Alien comforts

We'd never been on a vacation quite like this one.

Summer in winter. White sand beaches. Tropical flowers that perfume the air. Pink drinks that flowed like water for days.

No worries.

Except for maybe the deeply reddened skin of our predecessors, who were checking out as we were checking in to this oasis of opulence carefully carved from hardscape near the sea. 

We called it Resort Land, and made like all the other manufactured natives, who -- donning color-coded wrist bands -- would belly-flop up to their corresponding swim-up bars by day, and wind their way through the all-you-can-eat restaurants by night. 

It doesn't take long to get the hang of things. 

This is what paradise looks like when photographed with a wide angle lens. 

Though, I had to admit the magazine layouts did this place justice.

The pools were blue and clear, the palm trees were tall and graceful, the clouds were white and fluffy. And it seemed like we had the whole place to ourselves as the sun came up on the day.

I had acres of lush landscape, a half-mile of beachfront, and a mile-and-a-half of running route ... all to myself between sun-up and 9 a.m. when the crowds started to meander to breakfast.

Even though it's difficult to leave the comfort of my feather-soft bed, I took full advantage of the hotel's offerings. I overindulge in the decadence of an in-room espresso machine and 24-hour room service, one of the many benefits of an all-inclusive vacation package.

The kids are also got their fill of this novelty that is "bedtime cheesecake" while supplies last.

I want to love it here. How could I not?

There is beauty everywhere I look, and not just in the fan-shaped traveler palms and the impossible jewel-toned tides. It's in the sweeping curves of the sweeping hotel edifices rising up from manicured lawns and glittering ornamental pools.

The only bodies that ever wade into these waters carry leaf nets and scrub brushes. 

I marvel most at this team of caretakers who look after this place and its guests with simple tools and complex talents.

Gardeners pruning palms, edging flowerbeds and weeding with the aid of only a machete.

A plumber comes by bicycle to fix a leak. He takes out a wrench and a roll of tape from a small tool kit. A few minutes later the drip-drip-drip is silent.

These caretakers smile greetings, and call us their "family," a construct as flimsy as ours, as we pretend to own a piece of this luxury ... referring to our hotel room as "home" for six days and seven nights. 

They belong. 

They have built this place and continue to shore it up, while visitors sip sweet drinks and crisp in the sun. 

The last day finally arrives, and we wait at a desk with our bags to check out. The changeover apparent as paler versions of ourselves line up to check in.

We make conversation the computers take their sweet time to process us. 

Did we like our stay?

I found it a hard question to answer. 

How is it possible to feel so comfortably out of place?