Rome

What you'll find in this story: Australia travel, Australia culture, Australia attractions, Australia itineraries, Australia lodging, Australian dining Our intrepid reporter takes us into the red centre, down the great ocean road, and to the remote southwest corner. 1. Into the Red Centre If Australia were folded in half like a book, the Stuart Highway would be its spine, forging through emptiness for 2,000 miles. Driving half of it is plenty, so I've flown to the dead center: the desert town of Alice Springs. North of "the Alice" there's barely a stoplight for 1,000 miles--about the distance from Dallas to Chicago--until the asphalt meets Darwin, on the Timor Sea. Like Germany's autobahn, the Stuart has no speed limit; unlike the autobahn, it's virtually barren. Every 45 minutes or so, a roadhouse appears mirage-like on the horizon, offering gas, beer, motel-style lodging, and a little "Where ya from, mate?" Aside from that, the land presents itself the way God made it. Hour by hour, sandy red earth gives way to spindly trees, brown escarpments, termite mounds as tall as kindergartners, and not much else. No cell phone coverage, no radio stations. There's nowhere else on earth to be so isolated while on good roads in your average rental car. A drive on the Stuart Highway evolves slowly, with developments marked by the odometer. Kilometer 36 north of Alice Springs: cross the Tropic of Capricorn. At 54: spot two wedge-tailed eagles feeding on kangaroo roadkill. At 83, 443, 906, and 1,222: nearly hit a kangaroo myself. At 142: tank up beside a "road train," Australia's superlong tractor trailers that pull three or four long trailers. At 202: Ti Tree, "the most central pub in Oz." No one blinks when truckers drain their beers and get right back in their cabs. Periodically, I pull over and cut the engine, just to feel the nothingness. I consider walking deep into the scrub but never make it more than 20 feet without worrying about snakebites--and being picked clean by wedge-tailed eagles. The pleasure of a Stuart drive is partly in stumbling across artifacts from man's attempts to make use of the bush. Beside the gas station in Barrow Creek (kilometer 294), a wooden telegraph repeater station from the early 1870s stands abandoned but perfectly preserved by the dry desert air. There's another in the expanse north of Tennant Creek (541). Barely rusted bits of telegraph wire and antique bottles still litter the grounds of both. The eerie ruins at Gorrie Airfield (1,103) once housed 6,500 personnel in World War II. Today, there are ghostly scraps of gray bitumen leading to an old fighter runway that's over a mile long. The walls inside most of the bush pubs along the highway are stapled over with bras, underwear, foreign currency, and business cards--a few of mine included--left by visitors from around the world. Basic rooms cost about $35; given the volume of cold Victoria Bitter on tap, by bedtime most customers aren't in a state to quibble over thread counts. Just about every pit stop is run by someone who could pass as the main character in a novel. The proprietor of the roadhouse at Wycliffe Well (393) has lined the walls with newspaper reports of local UFO sightings. The owner of the Wauchope Hotel (411) abandoned a 35-year career as a firefighter in Adelaide. The night before I arrive, 40 guys from a remote cattle station drove two hours over a dirt track to have a birthday party there; it lasted until dawn. At the pub inside the Daly Waters Historic Hotel (986), road-trippers gather nightly to be entertained by 14-year-old singer Patrick Webster, who brazenly flirts with waitresses 10 years his senior, and by Frank the Chook Man, who does renditions of folk songs as live chickens roost on his hat. Even the highway's banner sights seem like something a science-fiction writer might have cooked up. The two big ones are the rock that looks like Winston Churchill's head (652) and the Devil's Marbles, huge, rounded boulders jumbled together improbably in the desert (422). The wildlife is similarly otherworldly. Some visitors think, at first, that the stirring in the cabbage tree palms and paperbarks above the turquoise Mataranka Thermal Springs (1,220) comes from a bird of some sort. In fact, it's the squabbling of hundreds of thousands of flying foxes, big as beagles and hanging upside down while flailing their leathery wings. The gassy creatures poop everywhere, but that doesn't stop people from jumping in the water beneath them (750 miles of desert scrub will make anyone desperate for a soak). Around kilometer 1,575, the world comes sufficiently alive enough to drizzle. By the time the Stuart Highway terminates in Darwin (1,646), the humidity edges toward 100 percent, and I'm confronted with Internet cafés, traffic lights, and too many people for my Zenned-out brain to handle. Lodging   Wycliffe Well south of Wauchope, 011-61/8-8964-1966, from $30   Bluestone Motor Inn Paterson St. South, Tennant Creek, 011-61/8-8962-2617, from $75   Wauchope Hotel Wauchope, 011-61/ 8-8964-1963, from $55   Daly Waters Historic Hotel Daly Waters, 011-61/8-8975-9927, from $38   Barrow Creek Hotel Barrow Creek, 011-61/8-8956-9753, from $55 Food   Ti Tree Roadhouse Ti Tree, 011-61/ 8-8956-9741 Attractions   Devil's Marbles north of Wauchope, free   Mataranka Thermal Springs Mataranka Homestead Tourist Resort, east of Mataranka, 011-61/8-8975-4544, free 2. Great Ocean Road In the convict days, ships from Europe shortened the five-month journey to Sydney by sailing along Australia's southern coast, threading between Tasmania and the mainland near Melbourne, a perilous route through the rocky Bass Strait. The irony is that many ships went for months without seeing anything but water, only to literally crash into Australia. Just south of Melbourne, where I start my road trip, is enormous Port Philip Bay, which has 161 miles of coastline but a mouth that's only two miles wide. The channel roils with so much tidal water that seamen dubbed it the Rip. The area is notorious enough that when Australia's Prime Minister Harold Holt vanished while taking an ill-advised dip nearby in 1967, the government didn't launch so much as an inquiry. A few years later, the parliament did feel inspired to take action of a different sort a few miles south, at Bell's Beach, designating it a national surfing reserve. From a bluff I watch surfers in wet suits doggedly bob and paddle the same waves that host the annual Rip Curl Pro competition. The Surfworld Australia museum is in the adjoining town of Torquay. In front of the building, teenagers slam the pavement on beat-up skateboards, aware that this is one property they won't be chased off of. Inside, there's a hall of fame, a meticulous history section, and a continuous film festival of classic documentaries. The Great Ocean Road begins in Torquay and swerves along forested cliffs and swirling waters for 200-plus miles. I quickly learn that meals will be nothing fancy; the staple of the road's bakeshops is the meat pie (I like to dip them in tomato sauce like the locals do). Against my better judgment, at the Louttit Bay Bakery I try the Mitey Cheese Scroll, a platter-size swirl of cheese and moist bread that leaves me yearning for greens. My favorite stops for grub are at the pubs, where entire families hang out together. In an Airey's Inlet pub, I order a gin and tonic (it comes premixed in a can) and spot a boy no older than seven. He's perched on a bar stool, eating cheese puffs and chatting with the bartender like one of the gang. Cimarron, a B&B high above the town of Airey's Inlet, was designed and built in 1979 from native eucalyptus wood by Wade Chambers, an American-born professor. Scanning the thousands of books that line the walls, I tell Wade that I could get into the idea of moving, like he did, to this peaceful Aussie Malibu. Wade is an eager talker, and before we know it, it's past midnight. I switch on the TV--you can learn a lot about a place by what's showing late at night--and catch ads for livestock sales and lungworm poison. In the morning, wild parrots and white cockatoos peer into the windows. As I pull out of Cimarron, three bemused kangaroos blink at me before hopping into the trees. Several miles past Apollo Bay, another tiny vacation town, there's an easy-to-miss signpost: mait's rest. A path leads to a rain forest gully, trickling with streams, layered with ferns as big as beach towels, and pierced by shafts of sunlight. Australia is 70 percent arid, and it's shocking to see how much vivid green the other 30 percent of the land is able to muster. After an hour, an elderly couple appears. "Never seen anything like it," the woman says, craning her neck. It's a sight that would be famous elsewhere. Next stop is Otway Fly, one of the world's tallest treetop walkways, which opened in September 2003. Its steel catwalk system is 2,000 feet long, rising as high as 147 feet into a rain forest canopy of beech, blackwood, and ash. Seeing centuries-old forests from above, at bird's-eye level, is surprisingly compelling. Back on the coast, the Twelve Apostles finally come into view, like great sailing ships returning from a voyage. Fat, beige limestone pillars in the slate-blue water, the Apostles are worthy of their postcard fame. Crowds gather for the sidelong photo op from a promontory at Port Campbell National Park. A plump Australian blows cigarette smoke out his nose and says what we're all thinking: "They're so beautiful I could look at them all day." Meanwhile, hornet-like helicopters incessantly chop through the air. They're less annoying the minute I actually get in one. A 10-minute ride costs $58, and seven minutes after laying down my credit card, I'm snapping photos of the rumpled sheet of ocean below. The walking trails at Loch Ard Gorge, a mile or two on, explore the land above sea-worn tunnels, blowholes, and arches that have wrecked many a luckless ship. The gorge is named for its most infamous disaster--the Loch Ard went down in 1878 with 52 out of 54 passengers, even though it came to grief only about 20 feet from land. The air wheezes with sea mist as waves pummel the rocks and splash skyward. You can actually feel the earth tremble when the surges strike land. Lodging   Cimarron 105 Gilbert St., Airey's Inlet, 011-61/3-5289-7044, cimarron.com.au, from $115 Food   Louttit Bay Bakery 46b Mountjoy Parade, Lorne, 011-61/3-5289-1207 Attractions   Surfworld Australia Surf City Plaza, Beach Rd., Torquay, 011-61/3-5261-4606, surfworld.org.au, $5.60   Otway Fly Lavers Hill, 011-61/3-5235-9200, otwayfly.com, $9.30   Port Campbell National Park 011-61/13-1963, parkweb.vic.gov.au, free   PremiAir Port Campbell National Park, 011-61/3-5598-8266, premiairhelicopterservices.com, flights from $58   Great Ocean Road Tourism 011-61/3-5237-6529, greatoceanrd.org.au 3. The remote southwest corner I'm as far away from home as I can get without swimming--on the opposite end of the planet, with New York City somewhere beneath the soles of my feet--yet few places on earth seem more American. Driving south out of Perth, a city of skyscrapers, suburb tracts, car dealerships, and gas station mini-marts, things rhyme far more with Houston or Miami than with the pseudo-British settlements of eastern Australia. After a bland 100 miles or so, just below the town of Bunbury, the southwest tip of Australia juts into the Indian Ocean and the landscape bursts into a thousand shades of green. In the 50-odd miles between the northern and southern capes of the bulge is Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park, a coastline of thundering waves, untouched beaches, and death-wish surfers who brave curls with names like the Gallows and the Guillotine. In Yallingup, I check in at Caves House, amid gardens high above the moody sea. It's a creaking manor with a sweeping veranda, antique white-tiled bathrooms, and dark hallways lined with 1930s photographs of the staff dressed for tennis. I'm so enraptured by the time warp that in the morning I can't help gushing to the desk clerk. She nods sadly. "Glad you liked it," she says. "We got the word last week that we're all getting the boot." In a month, Caves House would be handed over to a company for conversion into a luxury resort. I drive to the coast's far southern tip, near Augusta, where the Indian and the Southern Oceans meet and chew furiously at the shoreline. Humpback and southern right whales are known to frolic in the foamy waters beneath the Cape Leeuwin Lighthouse. When I ask about the seas, the lighthouse's middle-aged, cardigan-wearing ticket attendant mistakes me for a surfer. "Redgate Beach is going off today," she reports. "Be careful. There's a nasty rip." This remote corner of Australia is home to more than 60 wineries, which flourish thanks to sunny summers and surrounding waters that ward off frost and drought. It's called the Margaret River Wine Region, and the town of the same name is a laid-back artists' retreat of coffeehouses and galleries. Encouraged by raves from several people at a coffee shop in town, I lunch at VAT 107, which uses local organic ingredients for dishes like spicy quail, honeycomb ice cream, and grilled marron--a cobalt-blue freshwater crayfish that is native only to southwest Australia and can grow to more than a foot long. I rent a cottage for the night at Burnside Bungalows and Organic Farm. It's run by Jamie and Lara McCall, who fled Perth for the wine country a few years ago with their three young sons. Guests stay in airy, hand-built cottages with kitchens, woodstoves, and views over the paddocks, and they're even welcome to help themselves to food from the harvests--olives, macadamias, avocados, apricots, and mulberries. What really drew me to the region are the ancient, mammoth trees. The pale-bark karri trees are 150 feet tall, as big around as foldout couches. I cruise along on empty roads that undulate over hills, around pastures dotted with contented cows, and into miles of forests that feel as sacred as Gothic cathedrals. Now and then, brief bouts of rain appear, and the clean scent of wet soil pours through the open windows. It's car-commercial good. The forest hides some cozy lumber hamlets--toy-town-like and tinged with the aroma of freshly cut timber, where chimneys smoke and carpenters deal in exotic woods such as jarrah. Many village names use the Aboriginal suffix -up, which means "place of," lending the vicinity an endearing, fairy-tale euphony: Nannup, Manjimup, Balingup. Then there's Pemberton, home of one of the area's most prized attractions: the enormous Gloucester Tree, which for years served as a lookout tower for firefighters. Anyone may climb to its platform, which is 190 feet up, but the means of ascent is a helix of slippery metal pegs spiraling perilously into the branches. As evening sets in, I check into a two-room bungalow at Pump Hill Farm Cottages, stoke its potbellied stove, and uncork a bottle of Margaret River red. Out my back door, in total darkness, a cool rain rustles the leaves. I may be far from where I live, but I'm utterly at home. The chatter of the forest is a little unsettling at first, but by the time the fire dies out, I'm fast asleep. Lodging   Burnside Bungalows 291a Burnside Rd., Margaret River, 011-61/8-9757-2139, burnsidebungalows.com.au, from $125   Pump Hill Farm Pump Hill Rd., Pemberton, 011-61/8-9776-1379, pumphill.com.au, from $82 Food   VAT 107 107 Bussell Hwy., Margaret River, 011-61/8-9758-8877, vat107.com.au, tasting plate for two $22 Attractions   Leeuwin-Naturaliste National Park 011-61/8-9752-5555, calm.wa.gov.au, free   Cape Leeuwin Lighthouse Quarry Bay, Augusta, 011-61/8-9757-7411, lighthouse.net.au, tours $6   The Gloucester Tree Burma Rd., Pemberton, 011-61/8-9776-1207, calm.wa.gov.au, $6.70 per car   Pemberton Tourist Centre 011-61/8-9776-1133, pembertontourist.com.au

What you'll find in this story: Maya resorts, Mexico Caribbean beach vacations, honeymoon destinations, resort comparisons After Cancún cemented its reputation as Spring Break Mecca, developers looked south to a seemingly endless expanse of powder-white beaches. Offshore was the largest reef in the Northern Hemisphere. Inland were ruins--more ancient sites than in all of Egypt. Slowly but surely, resorts popped up, first in the town of Playa del Carmen and then in smaller fishing villages. Tourism officials christened this 75-mile stretch the Riviera Maya, and today it's the fastest-growing area in all of Mexico. At last count, 372 hotels offered 23,512 rooms, most of them at grand all-inclusive complexes. With swim-up bars, kind prices, loads of activities, and almost perfectly reliable weather (fine, there's some wind), the only question is: How do you choose? Josh Dean went to find out--straight from the guests themselves. Gala Beach Resort With the help of some experts, I narrowed down a long list of the most popular four- and five-star resorts. First up was the Gala Beach Resort Playacar, 45 minutes south of the Cancún airport, and the southernmost resort in the lush gated community of Playacar, home to one of only two golf courses on the entire Riviera Maya. Guests stay in one of two 150-room "hotel" buildings fronting the ocean, or in the 16 inland buildings--each with 10 suites, a private pool, tropical foliage, and the ever-present sound track of spitting sprinklers that keep the Bermuda grass green. Spread over a large swath of acreage, Gala feels quiet at first. Beyond the towering, thatched-roof reception lodge, a plaza leads past two à la carte restaurants, an open-air sports bar, and the main buffet restaurant,  toward the water. And that's where the action starts. A team of attractive young workers cajole a healthy slice of the Western world--I hear English, German, French, and what might be Swedish--into group activities. I'm barely sipping my first beer when a toned, tanned blonde begins trolling past husbands in beach chairs, barking, "Volleyball! Anybody for volleyball?" Meanwhile, the pool (one of four) churns with kids playing water polo under the spastic leadership of a female "animator," the title many resorts give to employees in charge of activities (also known as animations). And the adults who remain parked by the pool? They're ordering dos piña coladas, por favor. Two young couples from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, enjoy the last few hours of sun with a round of frozen cocktails and a game of hearts. They're part of a group of 37 Canadians who fled the cold via charter and have had a fabulous time, with one major exception: Fifteen of them caught Montezuma's revenge, a risk no matter where you stay in Mexico. "Other than that, it's the best vacation I've ever taken," says Kristin Harmel, 29. Over at the bar, Carrie and Steve Wainwright, from Princeton Junction, N.J., wind down after a day at the beach. "We love Mexico because it's cheap," Carrie explains. With the help of a travel agent, they paid $1,500 for five nights, including airfare. A Canadian supermarket VP jumps into the conversation to share his thoughts. "The resort next door is five times bigger," he says. "It's nice, but you'll lose 10 pounds walking from the beach to your room." The Wainwrights were partly drawn by an article they read touting the wealth of off-campus offerings in the Yucatán--Mayan ruins, ATVs, horseback riding. "So we planned to do all kinds of stuff," Carrie says, then laughs. "But mostly we just sit on the beach."   Gala Beach Resort Playacar 877/888-4252, galaresorts.com.mx Riu Playacar On the south end of Playa del Carmen, the Riu is an immense resort complex consisting of five properties: Riu Playacar, Riu Yucatán, Riu Tequila, Riu Lupita, and the luxe Riu Palace Mexico. It's a huge compound but not obnoxiously so, because the five resorts are somewhat self-contained. Guests can remain on the property they're staying at, or use the beaches, pools, restaurants, and bars at the other resorts. Actually, people staying at the fancy Palace have the run of the grounds, but those of us staying at the other resorts have to steer clear of the Palace. At check-in, the desk clerk takes out a map of the grounds and draws an X through the Palace, just to make the rules perfectly clear. I'm staying at the Playacar, which has a French-Colonial feel, with wrought-iron railings and bar stools, pastel walls, tile roofs, and balconies. A deep, palm-dotted beach makes catching late-afternoon sun difficult, and a sea of topless French and Italian women jockey for position on the narrow stretch of sand that isn't shaded by palms. Unruly weather ate up a huge portion of the beach in late December, so now there's a mere 50 feet or so between the surf and the palms. The loss of open sand lends a South of France feel; most available space has been jam-packed with lounge chairs. There's no drink service, and the beach bar is a bit of a hike from my towel, but I'm pleasantly surprised to find the mojitos made fresh, mint and lime muddled before my eyes. Wisconsinites Peggy and Mike Block came last year for their 25th anniversary, loved the place--largely because it wasn't overwhelmed by kids--and came back this year with their daughters, Angela and Holly, who are in college. They paid $4,400 for five nights, including airfare and transfers. After they booked, the hotel's room rates went on sale and their agent refunded them $260. The Blocks have fallen into an easy routine: Breakfast at 8 a.m., the beach at 9 a.m., lunch around noon, and on to the pool. "Then we have a few drinks," says Mike, offering me a beer. "Then eat, more drinks--we rarely see 11 p.m." Like the people at all five resorts I visit, the Blocks can't say enough about the staff. "They do anything for you here," says Peggy, as hotel workers nearby rig up an outdoor movie screen to show a Packers vs. Vikings playoff game, much to the pleasure of not only the Blocks, but what feels like half of the state of Wisconsin hanging out in the bar. "If you've had a good time," Peggy explains, "why go someplace else?" "We'll come back again," Mike agrees. "We feel comfortable here."   Hotel Riu Playacar 888/666-8816, riu.com. Iberostar Paraiso del Mar Part of another vast complex, this one about 15 minutes north of Playa del Carmen, the Iberostar is similar to the Riu in structure, with four properties of varying levels sharing facilities. There's the Paraiso Maya, Paraiso Lindo, Paraiso Beach, and Paraiso del Mar, where I'm staying; altogether, the four resorts have room for up to 3,000 guests. The first thing I notice is the water. Shallow manmade canals flow in and around del Mar's marble-floored, open-air lobby, wind along the walks, and vanish into the tropical foliage. As I walk past the main restaurant, a white egret flies through a space between the thatched roofs and plucks a fish from the canal. Outside the lodge, peacocks wander among the ferns, further lending the place a jungly vibe that extends to the pools. While pools at the other resorts tend to be bright and open, the main ones at the Iberostar are built to look like lakes and are surrounded by greenery. (A warning to those wary of walking: The path from lobby to beach, while beautiful, is about a half mile. A shuttle runs sporadically.) If you love shade, this is your place. There's no need to rise early to get a chair under a palapa, which is where I find an ophthalmologist and his wife and three daughters (all the girls sport fresh cornrows) from the Toronto suburbs. The McGillivrays paid $8,000 for seven days, airfare included, and two rooms at the higher-end Iberostar Paraiso Maya. They've walked over to check out the del Mar's pool. "We usually take a ski vacation," says the dad, Daniel, kicking back in his lounge chair. "But we thought we'd try something different this year. And there are really only two places that have guaranteed 30 degrees: Mexico and the D.R." (Celsius, of course.) Every hour offers another activity: water volleyball, Ping-Pong, dance instruction, target shooting with pellet guns, windsurfing lessons, water aerobics. That doesn't even include the entertainment, which is particularly entertaining here. When they're not prepping for the nightly show--typically, popular Broadway routines or local dances--the workers are hamming it up. A pack of guys dressed up as Baywatch babes surround me on the way to my room, and, for some unknown reason, jab and jeer at me in Spanish. In one show, "Hollywood stars" (including Indiana Jones, Mary Poppins, Batman and Robin, and Superman, who leaps off the two-story beach bar into the pool) attempt to rescue a man dressed as Marilyn Monroe from a guy with a shark fin on his back. While watching this spectacle, I meet Robert and Stephanie Skinner, two 30-something Brits. They've flown 11 hours from Manchester and plan to "totally relax and recharge." It's clearly working. When I ask how long they've been here, Robert honestly has no idea what day it is.   Iberostar Paraiso del Mar 888/923-2722, iberostar.com. Sunscape Tulum The Sunscape Tulum Riviera Maya has a lot going for it. For one, size--or lack of it. With only 232 rooms, the Sunscape is what you might call a boutique all-inclusive. Resembling an elegant hacienda, the main cluster of buildings is yellow stucco; the insides have polished wood and whirring fans. A large rectangular pool, tiled in navy blue, is just steps from the lodge and abuts the resort's private cenote (a limestone freshwater sinkhole, also open for swimming). But perhaps its coolest feature is its proximity to the famed Mayan city of Tulúm. The Sunscape is the southernmost resort before the coastline turns wild and winds in toward the ruins. From the horseshoe-shaped beach, which angles to the south and thus is sheltered from the Riviera's near-incessant eastern wind, you can see the faint outline of the main temples of Tulúm, hazy rectangles atop a wooded cliff. Each morning, a chipper resort employee (sorry, animator) leads guests on a 20-minute bike ride on a path alongside the 307 highway to the ruins. While streams of tourists pour from buses, we pay a shopkeeper five pesos to watch our bikes and stroll into one of the most sacred sites in the Yucatán. It's a spectacular cliffside spot overlooking cerulean waters, the Malibu of Mayan civilization. In my group are two American couples leaving the property for the first time. They figure a morning bike ride is a great way to take in some off-property sites, not to mention justify that lunchtime margarita. Newlyweds Zach and Anne Ault are winding down what they call a perfect week-long honeymoon and will head back to Columbus, Ohio, tomorrow. "We basically told a travel agent we wanted to spend $3,000, and we were given options," Anne explains. "Then we went on the Internet and checked them out." The Aults can't rave enough about the food. Though their preference is for the authentic Mexican food served at the resort, they've eaten plenty at the Sunscape's simple and delicious à la carte Italian, Japanese, and Pan-Asian restaurants. Whereas some all-inclusives allot only a few tickets per week for the à la carte joints, the Sunscape has no restrictions. The other couple, two young New Yorkers originally from Israel, pose for photos in front of the magnificent temples. Eric and Nourit Klepar were supposed to spend a month in Thailand and would have arrived the week after the tsunami. For obvious reasons, plans changed and instead they split three weeks over three Mexican resorts, starting with the Sunscape. They both love the place but wish that there were more people their age around. "I think it would be very good for older couples," says Eric, "or if you had children." Later, over lunch and mudslides, Zach and Anne agree that the Sunscape is quiet--but that's exactly what makes it a nice place to honeymoon. "If you're here to relax, it's perfect," Zach says. "There's a lot to do if you want to, but if you don't&" He takes his turn at shuffleboard and forgets to finish his thought.   Sunscape Tulum 866/786-7227, sunscaperesorts.com. Barceló Maya Fifteen miles south of Playa del Carmen, the Barceló Maya Beach Resort has 1,020 rooms and is situated on the largest beach by far of any resort I've visited. Beyond the long stretch of dedicated resort beach, lined by blue chairs, is another equally long span that's completely deserted, totaling more than a mile of white sand and swaying palms. The facilities are a bit generic, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Sitting at the lobby bar, with its jewelry shops and loud signs, I feel as if I'm waiting for a delayed flight. But the Barceló Maya is immaculate, and the staff is motivated to instigate fun. Stephanie and Jamie Gallant, from Toronto, are sitting by the pool with their 4-year-old, Nicholas. The Gallants decided at the last minute that they needed to escape the Great White North. Stephanie's business partner had been to Barceló before and remembered there being an abundance of kids. "We did a lot of homework online about activities," says Jamie, "especially for our son." Nicholas, wearing a color-coordinated outfit and holding a pail with a shovel on a string, looks like he's been styled for a Visit Mexico! travel poster. Only two weeks prior to their departure, they paid $2,880 for the three of them, including airfare. On the beach-volleyball court, a pack of rowdy Italians do battle with a family from Wisconsin that has a distinct advantage--two of the daughters play for their college teams. I strike up a conversation with Jon and Erica Guyer, a brother and sister from Detroit, who are on the sidelines. Jon's a freshman at Brown, and Erica is researching law on a Fulbright scholarship; they came to Barceló with their parents for a little family bonding. "We haven't taken a family vacation in a while," Erica says. "And we're really more city people; we don't usually do lie-out-on-the-beach-type trips." As if on cue, mom Cheryl pulls up a chair. Mainly, she wanted to get the family together at a place where her husband, a physician, could "totally shut down and do nothing." So she consulted a Detroit travel agency that she trusted. "The Barceló had the biggest beach, with the most privacy," she says. They paid $1,300 per person for seven nights. At the moment, Jon and Erica are reclining with books, but soon they're on the volleyball court. Earlier, they kayaked, and later this afternoon they'll try windsurfing--their last sunny activity before winding down for dinner, drinks, and a show. Both admit to being skeptical when their mom initially presented the mega-resort idea. They've come to realize, however, that life at the Barceló Maya isn't all that bad. And it's become clear to me that if you're not having fun at an all-inclusive, you're just not trying.   Barceló Maya Beach Resort 800/227-2356, barcelo.com. Prices at these and other all-inclusive resorts vary dramatically depending on when and how you reserve. Packagers like Apple Vacations (book through a travel agent, applevacations.com), Vacation Express (877/684-3786, vacationexpress.com), and SunTrips (800/786-8747, suntrips.com) are popular and generally offer good deals. Packages are also available through booking engines like Expedia and Travelocity. And it's possible to reserve rooms (not with flights) directly through the resorts, though prices may not be as low. As always, the best way to get deals is by comparison shopping. Once there, bear in mind that it's not all all-inclusive. At most resorts, one price gets you a room, unlimited food and drinks, nightly stage shows, and myriad activities. But there are exceptions. Food: You have free access to the buffet, plus snack bars, usually poolside. Most resorts parcel out two or three coupons for reservations at the à la carte restaurants. Drinks: At most resorts, local alcohol (beer, rum, and tequila), house wine, and low-end labels of foreign hard liquors are free, though some resorts also pour free from the top shelf. Rooms have complimentary minibars. Sports: Scuba diving and anything involving a motor--parasailing, Jet Skiing--cost extra. Expect to pay $50-$75 for motorsports and at least $100 for scuba trips.