Central and South America’s Secret Resort Hotspots

Downtime? Nope. Everybody’s moving—binoculars out for scarlet macaws, hoodie stuck in your suitcase zipper, bug spray nowhere to be found. Guanacaste, Costa Rica—people pretend it’s about the weather, but it’s really just FOMO, right? And let’s be real, who cares about rain when you’re chasing Wi-Fi and monkeys at the same time?

Costa Rica’s Guanacaste Coast: Nature Meets Luxury

Plane lands, humidity slaps you, and suddenly you’re in Tamarindo or Papagayo, surrounded by these ridiculous all-inclusives (like Secrets Papagayo) that make you forget there’s a world outside. Met two spreadsheet-obsessed travelers last year—they said their junior suite at 5 p.m. was the only place they’ve ever wanted to stay in for a thunderstorm. I get it.

Food? It’s relentless. Local ceviche, guanabana juice, steak at 9 a.m. because, why not, it’s all included. One chef argued with me that Guanacaste coffee beats French brands—she proved it, kind of, with this pour-over setup in the lobby. Yoga on black sand, spa services that run like clockwork, and nobody warns you about the iguanas that crash your sunrise meditation.

Outdoor Activities and Wildlife Encounters

Why does everyone ride horses in Guanacaste but avoid ziplining? Local guides swear by morning slots—less rain, more sloths, fewer screaming teens. I tried to count the activities: kayak, waterfall rappelling, accidental howler monkey encounter, mud bath, coati sighting—lost track, honestly.

Wildlife watching is this weird competition. Met a travel nurse at breakfast who could list every turtle that nests on each beach (olive ridley, leatherback, hawksbill—she had the stats). The national parks—Santa Rosa, Rincón de la Vieja, Palo Verde—are packed with migratory birds and butterfly farms hiding on random dirt roads. I keep telling people to pack more quick-dry shirts, but nobody listens.

Sun-Kissed Escapes in the United States

Dragging myself through airport security—always forgetting my TSA PreCheck password, why is that so hard?—I keep stumbling into these weirdly perfect beachfront hideouts along the California coast. You know, the ones that don’t have those soul-sucking buffet lines or the nightmare of a mascot lurking in the lobby. Instead, you get this boutique vibe, towels that don’t scrape your skin off, and, I swear, it’s the first time I’ve had local wine that didn’t taste like grape-flavored regret. Maybe it’s the privacy? Or the perks. Chef tastings, actual beach service (like, they find you and remember your name), and wine that’s not poured out of a jug.

California’s Boutique Beachfront All-Inclusives

Why does everyone and their burned-out uncle want Big Sur’s resorts? They’re not even that big, just… somehow famous? I stayed at Ventana Big Sur once, and the room key looked like a driftwood sculpture, which felt like a flex. Private decks instead of those sad little patios, unless you get the room next to the supply closet—don’t ask, it’s loud. The perks are real: guided hikes, yoga classes, menus that actually change with the season, and picnic baskets that aren’t just limp sandwiches. Big Sur luxury resorts get top marks from U.S. News, apparently, for couples who want to disappear for a while. Not cheap, but the crowd’s chill, not a FaceTime screamer in sight. If you want sunsets and not a bunch of conference bros, these places beat the East Coast every time.

Epicurean Delights: Culinary Experiences at Hidden All-Inclusive Resorts

I’m on this eternal quest for grilled octopus that isn’t rubber, and honestly, who hasn’t screamed internally at a soggy buffet? Sorting out which resorts actually care about food versus which ones just slap “gourmet” on the sign is… exhausting.

Gourmet Dining and Gourmet Restaurants

Why am I reading menus at 1 a.m. instead of sleeping? Every chef says they’ll “change the game,” but I still remember a five-star in Mexico serving me gray chicken. Michelin-starred restaurants included with your room? Sounds fake, but nope, it’s a thing—see Travel + Leisure. Actual chefs (not just someone’s cousin with a food blog) say you should try the local produce, especially when the fish is so fresh you can practically hear it flopping.

Menus go from dead-simple—tomatoes, olive oil, bread that’s still warm—to these 12-course adventures where, honestly, I’m Googling half the ingredients under the table. I watched a guy make beet tartare tableside and half the group just gave up and started taking photos. Sommeliers? They’ll give you side-eye for ordering white wine with steak, but sometimes you just want what you want.

Just expect food that doesn’t taste like it came from a conference tray—sauces, bread, even the butter, all made like carbs are still cool. And yeah, seconds are fine. Nobody’s adding a “premium” fee for extra dessert.

Global Flavors and Fusion Menus

One minute you’re eating lemongrass ceviche, the next you’re at a robata grill, and somehow it works. I’ve seen “global” mean salmon with yuca or pho at 2 p.m. for the night owls—nobody blinks. Food trends change every week, so “fusion” is more than sushi and tacos; it’s tempura avocado with chimichurri (someone said it’s a hangover cure, but that’s a lie).

Half the chefs—actual bios tacked up in the lobby—trained in Paris or Singapore. Themed nights? They don’t care if you just want eggs. Foodie forums call it “global palate fatigue,” but honestly, it’s kind of fun trying three cuisines in one sitting while the staff pretends this is normal. Pro tip: best tables are always away from the Instagram wall—less posing, more actual food smells.

Nobody asks how a Bora Bora resort has gluten-free ramen (it’s true, The Travel Between), so just roll with it. The rotating menus are what keep picky eaters and food nerds from getting bored.

Fine Dining Experiences

I had a maître d’ explain a 14-course “sensory journey” where the palate cleanser looked like hotel soap—legendary. Seriously, read the menu before you agree to everything. Some places go wild with molecular gastronomy, cocktails with names you can’t say, staff in starched uniforms, and everyone whispering like it’s a secret society. “Composed plates” are apparently a thing; edible flowers aren’t just for looks.

Booking a table at these places feels like applying for a mortgage—some need reservations weeks ahead, and sometimes you get a secret password (don’t lose it, trust me). The difference? No “premium” upcharges for chef’s tables. The room rate covers it all, which feels like a small miracle.

I’ve met traveling sommeliers who’ll tell you to skip the fancy import and try the local bottle—actual helpful advice, not just snobbery. And sometimes, the best meal is a chef grilling lobster on the beach, barefoot, just happy to be there. No one’s judging your wine choices.