Can An All-Inclusive Resort Be Cool?

Factually and anecdotally, the all-inclusive-resort renaissance is upon us. According to a Hotels.com 2025 trend report, 42% of Gen Zers say that an all-inclusive would be their preferred hotel type. In a presentation given by a major hotel group in February, all-inclusives also came up as a top emerging category. Hell, even JetBlue keeps emailing me about all-inclusive deals when I just want to know if I earned retroactive points for a flight to Honolulu.

But while there’s evidently renewed interest in accommodations with unlimited food and bevs, and maybe some activities thrown in, there’s simultaneously a lingering perception problem of quantity over quality. (In the same Hotels.com survey, only 33% of Gen Z travelers reported that their view of the format has changed for the better.) With this in mind, I accepted a recent invitation to visit the newly opened Almare on Isla Mujeres to see if a stay could function as exposure therapy reverse my own not-entirely-positive opinion. (My one and only previous all-inclusive experience was in grade school, during which I pounded virgin piña colada after virgin piña colada before they did me in, fatefully, at the foot of Chichén Itzá.)

The first sign that this wouldn’t be a repeat of the events that led up to The Incident was when I arrived at the stylish adults-only resort by private vessel; if a big selling point of an all-inclusive is ease, then I’ve never had a breezier “bus, club, another club” (technically, “plane, car, boat”) transfer. I was greeted by name at every step, and throughout the weekend, the service was unfailingly friendly and helpful, perhaps none more so than when one staff member recommended a bar in town where we could “get nasty.”

We did, in fact, leave the property to get nasty, see the island via catamaran, and tool around in a golf cart, the latter two of which were arranged by Maritur DMC, but you could be perfectly content eating and drinking your way through Almare’s way-better-than-they-need-to-be offerings. At the Seasalt Rooftop restaurant, I was gently coaxed into swapping my usual mezcal margarita for a beet-infused variation with Aperol, while BOGA’s lobster enchiladas with quail eggs became mildly famous as a must-order at breakfast. But the best dish was one I (sort of) made myself at sunset on the beach: Tikin Xic, or an Isla specialty in which fish is smeared with achiote then wrapped in banana leaves. Maybe it was the DIY-ness or the wedding-reception setting, but I still look back at those process photos fondly.

That might strike you as strange when most of my camera roll is coat-check tags and dissociating onstage at a Keinemusik gig, but the unique social environment at an all-inclusive can be just as stimulating as a party. Bumping into the same guests in the sauna or in one of the warm “womb” tubs at the spa can lead to conversation, which can then lead to finding out that there are two Emmy winners throwing back last-call tequila shots in the pool with you — and a minor celebrity. The cause: free-flowing cocktails, yes, but also the fast-moving intimacy of sleepaway camp. The effect: violent tea-spilling at 2 a.m. in the lobby, which is how any good function should end anyway.

So while the obleas in my regularly restocked in-room snack drawer, ceviche on call at any hour of the day, and those glorious womb tubs were real highlights, what ultimately made me an all-inclusive believer is that feeling of openness: to other guests (mostly other Americans, but still); to a new, unfamiliar place; to exploring your home for the next few days, even if that only means hitting every bar on the grounds. But maybe it’s just nice when you’re used to being told no to be somewhere where any request, within reason, is met with an enthusiastic yes.