Is a week’s getaway to the sun worth the Covid-induced hassles?
by Judy Ross // Photography by Roger Klein
I hope this day of torture is worth it,” griped the large man, wedging into the seat beside me on the Air Transat fully-packed flight. My husband and I, along with our daughter and her husband, are heading to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic for an all-inclusive week of sea and sun. It was their idea to escape from their hunkered-down pandemic lives of the past two years and they invited us along.
But the “torture” part of things had already begun. I’m accustomed to the demands of travel after years as a travel writer, but this is different. Instead of happy anticipation and pre-trip dreams of bobbing in a turquoise sea, we’d been having nightmares — attempting to fill out convoluted online forms, finding travel insurance that includes Covid coverage, waiting on hold for hours to pre-book airline seats, organizing vaccine proof documents, downloading apps required by customs. I shouldn’t say “we,” because this is where our kids came into play. We’re seniors and they’re both in their early fifties. This new world of travel is designed for younger people and mobile devices. QR codes rule. You cannot go anywhere without an up-to-date cell phone, the ability to use it with ease, and the patience of Job.
Before booking our week in the sun, our daughter Noelle spent hours online. She researched locations and hotels, checked Tripadvisor for reviews, compared prices, and settled on a 5-star all-inclusive resort in Punta Cana with an upgrade to something called Preferred Class, which came with an ocean view and a butler. The latter seemed totally ridiculous at first, but ended up being our most valuable perk.
On the four-and-a-half hour flight, everyone had shown proof of vaccination and wore masks (except when eating). We had N95 masks which were tight, headache-inducing, but somewhat breathable. The one thing I had managed to do online, on my own, was pre-order our meal, something recommended by Air Transat. It was a morning flight and I knew that the airport food lineups are long enough that people miss flights waiting to pay for a bagel. When the food trolley came by I proudly pulled out my printed receipt for two breakfast meals and was told these were booked for the flight home. Deflated, we bought a soggy sandwich.
We landed at the Punta Cana airport along with flights from all over the world. It was a madhouse, not the small Caribbean airport that we remembered from years of visiting different islands. We ended up in snaking lineups; first to show our QR proof of vaccination (we had it on our phones and a back-up laminated paper copy), then to show passports at customs. Most people were masked but not distanced.
Our days fell into an easy rhythm
of long beach walks,
swims and afternoon siestas.
Our bags arrived promptly and we thought we were done. But no, there was another lineup to check health forms for the Dominican Republic, another QR form which Noelle and her husband Doug had already filled out for us and saved to our phones. Then, another lineup where we heaved our bags onto a conveyor belt for an x-ray security check. We had no idea why. Finally, we staggered outside to the searing heat to find our transport. We were already exhausted.
A nine-passenger van took us to the resort, a 20-minute drive from the airport where we were whisked off to a Preferred Guest area in the lobby and offered a choice of drinks. This was more like it. The check-in was handled by our butler, Roberto, as we relaxed and sipped ice-cold margaritas. Things were now off to a good start. The resort was lovely, all open-air and breezy, with thatched roofs and lush tropical foliage. The impeccably-dressed staff wore starched whites and, although masks hide their smiles, their personalities were sunny. Our rooms were in three-storey buildings surrounded by coconut palms, the sinewy river-like swimming pools that meander through the property, and the sea. It was heavenly.
Our days fell into an easy rhythm of long beach walks, swims, and afternoon siestas. We sought out quiet shaded spots to read where we could avoid the noisy swim-up bar (which we thought would be closed because of Covid, but wasn’t). Although the resort followed certain pandemic protocols, I didn’t see much enforcement of masking or distancing. After one breakfast at the buffet restaurant, which was mostly indoors, we decided it was safer to eat at the open-air café on the beach. At night, our butler Roberto made reservations for us, always on the outdoor terrace of a different restaurant. We were rarely inside.
Every time we ate we had to download the menu through QR codes posted on the restaurant walls (it’s just not the same as leisurely perusing a paper menu).
Four days after our arrival, we had to get the Covid PCR test required to return to Canada. The testing centre was a hotel room with the beds removed. It was both makeshift and shifty. There was no doctor on site and the women (perhaps nurses?) spoke no English. Most of the equipment was broken down and they allowed the four of us and four others to crowd into the room. One by one they tested us, putting the same swab into both our nostrils. We were told we’ll get results emailed within 48 hours. It cost $90 U.S. each.
A sense of unease permeated the next two days. We learned that if we tested positive we’d be put up in one of the hotel rooms set aside as quarantine units and required to stay there for 15 days without leaving the room. The day before departure we still didn’t have the results. Once again, Roberto was our saviour.
He claimed to be in touch with the doctor and told us, ominously, that they were dealing with some positive cases which was why we hadn’t heard — but he assured us we were negative.
The printed negative results arrived in our room the morning we were leaving. The night before Noelle and Doug had dealt with ArriveCan, an app that required passport information and QR proof-of-vaccine documents all uploaded onto something that was then sent to our phones. Again, we doubted we could have figured this out on our own.
“I guess our days of independent travel are over,” said my husband grimly, as we lined up to board the plane for the flight home. We were dreading the flight and the inevitable challenges at the airport in Toronto. But, for both of us, travel is an important part of mental well-being. I am hopeful that when this pandemic ends there will be fewer hassles and we can once again enjoy a week in the tropical sunshine where the air is sultry, the sea murmurs, and a tequila-laced drink and a platter of fresh seafood is never far away.
