the open-air market’s chatter, and the fort’s weather-worn cannons all belong to a French collectivity, yet they sit minutes from the Dutch resort balcony where I ended my evening.”

The Marigot Market in Saint Martin

I chose to walk first, knowing the heat would climb fast. Within two blocks I passed the Old Town Hall, a two-story stone house completed in 1847 for local merchant Georgina Hodge before the municipality took it over in the early twentieth century. Narrow shutters, a wrought-iron balcony, and a low-pitched roof give it the same Creole aesthetic found on grander estates, yet its modest footprint suits the seafront setting. A plaque by the entrance lists past mayors who governed from its wood-paneled offices and notes how the structure survived hurricanes that flattened less resilient buildings.

The Old Town Hall of Marigot in Saint Martin

Beyond the junction with Rue Kennedy the sidewalk widened, and the scent of cooked spices drifted in from the open-air market along Boulevard de France. The market runs every day except Sunday from eight in the morning until early afternoon, but Wednesday and Saturday mornings are busiest when fishermen haul in mahi-mahi, snapper, and lobster at dawn. Dozens of slab-topped tables held papayas, tiny bananas, cassava, and heaps of scotch-bonnet peppers. Vendors under striped tarps arranged printed dresses, woven bags, and hand-carved calabash bowls beside bottles of spiced rum. I circled the square twice, comparing mango prices and watching locals bargain in rapid Creole.

The Marigot Market in Saint Martin

When the sun sharpened every shadow, I carried my paper bag of fresh fruit across the street to the seawall that frames Marigot Bay, the natural harbor that first attracted French colonial planners. The bay shelters ferries bound for Anguilla and St. Barthélemy as well as small fishing craft that still supply the market, and its calm turquoise water holds a constant slosh of mast lines against aluminum hulls. Pelicans skimmed the surface, diving for scraps near the ferry pier. I sat on the low concrete ledge, unwrapped the lunch I had packed at the resort, and added a ripe banana bought minutes earlier.

Marigot Bay in Saint Martin

Lunch finished, I shouldered the bag and headed uphill on Rue du Fort Louis. A fifteen-minute climb leads to the stone remains of Fort St. Louis, built in 1789 to guard Marigot Bay and the warehouses that once stored sugar, coffee, and rum. Cannons still point toward Anguilla, but the real draw is the panoramic view: the curve of Marigot Bay, the red roofs of the French capital below, and, on a clear day, the runway of Princess Juliana Airport on the Dutch side. After spending about 45 minutes at the fort, I headed down back down.

Back at street level my shirt felt pasted to my skin, so I stepped into a corner café and ordered an iced coffee heavy on crushed local beans. While stirring in raw sugar I opened the SXM Taxi app, which works much like ride-hail services elsewhere. It shows the fare, tracks the vehicle in real time, and accepts cash or card on arrival. Within five minutes a silver minivan pulled up. I slid the door closed, grateful for the air-conditioning, and let the driver navigate south through Bellevue and across the unmarked border before depositing me at the resort entrance.

Marigot, Saint Martin

Later, from a shaded lounger beside the lagoon, I sketched out how easily a visitor can expand the route. The same bus line continues north from Marigot to Grand Case, widely regarded as the Caribbean’s culinary capital, where roadside grills called lolos smoke ribs and whole snapper over charcoal until midnight. Another branch drops passengers at Orient Bay, a broad Atlantic-side beach favored by wind-surfers and kiteboarders. Fit hikers can transfer to a local van that climbs partway up Pic Paradis—Paradise Peak—before tackling the steep last mile on foot; at 1,391 feet, it is the island’s highest point and a perch for flocks of green and purple-throated hummingbirds. Halfway up the same slope, Loterie Farm repurposes a former sugar estate into a canopy of zip lines, shaded trails, and a spring-fed pool that morphs into a day club once the music starts near sunset. Off the northeast shore, flat-topped Pinel Island waits a five-minute ferry ride from Cul-de-Sac, rewarding snorkelers with calm shallows and beach cafés that grill lobster by weight.

Marigot, Saint Martin

A single outing reminded me how quickly the Dutch lagoon perspective shifts once you cross to the French capital. Stone civic buildings, an animated produce market, a colonial fort, and a waterfront where pelicans dive almost within arm’s reach all sit within a rectangle of streets you can cover on foot in half an hour. Add a guavaberry sample, a look inside the small Musée de Saint-Martin housed in the island’s former prison, and a breezy ferry schedule pinned to the wharf kiosk, and you have the skeleton of a full-day itinerary—even before considering Grand Case surf or Orient Bay sand. Transportation becomes a decision between cost and comfort. The buses rarely exceed five dollars for even the longest cross-island ride but run on local timing. The SXM Taxi app costs more but delivers door-to-door convenience and real-time tracking that spares you waiting under a corrugated roof in the tropical sun.

The French side of the Caribbean Island of Saint Martin

Borders here exist mostly on paper. Marigot Bay’s calm water, the open-air market’s chatter, and the fort’s weather-worn cannons all belong to a French collectivity, yet they sit minutes from the Dutch resort balcony where I ended my evening. Keep your passport in the hotel safe, a few euros in your pocket, and enough curiosity to ride whichever van clatters up first; the rest of the island opens itself with equal ease.

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