La Republica Dominicana

Last week I got back from a seven-day stint in the Dominican Republic, a temporary reprieve from the hell-frozen-over wasteland that is Edmonton.

The trip so confirmed my instincts about what an all-inclusive would be like that I almost regret going in the first place. But I read three books while lounging on deck chairs by various swimming pools, which was nice, and my wife and I went on an all-day tour into the countryside to visit a family farm, a coffee and cocoa plantation, and a place called Macao Beach that is easily the most gorgeous beach I've ever seen.

Not many Americans around, thank God. Quite a few Europeans (especially French people, which meant no shortage of bare boobs on display), and plenty of Canadians. One afternoon, strolling along a tiny part of the strand that runs for 30 miles along the island's northeastern coast, we came across a small group, maybe in their late teens or early twenties. One of them wrapped an arm around his girlfriend's waist, wrestled her knee-high into the water and pitched her into the surf, all without spilling a drop of the bright-red drink he was holding in his other hand. I said, "You guys must be Canadian. You didn't spill a drop of that drink." They were.

The locals working at the resort were a strange mix; most were friendly, but some would just tolerate you, looking not quite at you and smiling distractedly, as though they were in on some little joke that you weren't. Can't blame them, though. They seem like proud and lively people, and I'd be ambivalent about the turista trade too if I were them. Yeah, their economy depends on it, and two-thirds of them work in the service sector. But the service sector sucks—especially when it involves serving overfed, underinformed white bastards who pull down five times the average income in your country.

I'm not saying the trip wasn't fun, relaxing and even enlightening. But I'm still trying to convince myself it was worth $1,200 and sixteen hours in a goddamn airplane.