St. Pierre is Miquelon’s older, louder sister. But before we go there—do yourself a favor and read the Miquelon entry first. Seriously. Otherwise, you’re missing the whole “drinking wine in France without leaving North America” magic. I won’t repeat myself. Go read it. I’ll wait.
Now, after 24 hours soaking in the quiet charm of Miquelon, I hopped the ferry to St. Pierre. I didn’t know what I was expecting—cobblestones and croissants, maybe a fight in a bar—but I knew this was the busier, brasher island. I was ready to dive in.
Land, Ho!
And then I got off the boat… and immediately regretted my hotel choice. Not that Les Terrasses du Port was a dump—far from it. It was actually one of the nicest spots on the island. But it was also far from the pulse. I had to drag my damn suitcase through town, past the life, the noise, the smell of bread and cigarettes—to the quiet side of the port.
Too late to change it. I was stuck. So I did what any reasonable traveler would do: ate a bowl of lemon curd from the hotel fridge, cursed under my breath, and went to bed.
Breakfast at the hotel was decent. Nothing life-changing, but enough to keep me from getting cranky. Checked out at 10 and dragged my bags back into town like some post-colonial pack mule. Fortunately, the ferry terminal had free luggage storage—small mercies. I had the whole day to kill, and I was grateful not to spend it shackled to a suitcase.
No plans. No schedule. No little stars pinned on a map. Just me, the streets, and whatever weird, wonderful things they wanted to show me. The sun came out for once, and that alone felt like a minor victory.
The Butcher, The Baker…
I wandered. A butcher shop with red shingles all around. An old church, half-forgotten but still standing proud. A bookshop. A gift store. Brightly colored houses clinging to the edge of the Atlantic like they’d blow away if you exhaled too hard. I climbed a hill, left the town behind, and found a lone horse tied to a stake in the grass—just vibing. We talked. I scratched his nose. We understood each other.
Kept climbing until I found a cross overlooking the town, the kind of place that makes you stop and pretend to be deep for a minute. On the way back down, I ran into Ron and Sherry—fellow travelers I’d met in Miquelon. They were on a mission for lunch, and losing. The whole damn town goes into lockdown from noon to two. Call it tradition, call it siesta, call it the French being French.
Every restaurant that was open turned them away—no reservation, no soup for you. So we hit up a food truck, bought some crepes, and shared a picnic table like war buddies. Then we split up, heading off in different directions, full but still hungry—for something. Always.
You Got me Going in Circles
I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering in circles, the way you do when you’ve got time to kill and nowhere in particular to be. I ducked into a painfully unremarkable bakery—fluorescent lighting, sad linoleum floors, zero charm. I was hoping for delicate pastries, something out of a postcard, but this felt more like a break room at a DMV. Still… the éclair was solid. Good, even. So who am I to bitch?
Made my way to the lighthouse. Climbed back up the hill. Found myself talking to my horse friend again like some lonely drifter in a French art film. He didn’t judge.
Eventually, I wandered back to the ferry terminal and waited for my ride back to the mainland.
So Long, St. Pierre
Here’s the thing: I didn’t hate St. Pierre. But I didn’t love it either. Maybe I expected more. Maybe I didn’t give it a fair shake. Could’ve planned better. Dug deeper. Or maybe, just maybe, some places aren’t meant to blow your mind. Sometimes they just exist—to be walked, tasted, passed through.
One night felt right. Enough time to say I’d been, not long enough to regret it.
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