That's What She Said…

Along with most of the breathing, tax-paying humans of the world, one of my dreams in life has always been to be upgraded to Business Class on an airplane. I have legit fantasized about smugly watching all the Economy plebs shuffle by into a vortex of thin blankets and leg cramps while I recline into a horizontal position on my Egyptian sheets while my personal butler brings me French champagne served in unicorn glass and a shirtless Henry Cavill sings me to sleep. (That is what happens in Business Class, yeah?)

Unfortunately, this is not a story about Business Class. I will have to continue to simply dream about this heaven in the sky for now.

The story I DO have to tell though, if you’ll believe me, is even more impressive.

See, I got a lifestyle upgrade. For nearly 36 hours, I got to live the life of a very important, rich person; a VIRP. Here’s how it happened.

I’d just spent the last week in Los Angeles with a couple of girlfriends; the last two days specifically we had stayed in a very retro hostel in West Hollywood that had linoleum floors and a heavy steel security gate out front to subtly deter the gangs and junkies. Don’t get me wrong, it was actually super fun and the free peanut butter on toast and coffee each morning was a godsend. On Friday night, two of the girls were leaving to fly home to Melbourne in plush, exit-row, Qantas comfort, while myself and my friend Teagan (whose name Americans just cannot cope with, so, for fun, we’re going to call her Tess) would fly to Mexico on an overnight United flight because of course we thought we were super clever and savvy booking an overnighter to save money on accommodation and of course it was a good idea to do it on a budget airline. Because life choices.

I’m obviously not American, but from what I’ve now learnt, United is kind of like Jetstar – you have to pay to have luggage, pick a seat, buy water, use the toilet… all the things, basically.

Anyway, long story short, don’t ever book an overnight flight to Mexico. Like, if you’re keen on self-inflicted torture and you’re thinking of auditioning for Survivor, yeah, maybe consider it.

But seriously, don’t, yo.

Tess and I arrived at our hotel at 9 in the morning looking like the kind of things you might pull out of the drain.

It was then that the woman checking us in mentioned that they had a special “favour” to ask some of their guests. Tbh, she had a very thick Spanish accent, but what I mainly recall is something about small groups of 2 with no children and being willing to go and stay at their “big brother” resort for a night.

We were the kind of tired where you’re not even sure what dimension you’re in anymore; as in, were we catching Pokemon or were we the Pokemon? (Lol, jks, I don’t play Pokemon Go). So we kind of just stared at her blank and slack-jawed for a solid minute or so. Pretty sure some drool came out too. But when she said we’d get complimentary wifi and a massage, I don’t think the phrase, “Where do I sign, ma’am?” had ever been uttered so quickly.

We were promptly put into a private car and driven a couple of hundred metres up the road to what I can only describe as the actual gates of heaven. Also known as Royal Hideaway, Playacar. 

I just really appreciate this pun.

The fancy marble gates swung open, and so began our weekend of living like Kimye. I knew this place was nekk level when I noticed the American VIRPs checking in next to us casually order a bottle of Bollinger to toast their holiday. The guy who brought it over to them was wearing white gloves and a three-piece suit. In summer.

Royal Hideaway is, similar to many Mexican resorts, an “all-inclusive”. This means that you are free to eat, drink and be merry whenever you wish as everything is included in your room price. However, it differs from other places because EVERYONE is on all-inclusive here; whereas, at more standard resorts for standard people (i.e. us) it’s only an option. An option we had obviously chosen at our original resort and thus been given very attractive fluoro-green wristbands.  (I’m pretty sure the concierge laughed in my face when I asked if we had to wear a different colour wristband while at Royal Hideaway. Hashtag common.

It was after I had made my embarrassing faux pas, that I noticed my friend gawking at something on the desk; the room rates. Look, I’m a lady, so I’m not going to just give it all away, but essentially, this shit ain’t cheap. When the most basic room they have still costs more than a month of rent, you definitely regret showing up in your Kmart shorts. I don’t even think Tess was wearing a bra by this point. (Sorry, babe.)

I’ll never forget the moment we walked out of reception and into the resort itself. The best way I can describe it would be that it was kind of like being at Captain Von Trapp’s place. If Captain Von Trapp was an exotic businessman with a thing for plush white furniture and monogrammed towels.

We were told that check-in wasn’t until 2pm, but we were completely free to enjoy ourselves and relax by the pool.

After a night of failed attempts at sleep atop our economy food trays and refusing to pay money for indigestion, both Tess and I were beyond hungry. So our first stop was the poolside restaurant for breakfast. Otherwise known as: the best goddamn meal I have ever eaten. When the waiter simply brought over a round of mimosas without being prompted I nearly asked him to marry me.

Yes, that’s a breakfast tasting plate there, NBD.

To be honest, the next 8 hours are still a bit of a blur; but here are some thoughts I definitely had:

OMG! These deck chairs have PILLOWS!

Is that a double bed over on the beach?

I never want to drink anything but this strawberry margarita ever again.

You mean, they just bring it to us here?

Zzzzzz…..

That woman’s ring is bigger than my eyeball.

Should I have another taco? Yep.

Dammit, I forgot my body wash…oh wait, I’ll just use this L’Occitane stuff.

EVERYTHING IN THIS BATHROOM IS L’OCCITANE!!

Must remember to steal everything from bathroom.

If I could touch the hand of God, I bet it would feel like this pillow.

Zzzzzz…..

Needless to say, we kind of stuck out like sore thumbs. I mean, I figured out that there are two main types of people who go to these resorts: rich, overweight, retired Americans who wear visors and polo shirts; and rich, overly-tanned European businessmen and their mistresses who don’t wear shirts much at all.

At first I thought maybe they’d all assume we were off-duty escorts or something, but I’m pretty sure even high class hookers don’t wear Havianas and carry backpacks. And the fact that we slunk about looking like stowaways on the Titanic probably didn’t help either. But whatevs, suckers, because we did it for free, ya’ll!

I promise that’s mine or Tess’ leg.

You might be waiting for me to get to the part where I explain that, despite all its’ finery and fanciness, living like the VIRPs of the world is not so great after all and that going back home to live a more humble, normal life is actually way better.

Well, I’m sorry, but that part isn’t coming because it was the best 36 hours of my funking life and I plan to move to Mexico and sell a kidney to live there forever.

Seriously though, if you do EVER find yourself with the cash to try something like this out, I cannot recommend this place enough*. It has Royal in the title for a reason; the staff are beyond attentive and helpful, and the surroundings are legit out of some sort of romance novel**. One that involves Henry Cavill, I hope…

Now, who do I know who’s good at organ removal?

*This is not an endorsed post. Royal Hideaway did not pay me to write this. Actually, wait… if you count endless margaritas and gourmet nachos as payment, then yeah, maybe they did technically pay me. I’m cool with it.

**Also, if you’re wondering where all the photos are of the rest of the place, there are none. I didn’t take any. I was too busy napping, drinking and stealing stuff.