Royal Treatment

It was a cold and lonely feeling, discovering that we'd be fighting this battle on our own. On our second day at the Sandy Lane resort in Barbados, my wife and I each grabbed a Limoges plate and passed through a buffet line of unearthly delights. Having indulged the day before in spicy shrimp, Laura went with the tiger prawns, which, though larger than the spicy shrimp, had to be peeled by hand. Even though Laura said she did not relish this task—"That's the kind of effort I simply can't be making"—none of the legion of uniformed help stepped forward to peel her prawns for her. We continued with lunch in a state of mild shock.

We weren't being unrealistic. We'd simply been spoiled rotten by the service at this high end of the high-end sybarite's dream. At the airport we were ushered through customs by Andrew, who handed us off to Dave, the driver of the Bentley in which we made the half-hour trip to the resort. After Dave pulled onto the grounds—which give the grounds at Versailles a run for their money—we were greeted by staff members bearing chilled washcloths and chillier daiquiris. It occurred to me that when our three-day stay ended I might break down and cry.

Check-in occurs in one's room. (It wouldn't do to have Jerry Seinfeld or Claudia Schiffer standing at a counter in the lobby, now would it?) That's followed by a 15-minute cram course on how to work the touch-pads controlling lighting, temperature and plasma-screen TV in one's boudoir. The high-tech hardware was added during a recent $300 million renovation. The venerable resort opened in 1961 and has been a playground for such luminaries as Queen Elizabeth, Frank Sinatra, Mick Jagger and Ari Onassis, who, according to Sandy Lane lore, was rowed ashore from his yacht while Maria Callas breaststroked alongside, a pet marmoset on her back.

By the late '90s the property needed some gussying up. The hotel was razed, then rebuilt—Sandy Laners prefer to say "reborn"—in the neo-Palladian style of the original. I was told by Nina Marshall, one of the resort's duty managers, that the makeover was a source of anxiety for many of the affluent families—some American, more European—who've been returning to this resort for decades. "When they return and realize it's still their Sandy Lane, only better," she says, "they're overjoyed." And we, of course, are overjoyed for them.

Other highlights of the renovation are a new golf course designed by Tom Fazio, which complements a pair of old courses; and a 47,000-square-foot spa that Caligula might have found a trifle decadent. I golfed, Laura got Rolfed. But on this island, where some say Arawak Indians invented the hammock, the bulk of our time was spent on chaise lounges, facing the Caribbean and wondering if it was late enough in the day to order an adult beverage. (It usually was.)

One morning Laura foolishly attempted to plant an umbrella in the sand...by herself. "Here at Sandy Lane," said the attendant who promptly interceded, "you don't have to do anything for yourself."

He was right, I now realize. Had we only asked, they probably would have peeled our prawns.