PARADISUS - LOS CABOS

DARLINGS, YOU KNOW I LIVE FOR A RESORT THAT ENVELOPS YOU IN OPULENCE FROM THE MOMENT YOUR LOUBOUTINS HIT THE MARBLE FLOOR OF THE LOBBY. I CRAVE A WELCOME THAT FEELS LIKE A WARM SILK WRAP AROUND MY SHOULDERS — SEAMLESS, ATTENTIVE, ANTICIPATORY. SO IMAGINE MY DISMAY WHEN PARADISUS, A RESORT POISED WITH SUCH PROMISE, DELIVERED MORE SIZZLE THAN SUBSTANCE... AND NOT IN THE GOOD WAY.

LET’S BEGIN WITH THE CHECK-IN PROCESS — A MASTERCLASS IN MISSED OPPORTUNITIES. YES, THE LOBBY IS SPRAWLING AND UTTERLY MAJESTIC, A DECADENT DISPLAY OF TROPICAL GRANDEUR THAT PRACTICALLY BEGS FOR A CHAMPAGNE FLUTE AND A SLOW TWIRL. BUT THE ILLUSION FADES FAST WHEN YOU'RE MADE TO WAIT. AND WAIT. AND THEN WAIT SOME MORE. THERE I WAS, TRAVEL-WEARY AND EXPECTATION-HEAVY, LEFT TO LINGER NEARLY TWO HOURS FOR A ROOM THAT, ACCORDING TO THE WEBSITE, HAD FOUR *SUITES* JUST BEGGING FOR MY PRESENCE. NOT ONLY WAS I DENIED AN UPGRADE (AFTER SEVERAL INCREASINGLY POLITE REQUESTS), BUT I WAS TETHERED TO MY WEIGHTY CARRY-ON LIKE A BALL AND CHAIN, PARADING IT ACROSS THE POLISHED FLOORS LIKE A SCENE FROM A TRAGIC ROM-COM.

GRATEFULLY, THE BAR WAS MERE STEPS AWAY — A SMALL MERCY THAT SERVED UP STRONG DRINKS WITH STRONGER VIEWS. BUT NO COCKTAIL, DARLING, NO MATTER HOW TOP-SHELF THE TEQUILA, CAN DISTRACT YOU FROM THE SINKING FEELING THAT YOU’VE BOOKED LESS THAN YOU DESERVE.

WHEN I FINALLY RECEIVED THE KEY, I FLOATED UPSTAIRS WITH HOPE CLINGING TO ME LIKE THE HUMIDITY — FLEETING, BUT EVER PRESENT. AND ALAS, CRUSHED ONCE AGAIN. WHILE THE FURNISHINGS WHISPERED BOUTIQUE CHARM AND THE BEDDING WAS SOFT ENOUGH TO CONSOLE A HEARTBREAK, THE ROOM ITSELF FELT MORE CRAMPED THAN CURATED. SPACE, MY LOVES, IS THE ONE LUXURY YOU CAN’T FAKE.

AND THEN… THE ANTS. I KID YOU NOT — A FULL-BLOWN COLONY. I HALF EXPECTED THEM TO START ORGANIZING A WELCOME COMMITTEE. I COULDN’T LEAVE SO MUCH AS A PROTEIN BAR UNATTENDED WITHOUT IT BEING TURNED INTO A COMMUNITY FEAST. IT WAS GIVING *ECO-RETREAT GONE ROGUE*, AND I WAS NOT AMUSED.

NOW LET'S TALK CUISINE — OR RATHER, CULINARY COSPLAY. EVERY DISH FELT LIKE IT WAS IMPERSONATING SOMETHING MORE SOPHISTICATED. THE SUSHI? I’VE SEEN BETTER ROLLS AT AIRPORT KIOSKS. THE ITALIAN? BELLISSIMO IN NAME ONLY. THE FLAVORS WERE HOLLOW, THE TEXTURES OFF, AND THE EXECUTION... UNINSPIRED. IT WAS LIKE WATCHING A DRESS REHEARSAL FOR A MEAL THAT NEVER QUITE MADE IT TO OPENING NIGHT.

THAT SAID, THERE WAS A SINGULAR SAVING GRACE: THE CIRCLE INFINITE BLACK-EXCLUSIVE RESTAURANT, WHICH LATER OPENED UP FOR GENERAL RESERVATIONS. FINALLY — A MEAL THAT HIT ITS MARK. THOUGHTFUL FLAVORS, CONFIDENT PLATING, A WAITSTAFF THAT ACTUALLY SEEMED TO CARE. IT WAS THE KIND OF DINNER THAT REMINDS YOU WHY YOU SPLURGE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

SO, WOULD I RETURN?

NOT ON YOUR LIFE.

NOT BECAUSE PARADISUS WAS A COMPLETE DISASTER — IT WASN’T — BUT BECAUSE ONCE YOU’VE TASTED THE CRÈME DE LA CRÈME OF HOSPITALITY, IT BECOMES INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO TOLERATE MEDIOCRITY MASQUERADING AS LUXURY. I DON’T VACATION FOR "JUST OKAY." I VACATION FOR *DECADENCE*. FOR SERVICE THAT ANTICIPATES, SPACES THAT BREATHE, AND FOOD THAT TRANSPORTS.

SADLY, PARADISUS DIDN’T RISE TO MEET ME WHERE I WAS. AND AS WE KNOW, DARLING — I DON'T COME DOWN.

XOXOX