Night One: Acclimating to Luxury
I landed, I arrived, I inhaled. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of lime. My room: sprawling, cool, with a private outdoor shower that I stared at it for a while, fully aware that I’d be structuring my entire day around using it as often as possible (pictured below).
It became clear early on that the St. Regis exists in its own gravitational field where things appear, disappear, and reappear at the exact right time. A drink I don’t remember ordering materialized. A towel, somehow softer than my own skin, replaced the one I’d barely used. A New York Times hand delivered to you with your morning coffee. Incredible.
The Basque Cheesecake: A Masterclass in Restraint & Excess
Dinner was on the beach. And not in the “technically there’s sand nearby” way—actually on the beach. No shoes, no walls, just a table planted in the middle of a postcard. The guacamole ratio (critical) was on point. Everything was good. I ate. I drank. I stared at the ocean and let my brain wander into highly impractical life decisions. Could I live here? What would that look like? Are Zoom calls even possible here? Would I still be a functioning adult, or would I slowly dissolve into a person who only wears linen and loses track of weekdays? But then, the dessert came out. I had never heard of "Basque Cheesecake." It arrived looking slightly undone. No perfect edges, no polite uniformity—just a beautifully bronzed top with cracks that hinted at something mysterious beneath. That mystery was real cheese, like actual cheese. In a single bite, I realized I had been eating cheap imitations of what cheesecake was supposed to be. There wasn't any sauce; instead, a few tart berries were wisely kept on the side so as not to interfere with the real event (that cheeeeeeeese!). I finished it, obviously. I considered ordering another. I spent a moment in silence, staring at the empty plate, wondering if I would ever get to eat cheesecake like this again.
Day Two: Embracing the Lifestyle (and the Spa Robe)
The morning began with coffee and the New York Times, which was promptly delivered at the time I had requested the day before.Morning coffee always tastes better when you are on vacation. There was nothing particularly different about this coffee, but something about sitting outside, with the ocean within lazy eyesight, made it feel like it contained extra depth.
Breakfast was a slow, involved affair—fruit, pastries, omelets, more coffee, a light breeze. The entire resort seemed designed to keep your heart rate just a few beats above sleep. Then, pool time and a parade of Coronas. At some point in the afternoon, I decided I had exerted myself enough for the day and wandered over to the St. Regis spa and sauna. I transcended.
Dinner that night was at Sea Breeze, where I fully committed to the kind of carb-loading usually reserved for marathon training. The pasta was exactly what it needed to be: handmade, rich, and deeply satisfying.
Day Three: Peak Relaxation
By day 3, my body had fully adjusted to the luxury circadian rhythm, in which time exists only between meals, naps, and pools.
We spent the morning at the spa. By the time we left, I had no thoughts. No stress. No muscle tension. I was just a smooth, well-oiled human-shaped blob, floating in a plush robe, drinking some kind of infused water that I quickly replaced with another Corona (at this point, Coronas felt like part of my daily nutrient intake) once I returned to the pool where I would waste the rest of the day.
The Departure
Leaving a place like this isn’t an event. It’s a forced extraction. The bag I arrived with felt heavier, burdened by the weight of responsibility creeping back in. Re-entry into normal life was violent. At this point, I would like to formally acknowledge my parents and the heroic efforts that made this trip possible. Watching a three-year-old for multiple days is not a casual undertaking – it's an act of extreme generosity and endurance. For that, and for everything else you do without asking for credit, we are endlessly grateful.