The unexpected pleasure of an all-inclusive vacation

My friend Erica and I sat, somewhat stunned, on the sand at Playa Bávaro in the Dominican Republic. We were still reeling from that morning's drama of leaving for the airport in Nashville, Tennessee, while all of our children were shouting, “Don't go, Mommy!” We debated taking the 2.5-hour drive to Santo Domingo, the country’s capital. We thought about booking a boat trip or going out that night to see a show. But ultimately, we — two burned-out moms who had fled our often overwhelming lives of intense work and even more intense parenting — did none of the above. Because we had flown to another country to try the type of travel that Younger Me swore I would never do: the all-inclusive resort. 

I've been a travel writer for almost 20 years, and I pride myself on prioritizing off-the-beaten-path, sustainable, locals-driven travel. I've done road trips and family camps, journeyed alone and in a group of 12. I’ve sailed through fjords in Alaska. I’ve stayed at hostels in Serbia and in mom-and-pop casa particulares in Cuba. I've traveled by foot, train, boat, car, bus, plane and horseback. But the all-inclusive was where I drew the line – until now.

My long-standing anti-all-inclusive stance

Travel writers can be snobs. I say this with affection and full self-awareness. I have largely considered all-inclusives the easy way out, and I’ve made my career (and, let’s be honest, much of my identity) on the idea of traveling the “right” way, or at least what I believed is the right way – adventurous, nuanced, prioritizing cultural exchange – the kind of travel that is far from a sprawling beachfront compound with wristbands, buffet lines and poolside drink service. In my mind, an all-inclusive report was the antithesis of how to travel well: an enclosed bubble where visitors consume a sanitized version of a destination without actually experiencing the real thing. 

Of course, adventure and all the rest are supremely worthy goals, but they can also create an unnecessary moral hierarchy that ultimately should have no place in travel. For years I lumped all-inclusive resorts into a category of travel for those who don’t really want to travel. Yet the irony is that plenty of smart, curious and culturally engaged people whom I respect adore these trips. They describe the experience as restorative in a way that their usual travel isn’t: no planning, no logistics, no language barriers or navigation stress. Just a few days of genuine, uncomplicated relaxation. I typically would listen to these friends politely and file away their comments while remaining not convinced.

Why I reconsidered

A combination of circumstances nudged me into reconsidering. After years of near-constant travel — much of it for work — I was bone tired. Not a romanticized jet-setting tired but real burnout from being the breadwinner for my family, parenting two young children, supporting a partner with mental health struggles, volunteering and public-school-ing and mortgage-ing, all while taking two to four trips per month for over a year. Plus, everything that came along with that level of travel planning: kids' illnesses, family drama, early flights, packed itineraries, money worries, research-heavy reporting trips and the constant mental calculation of logistics. Because the Mental Load of the Mom does not stop while traveling; it just morphs into a different variety of questions and admin. Where do we eat? How do we get there? What time does that museum close? Is that taxi legitimate? Did I remember to book tomorrow’s train? These are small decisions individually, but they stack up quickly.

My friend Erica — a busy mom whose kids had been having school difficulties and whose small business had gotten the short shrift from a client — and I had originally planned to escape on a trip together two years ago. She really deserved to get away, and I was determined to be the Travel Pal who made it happen. We were days away from heading to Jamaica (not to an all-inclusive) when her husband fell off a ladder and broke his back. She could no longer leave. 

By the time we tried to plan our trip again, we were fiercely committed. We knew we both deserved a break, and we had to make it happen. The idea was simple: a few days somewhere warm, where we could arrive and instantly be on vacation with minimal planning. We decided on the Lopesan Costa Bávaro, a beachfront all-inclusive in the Dominican Republic. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like an interesting professional experiment. If I was going to write about travel in all its forms, shouldn’t I experience this type of travel too? 

My first all-inclusive resort

The first surprise came within the first hour. At most new destinations, arrival involves a small cascade of decisions. Where do I exchange money? How do I get to the hotel? Should I find somewhere for groceries in case I’m waylaid by a jet-lagged nap and wake up in the night starving? At the Lopesan, the process was disarmingly simple. We were picked up from the airport. We checked in. We got a room key. And we went to lie down on the beach.

Our bags were already in the room. The beach was steps away. Lunch was available in multiple places on the property (having options, I have now learned, is key to not getting stir-crazy), as was coffee, a swim-up bar and several restaurants we could wander into without having to research or reserve. There was a spa, a nightclub, an open-air craft market, live music and a friendly colony of cats who became our beach buddies. It was just enough variety of senses and sounds on-site that we felt like we were experiencing something that was still very far away from too much.

Admittedly, the logistics part of my brain was in panic mode that I had somehow missed something, but the absence of decisions was just plain luxurious.

The joy of doing nothing

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not particularly good at relaxing (I’m an eldest daughter!), and most of my trips are marked by self-imposed pressure to see and do as much as possible. Because I travel for a living – and maybe just because of who I am – there’s always a sense that I might be missing something important just around the corner.

At the resort, that pressure evaporated. There was nowhere we had to go.

One afternoon I read half a novel in a lounge chair by the ocean. Another morning we wandered down the beach and watched birds dive for fish. We couldn’t decide between smoothie flavors so we each got two. One night after dinner we came straight back to the room to watch Gossip Girl in bed like when we were 20. We started recognizing familiar faces and befriending the staff. Conversations picked up where they’d left off the day before. Sure, it didn’t feel like traveling to me, but it also didn’t feel like a project to manage; it felt like a pause. 

Rethinking the right way to travel

For years I’d unfairly appraised travel on a value system in which certain trips counted more than others. Adventure travel ranked highly. Cultural immersion was essential. Anything resembling convenience tourism got side-eyed. But sitting on that beach, halfway through a very good fish taco and a cold drink with a dear friend, I realized not every trip has to fulfill the same purpose. Some journeys are about exploration. Others are about connection. And occasionally they can just be about sitting the hell down and resting.

For travelers with demanding jobs, young kids, limited vacation days or just a deep need to unplug, an all-inclusive can provide something genuinely valuable: the rare chance to stop managing life for a few days. That doesn’t negate the importance of thoughtful, locally engaged travel. But it does make room for different styles of experiencing the world.

That said, my reservations about all-inclusives haven’t disappeared entirely. The bubble effect is real, and when you’re inside a large resort complex, it’s very easy to forget where you actually are. The restaurants serve globalized menus. The music all sounds familiar. The architecture often mirrors other high-end resorts across completely different countries and cultures. If you squint, you could be in Mexico or the Canary Islands, and the experience might look remarkably similar.

And there’s the larger question of how much money actually reaches the local economy. Some resorts make meaningful efforts to hire locally, pay fairly and source regional ingredients, while others operate as self-contained ecosystems owned by international companies. Those concerns are valid and worth researching before deciding where to stay.

Would I do it again?

Probably, but selectively. I don’t see all-inclusive resorts replacing the travel experiences that excite me – wandering through unfamiliar cities, stumbling onto neighborhood cafes, navigating local transit systems and sorting out language mishaps. Those moments of discovery are the heart of why I travel. But I think I can find the compromises. If I stay at an all-inclusive again, I’ll probably make a point of leaving the property for a day trip to explore nearby towns and eat at local restaurants. Travel doesn’t have to be solely either-or.

But I also no longer see all-inclusives as the villain of the travel industry. Sometimes they’re simply a fitting tool for a particular trip: a reunion with friends who want an easy, shared home base; a family vacation for which logistics could otherwise overwhelm the fun; a moment in life when rest matters more than exploration; or a reset for travel journalist who, after two decades of constant motion, realizes she doesn’t have to prove something by moving every minute.

Travel has taught me many things over the years, but even seasoned travelers can get stuck in our own assumptions. We build identities around how we explore the world, and sometimes those identities become boundaries we don’t question. And we should always question.

Going to an all-inclusive didn’t transform me into a devotee. But it did remind me that curiosity – the trait I value most in travel – is just as important when examining our own biases. And occasionally it leads to the mildly embarrassing discovery that something you once dismissed outright is actually…enjoyable. Even if it comes with a wristband.