Costco in Cancún

When we arrive at the Paradisus, I worry I have made the first of many mistakes. Has Costco failed us? A bland remix of Ed Sheeran wafts up from the swim-up bar in the central courtyard into the lobby. My parents do not drink. They do not like to swim. I worry that Ed Sheeran will follow us to our room.

I continue to worry. Three months ago, I called Ramona, a Costco Travel representative, and asked her a question. What is the most popular and well-reviewed of the all-inclusive vacations offered by Costco Travel? Mexico, she said. And then she qualified: Costco members have many different tastes, but most have unanimously enjoyed a stay at the Paradisus La Perla (Adults Only) in Riviera Maya, Mexico. Compared to other Latin American countries, Ramona said, many Americans reported that the Mexican resort felt “worth it.”

I was hesitant to join the crowds of U.S. Americans descending on the Caribbean, but Ramona maintained that Paradisus was the best option for my needs: parents who never vacation, mostly shop at Costco, and harbor a fundamental dislike of restaurants and an extremely low tolerance for what they determine is not worth their money.

So here I am, in Cancun, on an all-inclusive vacation with my family through Costco Travel, and it feels like the world of the wholesale warehouse has somehow been extended down the East Coast to the Yucatán peninsula, all the way to the poor woman in a white polo with the laminated COSTCO TRAVEL sign, who’d been sent to meet us outside of the airport.

If you ever get your hands on a limited-edition set of Costco Monopoly, as I did the week prior to our vacation (on sale at $19.99, down from $28.99), you will see that the normal properties bearing ordinary American street names have been replaced with global supercities in which Costco franchises have a large presence. It will also give you a sense of what it is like to be an envoy of Costco Travel. The board includes Mexico City and Los Cabos in the magenta section (after Montreal and before Seattle), but, tragically, not Cancún. Marvel at the depth of Costco’s lore, translated into Monopoly form: houses replaced with the red food-court picnic tables, hotels with warehouse franchises. My family determines which of the metallic character pieces each of us will play with: my mom, the shopping cart; my father, the forklift; my younger brothers, Nick (twenty-eight) and Duke (twenty-four), and I (twenty-nine): the dollar-fifty soda and hot dog, the Costco membership card, and the plushie bear, respectively. As our little pieces move around the board that is also the world, we simulate not the experience of being a Costco shopper, as you might imagine, but the experience of expanding Costco franchises as if you were an executive. The “Go to Jail” tile is replaced with “Go on Vacation,” adorned with the little “Costco Travel” logo.

We Go on Vacation. At the check-in desk, the concierge regrets to inform us that we have been assigned rooms that are not adjacent. We have actually booked two Junior Suite – Garden Views, Ernesto says, rather than two Master Suite – Garden Views, which is the only class of room that can be adjoining.

Well, my mom says, Costco told us we could be together, and we do not want to pay any more money. Ernesto offers us an upgrade for $1,250. My mom threatens to call Costco, pack her bags, leave, and get back on the plane. Ernesto says that he will see what he can do.

My memory of our adjoining Master Suite – Garden View rooms on the third floor of the Paradisus La Perla is now inseparable from a six-minute, twenty-four-second Facebook film that my mom recorded upon entering. Her voice-over glows from her victory over Ernesto. At the edges of the frame my brothers and I skirt out of view, barely missing the breadth of her camera rampaging through the rooms. I am already exasperated by her marveling. All three of us kids travel for work or are the kind of yuppies who valorize travel that doesn’t look like tourism, so we are either immune to the resort (Nick and Duke) or are a little embarrassed (me, the plushie) to be there.

Here are the adjoining rooms, my mom says, as she instructs my father to open the door to room 1327. She opens the coat closet, her reflection in the mirror briefly visible, then the hallway closet, and then the bathroom closet. She runs a hand along the heavy brown-leather furniture in our sitting room and sits to demonstrate its firmness. She rifles through the empty cabinetry in our twin kitchenettes, noting that the snacks and carbonated drinks in the mini fridge are all-inclusive. There is almost more cabinetry than in our actual house. On the Master Suite balcony, she points out the jacuzzi and then pans the iPhone camera down to the central courtyard, where Ed Sheeran still plays from the DJ’s speakers. Down there is the beach and the various pools, she says, and there’s even nice music.

***

After breakfast the next day, we wander the grounds. The floors are travertine. Throughout the open-air lobby, Noguchi-like tables with plush couches appear at regular intervals. There are unlimited free towels and you are not required to reserve a beach cabana. We are told that there are occasionally dolphins in the sea. A Nescafé-branded shack offers snacks and free coffee in between regularly scheduled mealtimes.

We settle on the beach. At our all-inclusive beach cabana, my mom takes pictures and then squints at her phone as she uploads them to Facebook. I copyedit her post, I swim. Costco Travel guarantees that an entire country will be just as sturdy and robust as the products in its warehouses. A service first introduced to its members in the year 2000, Costco Travel is an extension of the larger Costco strategy, first established in 1976 in San Diego, focused on using its “buying authority” to wrangle deals on bundles including flights, cars, hotels, and experiences and then “[pass] on the savings to Costco members.” To what extent Costco bullies or strong-arms those entities into unsustainable prices is undetectable from its online presence (implacable, family-friendly), but the sheer breadth of offerings (from Disney to Thailand to the Grand Canyon) and the kind of quality control it promises across them (virtually guaranteed) only makes one wonder.

Unlike Costco Travel’s promises, however, where the abatement of lack is total, at the Paradisus, the simulation of unlimited wealth frays at the edges. We are made aware of the funds we did not spend. Or the funds we could spend, if we would like a more deluxe experience. We have to make reservations ourselves instead of through the Personalized Steward promised at the Elite Tier; some of the restaurants require additional fees. When my mother’s Facebook post successfully uploads, we walk into a conspicuously labeled section of the beach called the Reserve—not a part of our non-Elite package—and are greeted by a stretch of sand that is identical to the one that we are on. We are gratified to learn that we have avoided being ripped off.

This is the Costco psychology: quality over brand; value over status. To be ripped off is to be taken for a sucker. It is to have your resources wasted, your hard-earned cash sucked into a delusion of taste, timeliness, or class. It is to be left with nothing; or worse, to be haunted by an alternate timeline in which you saved more money. Costco is a fortress against this loss, and the only vacation that my parents would allow is one that safeguarded against that mentality.

In Costco’s stores, this psychology is purveyed by the architecture. Foregoing the shelves that structure most supermarket or retail experience, Costco simulates the feeling of having infiltrated the storehouse itself, as if you’ve cut out the middleman to plunder the rations of a giant. Maybe he is named Kirkland? You wander the halls fearful that Kirkland and his ominous signature might return at any time to take back his plunder. A Costco haul feels like loot, like stealing, which, of course, is ridiculous, considering that a routine Costco haul can top two hundred dollars, three hundred, rather quickly.

Costco’s products exist elementally. Unlike at the supermarket, where commodities offer weak, febrile envoys, at Costco, commodities are presented as exemplary, body-building specimens. Enjoy the presence of not just Quaker Oatmeal but the platonic essence of Quaker Oatmeal, rendered in full fifty-two-count high fidelity.

When I wander Costco’s loosely marked aisles, sometimes I am struck by visions of lifestyle vignettes prompted by artful arrangements of commodities. For example, between kids’ electronics and outerwear, you can imagine the potential life of the person who would see the connections between the Phantom A8 Electric Scooter ($439.99, a one-hundred-dollar discount), the Tahari Ladies Wrap Coat ($38.99), Squishmallows 16” Assorted Plushie ($11.99) and Jona Michelle Kids Holiday Dress ($19.99, Sizes 2T–12); the person who would see the outdoor holiday party these products might furnish.

Sometimes these vignettes are more haphazard. You might see various commodity flotsam, selected and then discarded at a later point in one’s Costco voyage—the same Squishmallows 16″ Plushie beached on the shores of Nature Valley Crunchy Granola Bar, Oats ‘n Honey island; a Ladies’ Active Stretch Pant draped over pack of Costco Bakery Butter Croissants; Kirkland Signature Krinkle Cut Kettle Chips on a Coddle Aria Fabric Sleeper Sofa with Reversible Chaise, and imagine that no, today, I would rather not. Value, like aesthetics, comes out of self-restraint.

Here, however, in the Yucatan sun, stripped of this architecture, the Costco psychology (“Everything Is a Good Deal”) merges with the all-inclusive hotel psychology (“Everything Is Paid For”) in a sinister marriage of value and engorgement. This nexus of ensuring what you Paid For Is a Good Deal creates a relentless compulsion to feast: when the price of an experience has been prepaid, the value you derive from it is based on your ability to consume. Thus, you need to consume a lot to get your money’s worth. Sometimes consuming so much, for so little, is tiring. Sometimes constantly optimizing the best deal gets in the way of relaxing, particularly after the third or fourth all-you-can-eat meal. Or so I think. It is definitely fun the first few days. My parents treat the Paradisus like what it is: a buffet.

At the actual buffet, for dinner, a mere two hours after our Nescafé snack, there are trays of papaya, a man in a black chef hat serving pork loin, and a bowl of shrimp cocktail, red tails dangling off the crystal’s rim. From our own table, we inspect the other resort-goers. We are too shy to ask any other families if they are also here through Costco Travel, but we suspect as much when we see a Korean family at the cafeteria, walking around with loaded plates. Or might they be here through some other company, offering them an Even Better Deal for what they Paid For? When I survey the desserts with Nick and Duke, I notice that the shrimp cocktail is gone; the bowl is unadorned with tails, it is just a bowl of red sauce. We do a lap, scoop some papaya, consider another mini cupcake. When we are back, the shrimp has been replenished, their tails glistening under the buffet hot lights.

***

One our third day we are waylaid by a man named Armando who is dressed in loose-fitting cotton clothing and a name tag. He asks if we would like free massages. Leading us to an air-conditioned room, he says that his presentation will take thirty minutes. At the end, we will receive a massage voucher to be used at the resort’s spa, which is named YHI. YHI apparently does not stand for anything, other than an exhortation of relaxation, or prayer.

I do not want to listen to Armando. I want to go to the beach. My parents say the beach is going nowhere, and that a massage would be nice. Armando says he will make it quick. He opens his laptop and clicks through a presentation about how we can extend the experience that we have had here at the Paradisus, how we can ensure that we can come back this time next year for the same price. I sit through the session angry. My parents sit through it content knowing that they will be getting a free massage.

I parry Armando’s offers with the words “Costco Travel.” When he offers a timeshare option, I say again, “Costco Travel.” When he asks how much we paid for this vacation, he is unable to best the low price that Ramona has given us. This makes me feel like we are in an armored truck of value, impervious to the rest of the world’s scams.

Armando sighs. He recounts that he has a daughter at home and used to live in Austin, Texas. He found that there were more business opportunities in Mexico and now spends a portion of the year at the resort, selling packages to tourists. He says he didn’t grow up going on vacation but that this job has allowed him to make that possible for his family. He says we are a beautiful family. The receptionist will let us know about the vouchers. He thanks us for our time.

For dinner that night, Nick manages to secure us a reservation at Bana (Adults Only), one of the six all-inclusive dining experiences at the Paradisus. It is our first time eating outside of the general cafeteria, because without the Personalized Steward of the Elite Tier, reservations are more difficult to secure. All of the restaurants and amenities on the Adults Only side of the resort are twinned from the Family side of the resort, with the same architecture and same names, save for the threatening parenthetical. There is, for example, Hadar (Adults Only), the main cafeteria; Mole (Adults Only), the Mexican restaurant; and Chickpea, the healthy restaurant that is de facto Adults Only because of its menu. What happens at an Adults Only restaurant?

The portions are small but lavishly decorated. Some of the sushi is prefaced with the word firecracker and suffixed with dragon. Nick writes down our order on the Notes app so that we can remember the multiple dishes we request. The waiter is too eager to assuage us of our ordering shame, and we surprise ourselves and leave feeling not too full. A marathon, not a sprint, my mom says, much to my surprise.

***

Our appointment at YHI Spa is the next morning. In the hotel room, my mom lays out three different possible outfits before I tell her that she will have to remove them for the massage. I think she is a little nervous. I realize that my parents have never had a massage before. Why have I had so many? This makes me sad and suddenly grateful for Armando.

I feel more obliging now when my mom asks for a family picture in our bathrobes, or asks if we can keep the little soaps they give us in the waiting room. I help her film the sequel to her first Facebook film and document the various pools of the spa, the pool deck with its little rolled towels, and I smile back to the receptionist who smiles at us. My mom says the freeness of the massage sweetened the experience, and that it was really nice, and I realize she is right, and suddenly I am not embarrassed to be at the Paradisus but embarrassed at the highbrow distance that I had tried to graft on to my time at this middlebrow vacation. Ironic consumption is no different from earnest consumption; I am here now, and I am critical and I am also happy, and I breathe in this nice eucalyptus-scented sauna air together with her.

We move from the sauna to the cold pools. We reconvene all together at the outdoor hot tub, where a woman says that this is the first time she’s been away from her five-year-old the whole trip. We ask her if she came with Costco, and she says she didn’t know Costco offered things like this. My mom says Costco should sponsor this trip for all the free advertisements we give them.

Afterward, we lie in a cool, dark room in our bathrobes. We look at our phones. I sip cucumber hibiscus water. Part of the Costco Travel deal is that each of our rooms comes with a hundred-dollar gift card to use at our local Costco. I check my email to make sure that I have received the two promotional codes. I send them to my parents. It feels good that our vacation time on the beach has not gone to waste. It feels good that the Yucatan sun will finance an eventual future back in the Costco warehouse.

Simon Wu is a writer and artist. His first book, Dancing on My Own, is available from HarperCollins.

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