May 17-22 2005  –  Let me start by saying: eight trips in one year is not for the faint of heart—or the slightly aging. This summer, Gina and I have been on what I can only describe as a whirlwind world tour sponsored by spontaneity, postponed plans, and adult children who now invite us places (usually with ulterior motives involving free babysitting and beachfront real estate).

We’ve officially entered a new phase of travel—Family Grandparent Glamping—where the gear is fancier, the grandkids are cuter, and the time zones hit harder.

Five years ago, against all odds and most financial wisdom, we dove back into the timeshare game. But this time, we went big. We bought into Fairmont Fractional Ownership, not to be confused with our past timeshare tragedies, which were basically pyramid schemes with better towels. This is different. We own a deeded slice of a Ghirardelli Square condo, which unlocks access to high-end Fairmont and Accor properties around the world, along with VIP status and the ability to feel smug at check-in.

Which brings us to Mayakoba—the crown jewel of the Mexican Riviera and quite possibly the only place where every room has its own plunge pool and butler. We traded in points (and dignity) for three rooms at this luxury wonderland, and let’s just say… we peaked.

The resort? Pure magic. Five pools. Eight restaurants. Golf course designed by Greg Norman that’s prettier than most national parks. Private beach casitas with butler service. (Ours was Fernando, who now probably has a therapy session scheduled after dealing with our merry band of bottle warmers, sand-dusted babies, and hangry adults.)

Coincidentally, we overlapped with the Mayakoba Open LPGA Tournament, and while Mark and I couldn’t get a tee time, we did enjoy watching the pros and their caddies walk the course with military precision. I saw a triple bogey on a par 3 and briefly considered turning pro. Respect to the ladies—women’s golf is seriously next level.

Speaking of serious: the food. I’m talking melt-in-your-mouth Wagyu, fresh ceviche carved from Poseidon’s private stash, and sushi that made me cry a little. We dined like royalty… with strollers. And to be fair, we weren’t the only ones—turns out, traveling with infants is very “in” for the millennial set. Gina and I looked around, wide-eyed, wondering who raised our children to be these calm, confident, child-wrangling warriors. (Spoiler: not us.)

While the boys chased toddlers, I considered a solo fly-fishing trip to Cozumel. But instead of chasing tarpon, I booked a professional photographer to capture the chaos—er, memories. I figured there’ll be time for tarpon when the grandkids can hold a rod without impaling someone.

There was still adventure. Gina and I took a tour to Chichen Itza—three hours on a bus, but worth every bumpy mile. The Mayans weren’t messing around with their astronomical pyramids. I filmed the whole thing with my shiny new Insta360 X5, which I’ll now refer to as our third grandson.

Back at the resort, there were canal boats that made us feel like Riviera gondoliers, and dinner over the water where I accidentally started feeding 50lb tarpon with my filet. Fairmont says no fishing in the canals… but let’s just say if a fly “accidentally” lands near a snook, I won’t be heartbroken.

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And the pickleball courts? I brought paddles with visions of sweaty sunset matches with my sons. But, as it turns out, they were too busy wrestling 14-month-olds into swim diapers and chasing pacifiers. Fair.

We ended the trip feeling pampered, grateful, and just a little exhausted. Our kids even stayed longer to prove they could do it without us. And you know what? I think they can.

But we’ll definitely come back—when the toddlers are teenagers and someone else is carrying the diaper bag.

Phoebe’s Edit