Illustration by Dorothy Leung
My peers are 1,000 miles away in Mexico City, in terrarium Airbnbs advertised for digital nomads. They are eating better than they’ve ever eaten, and for cheaper, too. They are packing hammered silver jewellery and locally crafted cowhide sandals into their carry-on luggage; they are tasting mezcal by brands they hope to one day creatively direct; they are not immersed in the culture per se, but they are definitely proximate to it.
I am not doing any of that. I’m at an all-inclusive resort just outside of Cancún in a perfect line of chaise longues with my family and boyfriend, on the perimeter of a pool hosting water aerobics in Spanish. The Justin Bieber version of Despacito is interrupting our naps.
At the resort, I have not made a decision in a week; the food is neither Mexican nor American but some strange amalgam (really, mostly carbs). I have not touched dollars or pesos, nor reached for my Apple Pay. Aside from the neon flecks of a cocktail or wristband, my universe is sketched only in the whites of blinding sands and blues of lapis waters, which match the hotel’s sterile interiors as if they are the official colours of this preplanned commune.
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There was a time when I would have dreaded a stay at the all-inclusive resort; when I would have reviled this kind of indulgent and slovenly tourism, that which David Foster Wallace calls “inescapably bovine,” with its endless towels, all-you-can-eat buffets and all-you-can-drink margaritas.
At the resort, all my consumption is preordained, and for once I feel no desire to curate or post. There are no small-plate restaurants I must try or artisanal shops I must visit. I need not play influencer or content creator of my own leisure. If the paradox of the traveller is that she can never escape all other tourists, I can relax and join the herd. I am, in fact, a tourist, and finally, I need not pretend to be anything but. This is a relief.
A vacation isn’t just time off work, it’s time off the endless work of self-presentation. The all-inclusive offers a full power-off experience, of the kind that feels difficult to access in trendier destinations.
It was hard to let go of past habits, however. I packed a resort wardrobe that clearly I put too much effort into: The predominant uniform here is graphic tee. That I put any thought into choosing thrifted linens or cult-branded sandals suddenly seems laughable. Here, a garment does not say anything about its wearer if it does not literally say something.
I see a “Put it on my Husband’s tab” T-shirt and a “Sorry about my husband” baseball cap. I am so immersed in the language of graphic tees that when I see a man wearing a “BBL Construction” shirt, I am convinced he is advocating that more women get Brazilian butt lifts, which are on ample display across the resort. But a cursory Google search reveals it is in fact a Quebec construction company, and that I am looking for too much meaning in the graphic tees. I can ditch constricting sarongs for an oversized tank and be assured that I will not look out of place.
At first, I think I will bristle at the rigidity of our daily agenda, which unfolds in a sort of groundhog day schema: wake up, buffet, pool, beach, pool, buffet, beach, pool, dinner, bed, repeat. But the mandate to “relax!” works, and my most pressing concern is the speed with which I can get from beach to pool. A steady stream of margaritas and Diet Cokes course through my system such that I am able to make these treks with ample energy.
I’m not eating well, per se, but I am eating – nearly constantly, in fact – and every morning offers French toast and Froot Loops and waffles and I don’t have to choose. The most significant decision comes at dinnertime, when we must pick between various “restaurants,” which are just varied fronts for identically stocked buffets, save for Geisha, a pan-Asian joint offering everything from pad Thai to tikka masala to sushi. I wonder why there isn’t a Mexican buffet of this sort, but not for long, for the pasta buffet is singing her siren song.
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Here in Mexico, I have found the ultimate respite from the never-ending demands to cannibalize my whole life into online content. If an all-inclusive resort stay is considered by some to be a dishonest approach to travel, it’s at least an honest dishonesty, divested of all self-denial. I need not see nor be seen, post nor be posted; I can be lazy and gluttonous without any pretensions otherwise.
And though I may have winced at first at the marital spats unfolding across graphic tees, I am now desperate to return to this paradise. Submerged in a world that is as fake as the potted palm trees dotting the lobby, there’s no need to make any virtual pleas to authenticity, and perversely, I am most myself. Perhaps the only place I can know a moment’s peace is supine on a chaise longue, with a tummy swollen from vats of scrambled eggs, an odalisque I could never want photographed, let alone Instagrammed. For once, that isn’t the point.
