Lost in Time: A Vacation Tale of Relaxation and Confusion
Time Warp at Couples Swept Away: A Vacation Tale of Lost Hours and Endless Relaxation
Things get weird when time gets warped. Perhaps you’ve heard the parenting platitude about routine: the security it brings is the major factor in eliciting a child’s most perfect, polite, adorable behavior and the key to success in educational, artistic, and athletic pursuits; supreme health, happiness, and well-being; as well as maximum accomplishments and potential future income earnings. No pressure!
It’s a wonderful maxim for any family that thrives on a disciplined, jam-packed schedule. But my husband and I were exhausted, stressed, and by god, middle-aged–and while we love being mommy and daddy, the burnout from modern parenting is real. The hours were too demanding, bursting with appointments and to-do lists. It was time for a vacation.
And so my husband and I set out on a quest to regain our youth and freedom: four years after she was born, we ditched our beloved daughter/dictator at Grandma’s and boarded a plane to the Caribbean.
We created a strategy to maximize our chill at Couples Swept Away in Negril, Jamaica. As a traveler by trade, I’ve found that the best way to turn off the brain’s intrusive thoughts and endless ruminating is at an all-inclusive stay. At an all-inclusive resort, the bills are already paid, the logistics are packaged, and at this particular one, children are not invited. I was looking forward to said swooning–”swept away” had been promised! I’d put my feet up. I’d be catered to; pampered, even. No schedule could confine me!
This vacation was to be about relaxing, celebrating, and, most importantly, avoiding all responsibilities. So we employed the most drastic and disciplined measure: we would lock up our phones in the hotel safe upon arrival. We were going off the goddamn grid.
That’s when time got loopy.
One Fine Day…or Two?
Our first day of vacation had been a blur of dreamy paradise: blue skies and warm seas, piña coladas and conch fritters, chummy couples and welcoming staff. Negril is home to Seven Mile Beach, a particularly stunning stretch of sunny, peaceful Jamaican beaches, and with our room overlooking the ocean, we hadn’t done much more than lock up our cell phones and try to get a lay of the land. In all directions and at all hours were options for dining, drinking, activities, and amenities. We were weaning from compulsive phone and time checking, and the alcohol was helping. And let’s face it: I needed a lot of help.
Maybe that’s why the déjà vu didn’t feel particularly questionable when the next thing I knew, I was waking up under a palapa. I blinked against the brightness. The sun and moon were both high in the sky. What time was it? I reached for my phone and remembered it was waiting patiently inside the hotel safe, full of undesirable alarms and calendar reminders and impatient texts and news. But also, the time. Beside me, my husband snoozed comfortably on a lounger. Champagne flutes littered the table between us. I tapped him awake. When did we fall asleep? How long had we been here? He shrugged and stretched, unperturbed. We had bigger fish to fry. Literally, at a fish fry. We were hungry.
We made our way to the Palms Restaurant, an open-air grand dining room where couples were scattered about in different stages of digestion–this one reading a magazine while that one drinks coffee; he’s nibbling on a pastry while she pushes rice around her plate; the ones over there doing wheatgrass shots in athleisurewear and others clinking martini glasses in cocktail attire. The smell of Jamaican jerk seasoning perfumed the air. A server approached us with a coffee carafe, but not before dropping a glass of Scotch off at a neighboring table.
“Excuse me,” I asked her, “Which meal is this?”
“You…haven’t ordered yet,” she answered with a quizzical look. “Can I get you something?”
Had I phrased the question wrong? What exactly was I asking her? I immediately deferred to her politeness and panic-ordered a drink that goes with any meal: a glass of Champagne. Surely, this would help.
When we stumbled out of The Palms, we were greeted by more dazzling sunshine. The steps took us directly down to the beach. Since we were still in our bathing suits, we waded right into the ocean, 30-minute digestion rule be damned. Consequences were for people on the clock! We were living our best lives, #YOLOing, carpe dieming–though I wasn’t quite sure which diem we were carpe-ing. I flopped onto a raft and drifted out on the placid sea. I closed my eyes again–just for a moment.
A low rumble in the sky stirred me from my snooze. Clouds blew in and lightning flashed in the distance. But I wasn’t in the ocean anymore, I woke up on a couch on our balcony, the ceiling fan gently swirling the smell of salty ocean and warm rain. The sky was still light but gray. Morning? Dusk? I couldn’t be sure. The weather was unbelievably moody and romantic. I watched from my balcony as couples wandered down the beach promenade. In pairs, they held hands and picked out souvenirs at pop-up shops or pulled up chairs at the beach shack bar. Another couple napped in a hammock together, while still others, fanning themselves with pickleball racquets, strolled back from the resort’s massive sports complex. No one rushed. No one stressed. I was excited to get back out there.
But first I had to escape the Pavlovian response of a wake-up routine. Was it morning? Was there something I was supposed to do, somewhere I was supposed to be? The dull ache of a mild hangover drove me to the shower, where I decided not to dwell on the when of it all, and go easier on the mimosas. I emerged refreshed and feeling silly about all my confusion. It was dark outside. It had just been a normal day on vacation.
Wait–two days?
Days on End
There was music playing outside. The resort was currently hosting its annual Arts, Beats, and Eats Festival, and since those are three concepts for which I am a fan, the vibes were vibing. Steel drums, acoustic reggae, and dancehall bops called out to us. More options, endless correct choices. We thought perhaps it would be wise to eat again and headed to the Patois Patio, ready to keep exploring new possibilities for ambiguous menus. With minimal fanfare, the guest chef presented a special limited menu with drink pairings. Thrilled to continue not making decisions, we gladly opted for the prix-fixe option and enjoyed surprise treats at each course.
“What’s the point of a prix-fixe menu at an all-inclusive resort?” my husband whispered. “Isn’t everything, in theory, kind of prix-fixe?”
“Oh darling,” I scoffed, waving my Champagne glass around, trying on a sense of nonchalance and spontaneity. “Just go with it! There are no rules here! Isn’t it wonderful not making decisions, not having any plans?”
“And I’m finally not tired,” my husband said as he switched between his Champagne and coffee.
I considered my own energy levels. No nagging anxieties. No stressful agenda. No boss baby demanding a juice box right now because every day with a snack she drinks a damn juice box, mom! Plus, not even a hint of existential dread. My limbic system was out to lunch (or was it dinner?). We downed glasses of both stimulants and depressants, because who could know what’s in store, and left to follow the sounds of the steel drums.
But the hourglass seemed to flip again. A mixology class seemingly materialized out of nowhere en route to the next event, luring us with the promise of specialty cocktails and whimsy. Between Aperol spritzes, we remembered that we really should be trying more of the famous Jamaican rum!
When we woke up in a hammock, we realized that maybe things were getting a bit beyond our control. My husband’s face was covered in rope lines–we must have been asleep for a while. The music had changed. We stumbled towards the siren call of a playlist including ‘90s hits, Jamaican Top 40, and dancehall classics pumping out of the Aura Lounge nightclub, where the bartenders danced under neon lights. We decided it must be 4 in the morning–or maybe in the afternoon. Who could say? It was dark in there!
And so it went. I woke up again not in my bed, but on a lounge chair by the pool. A staff member directed me to pick up my typical drunken to-go order from the resort’s Scotch Bonnett Bar and Grille. I collected the take-out and beelined for our room, where we could continue to eat-sleep-drink our way through the night. Day. Whatever.
When we finally woke up in our hotel room (for once, how responsible), the leftovers and trash from our gluttonous to-go order had been cleared from our room. Had morning housekeeping come through? Was this considered an evening turn-down service? I pondered these chronological quandaries as I mixed a Dark ‘n’ Stormy from the mini-bar.
The hours rolled on this way: eat, sleep, relax, repeat. Experiences and amenities popped up to fill the time. A catamaran party. Swimming with dolphins. Impromptu meals. Beach bonfires. Naps. Drinks. So many drinks.
Was this what it meant to be swept away?
The Light of Day
The spell broke just as I was coming to terms with time going off its sequential tracks. The phone rang in our hotel room. It had never done that before. My husband and I looked at each other. I answered tentatively.
“We’re calling to confirm your wake-up call and airport transfer tomorrow at 6 a.m. Have a magical final evening at Couples Resorts Swept Away.”
Tomorrow?! 6 a.m.?! How could this be? Where had the time gone? When had the time gone? Our trip flashed in my mind in a montage. We had only one last night to seize the day!
And in the morning, when the wake-up call startled me from a tranquil dream–had it all been a dream?–I finally opened the safe to retrieve our cold and lifeless phones. The real world was calling. We had an appointment with our favorite little schedule master. It was about time.
