The first time I landed in Grand Cayman, I thought I was coming for the beach. But then Palm Heights pulled me in, and suddenly the beach was just the background to an entire lifestyle I didn’t know I needed.
Palm Heights isn’t a hotel, it’s a stage and every guest becomes part of the show. One night I’m at Tillies, toes buried in the sand, watching a seafood boil turn into a dance party. The next night I’m upstairs at a rooftop supper, long tables draped in candlelight, a DJ weaving in and out of conversations. Tuesdays belong to fried chicken, Thursdays to lobster and champagne, Saturdays to Mambo Italiano at Paradise Pizza. By Sunday, I’m at high tea in the Residency Kitchen, promising myself I’ll detox — only to get lured back into bubbles by sunset. Palm Heights doesn’t let you stay a spectator; it sweeps you into its calendar, its pulse, its chaos.
The spa, The Garden Club, feels like stepping into another realm. Travertine, hammam, ice rooms, plunge pools… it’s like walking through the chapters of a novel about rebirth. One moment I’m sweating in steam, the next I’m gasping in ice, and then someone hands me coconut water like it’s liquid gold. It’s not “relaxation.” It’s ritual. It’s transformation. I’ve had massages that felt like ceremonies, facials that smelled like the Caribbean itself, and I swear I left glowing in a way no Instagram filter could touch.
And because Palm Heights believes in balance, the workouts are just as glamorous as the cocktails. Boxing on the beach at sunrise. Pilates reformers lined up like sculpture. Trainers flown in from London, New York, LA, each one making sweat feel like performance art. I’d finish drenched, crawl into the ocean, and feel like I’d just baptized myself into a new body.
Then there are the rooms. Ocean-facing, always. Vintage furniture, mid-century silhouettes, little stacks of books that make you feel like the previous guest left them behind for you. The sunken living room downstairs feels like stepping into a 1970s film set, golden light, deep couches, conversations that stretch longer than you mean them to. And then, my favorite, the music room. Tucked away, lined with records and instruments, sculptural chairs you can sink into, it feels like you’ve been invited into someone’s private loft. One night I wandered in barefoot and found a jazz trio playing as if the whole island were their living room. That’s Palm Heights: you stumble into magic.
But let’s talk about design because Palm Heights is just as much about interiors as it is about events. Every space feels like someone’s curated loft, where every chair, lamp, and textile has a story. The palette leans into sunshine, warm yellows, honey tones, golden woods, creating this glow that makes everything (and everyone) look more beautiful. The textures are layered: rattan, velvet, lacquered finishes, sculptural forms. It’s vintage, but modern. Retro, but timeless.
And then there’s the music room, one of my favorite corners of the whole hotel. It’s tucked away, like a secret, but once you’re inside, it feels like you’ve stumbled into the living room of a collector with very, very good taste. Records line the walls, instruments lean in the corner waiting to be played, and the furniture is the kind that makes you want to sink in and never get up. Think low-slung sofas in shades of yellow, armchairs that feel more like art pieces, shelves stacked with books and vinyl. It’s cozy but glamorous, designed for late-night conversations, impromptu jam sessions, or just disappearing with a glass of wine and letting the soundtrack carry you away. One evening I ended up there barefoot, golden light spilling across the yellow upholstery, listening to a saxophone and thinking: this is what a hotel should feel like, lived-in, layered, alive.
Food here deserves its own chapter. Tillies for barefoot elegance. Coconut Club for lazy afternoons with salt in your hair. Yashinoki for Japanese precision that feels like a secret. Paradise Pizza & Shawarma for midnight cravings and quiz nights that leave you laughing with people you met an hour ago. And then the collabs: a Filipino feast with karaoke one week, a Gohar World capsule launch paired with a seafood dinner the next. Palm Heights isn’t just feeding you, it’s curating culture, turning meals into memories.
Even shopping feels elevated here. Dolores, the boutique, doubles as a gallery, resort wear, jewelry, capsule collections you won’t find anywhere else. I left with a piece that still smells like the sea.
Palm Heights is where I felt like the main character in a story I didn’t know I was writing. Days blur into nights, workouts into spa rituals, dinners into after-parties. You’re constantly moving between design, food, music, and wellness until the lines disappear completely. It’s not about what Palm Heights offers, it’s about how it makes you live.
And I lived.
