Welcome to One Night In, a series about staying in the most unparalleled places available to rest your head.

At the tail end of August, I took one of my girlfriends, Krista, out to a birthday dinner at Corner Bar in New York’s internet-ordained Dimes Square neighborhood. As a woman who barely takes time off, I was thrilled to hear she’d just come home from a laptop-free vacation at Palm Heights, a sublime Cayman Islands boutique hotel. “You have to go,” she said with conviction. “The food is New York caliber but on the beach.” I recognized the zeitgeist-y property from seeing it come across my Instagram feed on accounts of friends that had already visited—a publicist I work with regularly, a former colleague and agency creative director, and a Vogue editor. It’s also become a low-key favorite to a select celeb set like Emily Ratajkowski and Bella Hadid. Chloë Sevigny celebrated her bachelorette party there, and Hailey Bieber shot a GQ cover story at the resort, referenced in the article as “the hottest hotel in the Caribbean.”

If a hotel were an “It girl,” Palm Heights is really her right now. The see-and-be-seen-at enclave, founded in 2019 by creative director Gabriella Khalil, is shrouded in colossal palms and if-you-know-you-know lore on Grand Cayman’s pristine Seven Mile Beach. The all-suite boutique hotel—part of a former Hyatt featured in the 1993 Tom Cruise film The Firm—has become a recognizable setting for tropical selfies in circular mirrors and a digital yellow brick road of striped towels and beach umbrellas from its captivating clientele’s IG posts. The rooms are furnished with vintage ’60s and ’70s design pieces handpicked by Khalil, which are high-taste but unfussy, not unlike the hotel’s programming. There are weekly karaoke parties and rooftop film nights. And, because Palm Heights hosts a rotating group of artists and athletes to lead retreats and do residencies, an exercise class, for example, might be led by an Olympian or someone like Cami Arboles, the movement expert who taught SZA to pole dance.

From what I’d seen and heard, Palm Heights seemed to be at the center of a Venn diagram of my own personal interests: creativity, wellness, impeccable midcentury decor, and a lot of spaces to hang out in a bikini. So when an opportunity came to stay there on a quick, indulgent (comped) reporting trip, I dragged one of my other best girlfriends, Valerie, with me. Days before we headed out, Krista messaged me and said: Omg. You’re gonna meet Bambi. Say hiiii, and hit me when you’re back. With unwavering trust for any recommendation from Krista, I looked forward to meeting Bambi.

Monday

10 p.m.: We’re only spending two nights at Palm Heights, and we arrive far later than I would’ve liked. But when we approach the considerable marble-and-chrome front desk in the cozy lobby, it’s clear we’ve arrived at the place to relax.

The front desk agent, Moises (I’ll come to learn, everyone here is on a first name basis), meets us with two glasses of champagne on a tiny tray with Palm Heights coasters and cool eucalyptus towels to freshen up from the balmy, 80-degree evening. He walks us up to our fifth-floor suite and gives us a tour of its 1,000-square-foot layout, with two bedrooms—each with a king bed flanked by travertine side tables—and two large bathrooms clad in light marble and tile. The living room is anchored by a modular built-in sofa that dwarfs my six-foot frame, plus a small dining area and a wet bar. There are plenty of notable vintage pieces, like a Zelda armchair by Sergio Asti for Poltronova. The earthy color palette—white, sand, ocher, umber—allows the lush palms and turquoise ocean views to take center stage through the sliding glass doors that connect the living area to the balcony.

There’s fresh orange juice, pineapple, dragon fruit, cookies, and homemade kale chips ready for us to snack on, alongside a handwritten note, a beach towel–like tote bag, and bug repellent bracelets for the evenings. Before leaving us to settle in, Moises walks us through the hotel’s wellness programming and the on-property events for the week. A rooftop crystal sound bath at sunset, quiz night at the on-site Paradise Pizza, and the hotel’s first comedy hour—sign me up. He also invites us to come down to the front desk first thing in the morning for a proper tour of the grounds.

Tuesday

7:45 a.m.: I get up before 8 a.m. and start my typical morning routine. I combine the complimentary OJ with my own Athletic Greens powder and use the Chemex pour-over coffee maker to have a little caffeine ready for when Val wakes up. With my daily three drinks beside me—water, AG1, and coffee—I attend to a few emails and edits for stories in progress while listening to the playlist I put together for the trip. The soundtrack to a setting is very important to me, so my day starts with Orion Sun, Cleo Sol, Jesse Boykins III, Kali Uchis, and Tems.

9 a.m.: We head down to the front desk. Val is pool-ready with her Palm Heights beach towel in the provided woven straw bag, and I’m in workout gear just in case I have enough time—and motivation—to join the 10 a.m. Core & Glutes class at the indoor/outdoor gym, Palm Heights Athletics. On the way, I cross paths with another woman in the same sneakers, Nike’s V2K Runtekks.

This morning, the front desk hotel staff who greets us is Bella, who offers to take us on a tour, and we oblige. We walk past the bookshop Library Fetish, which supplies the curated selection on the coffee table in each guest’s suite, and Delores, the hotel’s concept store stocked with exclusive Palm Heights collaborations with fashion brands like Bode (which designed the inaugural hotel staff uniforms made with upcycled beach towels), toward the yellow parasol–lined beach I recognize from Instagram photos. En route, another hotel staff intercepts us wearing Palm Heights branded shorts, a gray tank, and a nameplate necklace: Bambi. I quickly learn that Bambi is Palm Heights’ so-called “mood director.” He is the host of your stay and will be your new bestie. I immediately ask if he knows my friend Krista, mentioning she works for the womenswear brand Khaite. He affirms, “I know all the girls.” And, as I run down the list of people I know that have come to the hotel before me, he does, in fact, know and remember little facts about “all the girls.” He’s the mayor of Palm Heights.

We make our way through Coconut Club, Palm Heights’ version of a beach bar with 1970s De Majo Murano glass lamps and subtle checkerboard floors that spill on to the beach, and the lounge behind it where the comedy club will be hosted this evening. Walking between the pool and beach, we stop at Tillies, another one of the property’s four restaurant/bar spaces, grab a mimosa for Val, and onward through the dining room. Bambi highly recommends the french toast and the plantain porridge for breakfast.

From there, we cross the footbridge to the Garden Club: an expansive maze of wellness spaces, including the open-air, marble-clad hammam you’ll see all over Instagram, an additional pool, indoor and outdoor gym areas, a sauna, cold plunge pools, and a stunning pilates room.

10 a.m.: Bambi lets me know I’m staying for the Core & Glutes class and introduces me to Ellie Downie, a former Olympic gymnast and the hotel’s current athlete-and-trainer in residence, who will be leading the workout session. Bambi whisks Val away to the Garden Club’s pool; I head into the class with five other hotel guests.

Even with the Olympian trainer teacher and elite facility, the workout still feels approachable for the average hotel guest. (Two other people in the class—who I’d find out later were two of the three comedians booked for that night’s event—let me know they just started their fitness journey three days prior.) I do, however, see Fernando Casablancas, son of the founder of Elite Model Management (who either discovered or represented every major supermodel from Naomi Campbell and Gisele Bündchen to Cindy Crawford), head into the weight room during our class. I recognize him from The Come Up, a reality show about Gen Z Dimes Square residents, which makes perfect sense.

12 p.m.: Val and I are on the beach, lounging. The scalloped edges of the canary umbrellas are waving in the hot breeze. Subtle samba plays in the background and there’s nothing I want to do less than look at my phone. The Out of Office reply and Do Not Disturb combo exists for this moment.

We order a Piña Colada and a Rum Palm—it’s the right thing to do. Bliss. It’s becoming clearer why the Wall Street Journal reported the guests here are as much of a draw as the hotel. Model Paloma Elsesser and some girlfriends are hanging in the chairs in front of us. Yet nothing about our stay feels pretentious or overly exclusive. Elite, members-only social clubs like Soho House could learn a thing or ten from the culture Palm Heights has cultivated.

On the beach bed behind us, a “cruise couple” (as another guest called them) are enjoying mimosas. When the husband steps away, I introduce myself to the wife as a journalist and ask if I can sit down and ask her a few questions. They’re from South Carolina, and she says her husband is an excellent researcher, plans all of their vacations, and did all the legwork for this trip to Palm Heights. (I love that for her.) She tells me they’d visited Grand Cayman once prior as a stop on a cruise and always planned to return. It was a huge priority to be at a quieter property that wasn’t too overrun with tourists. As we’re chatting, the staff dole out Tajin pineapple like beachfront hors d’œuvres. Some of her friends from home recommended Palm Heights after discovering it riding bikes on their last visit. (Those friends also plan to come back and stay at the resort.) She says she and her husband befriended another couple from South Carolina on the property, and the four of them are planning on attending the comedy show tonight. I tell her I’ll see her there and head back to Val and into the ocean.

2:30 p.m.: A break from the sun becomes necessary. Before lunch at Coconut Club, I take a stroll over to the Garden Club to set up a massage for tomorrow. Val’s friend from home recommended Ramazon, the masseuse he went to when he visited, and while I would love to spend some time in the hammams, I opt for a deep tissue sports massage for the following afternoon.

Back at Coconut Club, I order the fish sandwich with fries and Val has the jerk chicken bowl. I always want extra sauce or dip with everything, and this snapper sando comes with a light, flavorful dijon sauce. Val’s jerk comes with coconut rice, curried chickpea scotch bonnet crema, and a healthy serving of kale. Satiated, we take another swim before heading back to the room.

5:00 p.m.: We walk over to the wellness rooftop, a multi-use space surrounded with palms and overlooking the ocean, for a sound bath, but this evening’s activity was switched to sunset yoga. After Ellie’s workout and in preparation for my massage with Ramazon, I decide to sit this class out and relax in the room. Housekeeping stops by with turmeric white chocolate cookies with sesame seeds (a Tillies classic), and I go on a deep dive of where to buy the Costa Brazil shampoo and conditioner I’d used in the shower after lunch. My hair dried curly in the humidity, and it looks and smells fantastic. I need to bring this home with me.

6:45 p.m.: We head downstairs to the Coconut Club lounge. Bambi is out front in a double print, flowing look ushering everyone in as if we’re guests to his fabulous home. (We kind of are…?) The room has been rearranged with seating in rows in front of the mic just left of a bar serving a selection of wines, select cocktails, sushi, popcorn, and movie theater candy. I get a glass of orange wine that I’ve seen sold in a wine store in Brooklyn’s Bed Stuy neighborhood, both salmon and tuna roll slices (they’re delicious), and we grab second-row seats—in 1980s Zen chairs by Claude Brisson for Ligne Roset. As we’re watching everyone file in and grab their sushi and snacks, Ellie walks in. I invite her to sit with us.

The lineup starts with Ali Sultan and follows with Sureni Weerasekera and Irene Tu, whom I worked out with earlier that day. As the comedians get through their sets, I recognize a joke from both Weerasekera and Tu. Ironically, I came across them on my Instagram Explore page before my trip. It’s usually the other way around—the phone hears it and then the ‘gram shows it to you.

9 p.m.: During the day, Tillies is a little more casual as part of it is right on the white sand beach, but in the evening the servers are dressed in white coats and black bow ties, which really compliment the sophisticated yet beachy decor for the fine-dining establishment. Val and I order the aji ceviche (the spicy one) and conch fritters. Every bite is shockingly good. Krista was right, a culinarily-spoiled New Yorker could order anything at Palm Heights and maintain high expectations. They’d be met and exceeded.

The music they’re playing is incredible, though I may be biased, as a lot of the artists I put on my playlist for this week—Sonder, Cleo Sol, Snoh Aalegra, Tems, Kali Uchis—are on the restaurant’s soundtrack.

Bambi swings by our table and checks in on us. I tell him about the “cruise couple” I spoke to earlier, and he lets me know the Travelocity reviews “really speak to the girls.” A baby is crying behind us, and of course, Bambi is already acquainted with the little one. He talks to her in Spanish and asks her parents if she needs a cool cloth. They thank him and say the team already brought one by. I think to myself about how Bambi is like the people’s host with the air of a scene-y downtown New Yorker. He speaks to all of the guests, cruise couples and model entourages alike, as if the hotel’s weekly events are the Met Ball—and there’s a table saved for you, and the girls, of course.

Wednesday

9 a.m.: After grabbing iced coffees at Tillies, we head down to the whirlpool tucked away by the Palm Pool. Somehow, the jacuzzi is still enjoyable even in the morning heat. After about 40 minutes, we grab chairs at the beach. This morning, ginger shots make their rounds before cool slices of watermelon are brought by each parasol.

10 a.m.: The evening prior, Manuel at the front desk said we could come back to check about late checkout in the morning. As I’m walking to the front desk, a woman compliments my Dos Swim bathing suit. Her name is Shay Johnson; she’s one of the brand’s cofounders. Coincidentally, Krista gave the bathing suit to me for my birthday. Shay’s Dos Swim cofounder is Krista’s current colleague at Khaite. It all feels very full circle for my final morning.

Checkout is supposed to be at noon. They offer us 2 p.m., leaving some final hours on the beach before we have to pack up, and my afternoon massage with Ramazon. I haven’t had a massage since June, and I need to release the summer’s stresses before heading back to New York. And, he delivers.

3 p.m.: Waiting for my cab, Manuel talks to me like he knows I’ll be back to Palm Heights, and it’s likely I will. Nowadays, “cool” has become tethered to likes, views, and impressions—you can handpick an algorithm-friendly aesthetic and host specific influencers, and the money will likely follow. To an extent, Palm Heights has followed that formula to achieve its status as an “It crowd” destination, but the vibe here doesn’t feel manufactured.

A few days after I check out of Palm Heights (but am still in Grand Cayman at another accommodation), I end up calling the hotel—Costa Brazil shampoo and conditioner are sold out everywhere, and the company paused production in August. Poppy at the front desk says she’ll check if there’s any available for purchase from the hotel’s supply, which is essentially what’s left of it, and call me back. Not only does she manage to grab me a set, we handle the transaction over the phone and she offers to have a bellman bring it to me—it’s all good. I remember something Bambi told me when we first met at the hotel earlier that week: that at Palm Heights, their idea of luxury isn’t stuffy.

Top photo by Brooke Shanesy

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