It's gradual at first, a dusty backpack, encrusted with the lore of dicey border crossings and harrowing overlands, hung up one last time to make room for a rollaboard curated by an Instragram algo. A convivial hostel kitchen, rollicking with good-natured tales of travel one-upmanship, gives way to the faux-Brooklyn warehouse veneer of whatever Marriott calls their middle-aged Millennial brand. A whitewater raft, but moments ago plunging through the spray of the Zambezi, drifts into a lazy river. And then it's sudden, the moment you click book on your first all-inclusive.
The only ones on the plane who wish the flight to the Dominican Republic was longer. Anything under one season of Paw Patrol barely even counts. Remember when we saw Grandma and Grandpa? That was a proper five-season haul.
Check your shame at the door, the age of the all-inclusive has begun!
You know what, nothing washes away the shame quicker than a pomegranate-infused welcome bubbly at the check-in desk. Silk Road, nah. Silk sheets, yes please!
Let me tell you kids, your mom and dad took a plunge in the Devil's Pool on the precipice of Victoria Falls. None of this hot tub on a balcony baloney. Hang on, say that again? The wifi and the room service reaches out here? Point conceded.
Mr. Presidente, did you happen to leave that classified adult beverage menu lying around? Maybe by the Corvette?
Island hopping. I'm planting my flag on Caipirinha Key.
Dad, can I really have as much as I want? Mind blown. Pants blown too.
When they said all-inclusive they really meant it, right down to the Disney princesses.
Dad, can you have the butler send the Pringles out please.
There's that knowing smile as another skeptic succumbs to the quick and easy path. Leave the resort? To, like, go sightseeing? What do I look like, a backpacker or something?
Unlimited iced chocolates? I think we're onto something here team.
Cheers to unlimited cheers.
Dad, they delivered pizza to the pool! Yep, hand delivered by Adam Smith's invisible hand kid.
Now that is a kid's club. Complete with indoor tree house. More importantly, complete with extended drop off hours.
Pathway to paradise: the adults only side of the resort. A mythical land of top-shelf cocktails without bottom-shelf monsters.
The water is always clearer when the kids aren't peeing in it.
If you see the champagne cart instead of the popsicle cart then congratulations, you're on the right side of the resort.
Back to the popsicle cart. Sigh.
It's not the years, it's the mileage. Hang on a second, then how come I'm not a United Million Miler? Turns out it is the years, 18 to be precise since this blog started as Blackberry dispatches from the overnight sleeper train chugging through the back-paddies of Hu Jintao's China. Which of those three things dates them the fastest?
Remember that invisible hand? Yeah turns out it's quite visible, in the form of an email from the boss.
All-inclusive means trying every flavor, right Dad?
Belly up to the bar lads. Pre-gaming for Spring Break 2034.
Good ol' United. Where all-inclusive means your snack bag includes exactly 3.5 pretzels.
