Mauritius isn’t what the postcards promise. The colours are louder, the air richer. At dawn the lagoon rests like glass, a soft green mirror, until without warning it shatters into blue, bright and sharp.

At the market, voices bounce around, French, Creole, and you catch the smell of fried chilli cakes before you see the pan. Someone’s slicing mango, juice running down their hands. You miss things because there’s too much happening at once.
Cultures lean into each other here. Creole drums on one street, a Chinese lantern hanging over the next. You might eat curry with your hands at lunch, then have a pastry on a porcelain plate an hour later. It’s messy in the best way.

Some nights, you stay where the sheets are pressed sharp and the pool looks like glass. Other days, you end up on a beach with no one around, just waves and wind.

The roads twist. One turn you’re in the hills, another you’re looking straight at the ocean. People switch between English and French without thinking. Someone will probably wave at you for no reason.

That warmth is part of why luxury travel in Mauritius feels less like a service and more like a welcome.