Post by tekmac on Feb 9, 2005 8:45:12 GMT -5
MUSHA CAY, Bahamas (7 Feb 2005) -- LYING in bed at the secluded Beach House on Musha Cay, a private island resort in The Bahamas that starts at $24,750 per day, two thoughts came to mind: 1) Faith Hill and Tim McGraw probably slept in this same bed! and 2) it's cold!
OK, we weren't quite freezing. But it was around 60 degrees indoors in mid-January, with no way to make it warmer, so we slept in sweaters. We heard others complaining about the chill in their quarters, and we mentioned this to the resort manager, but nobody received even an extra blanket.
Which is to say, an inordinate amount of money will buy you total privacy and pristine beaches, but if you want good, intuitive service, you might want to look elsewhere - or bring your own staff.
Glancing at guest book comments, however, it's clear that Faith and Tim (who apparently left two of their CDs in the Beach House) had a good time. So did other boldface names like Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Oprah Winfrey, Bill Gates ("Hope the foliage recovers from our wild driving during the treasure hunt.") and Amy Sacco ("Wow! You rock!"). The all-inclusive Musha Cay is also the darling of travel media, which consistently give it over-the-top reviews.
Yes, this lovely 150-acre island and its five houses, which are rented to only one party at a time and never have more than 24 guests (our group that didn't know each other was an exception) might be the ideal vacation spot for A-listers looking to dodge paparazzi. And the no-rules, no-itinerary aspect of having the run of the island is invigorating.
Other bonuses: Each house has a private beach, and guests have unlimited access to golf carts, tennis, fishing boats, jet skis and numerous other water toys. (Scuba diving, massages and Pilates classes require you to pay for additional staff.) These luxuries are wonderful: The fish bite, the jet skis zoom and the water's so blue it hurts.
Before we arrived, we'd heard wild stories of excess - romantic lobster dinners on the beach, hundreds of wines to choose from, a staff that couldn't say no. ("You name it, they'll get it for you," Gotham magazine recently proclaimed in a typical fit of overstatement.) We heard some guests send over pages listing the exact provisions they want.
Now we know why.
Our bedroom was stocked with delicacies like Doritos, three kinds of Pringles and Cracker Barrel cheese. When we explained we didn't like junk food and requested a plate of fancier cheese, olives and salami, the resort manager complied, but not before informing us in a clearly snotty tone: "Salami's the most processed food there is." Somebody better warn Mario Batali.
We did have a lovely fruit plate in our room. We ate some of it, but by day two the bananas were spotted brown and the strawberries were mushy. We put the plate outside and went to dinner. When we returned, our beds had been turned down and the same exact fruit plate was back in our room - although it had been exposed to birds and insects for about four hours.
When we saw the cheap Kendall Jackson merlot (has nobody on this island seen "Sideways"?) at dinner, the Cracker Barrel made perfect sense.
We asked if there was any other red wine - maybe shiraz, pinot noir, zinfandel? Denied.
Back in bed a couple of hours later, we wondered if we were too hasty in turning down the merlot. It might have warmed us up.
SOURCE - New York Post
OK, we weren't quite freezing. But it was around 60 degrees indoors in mid-January, with no way to make it warmer, so we slept in sweaters. We heard others complaining about the chill in their quarters, and we mentioned this to the resort manager, but nobody received even an extra blanket.
Which is to say, an inordinate amount of money will buy you total privacy and pristine beaches, but if you want good, intuitive service, you might want to look elsewhere - or bring your own staff.
Glancing at guest book comments, however, it's clear that Faith and Tim (who apparently left two of their CDs in the Beach House) had a good time. So did other boldface names like Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Oprah Winfrey, Bill Gates ("Hope the foliage recovers from our wild driving during the treasure hunt.") and Amy Sacco ("Wow! You rock!"). The all-inclusive Musha Cay is also the darling of travel media, which consistently give it over-the-top reviews.
Yes, this lovely 150-acre island and its five houses, which are rented to only one party at a time and never have more than 24 guests (our group that didn't know each other was an exception) might be the ideal vacation spot for A-listers looking to dodge paparazzi. And the no-rules, no-itinerary aspect of having the run of the island is invigorating.
Other bonuses: Each house has a private beach, and guests have unlimited access to golf carts, tennis, fishing boats, jet skis and numerous other water toys. (Scuba diving, massages and Pilates classes require you to pay for additional staff.) These luxuries are wonderful: The fish bite, the jet skis zoom and the water's so blue it hurts.
Before we arrived, we'd heard wild stories of excess - romantic lobster dinners on the beach, hundreds of wines to choose from, a staff that couldn't say no. ("You name it, they'll get it for you," Gotham magazine recently proclaimed in a typical fit of overstatement.) We heard some guests send over pages listing the exact provisions they want.
Now we know why.
Our bedroom was stocked with delicacies like Doritos, three kinds of Pringles and Cracker Barrel cheese. When we explained we didn't like junk food and requested a plate of fancier cheese, olives and salami, the resort manager complied, but not before informing us in a clearly snotty tone: "Salami's the most processed food there is." Somebody better warn Mario Batali.
We did have a lovely fruit plate in our room. We ate some of it, but by day two the bananas were spotted brown and the strawberries were mushy. We put the plate outside and went to dinner. When we returned, our beds had been turned down and the same exact fruit plate was back in our room - although it had been exposed to birds and insects for about four hours.
When we saw the cheap Kendall Jackson merlot (has nobody on this island seen "Sideways"?) at dinner, the Cracker Barrel made perfect sense.
We asked if there was any other red wine - maybe shiraz, pinot noir, zinfandel? Denied.
Back in bed a couple of hours later, we wondered if we were too hasty in turning down the merlot. It might have warmed us up.
SOURCE - New York Post