MY FAMILY IS not part of the private-jet crowd. We are not even resort people. And we certainly are not the take-over-an-entire-hotel sort of snobs. Quite the opposite, really. Last summer, at the height of the pandemic, we rented an RV along with our frequent traveling companions—my first “mommy” friend and her brood—and pitched tents across upstate New York. I knew this summer, with my oldest heading to college, would likely be our last time to travel together, so we let the two clans’ kids decide where to venture for this final hurrah. It was unanimous: Costa Rica.
But how? We weren’t yet comfortable sleeping in hotels with strangers. We didn’t want the hassle of navigating treacherous roads to reach Airbnbs. We needed six teens to be entertained without devices, to have freedom to do their own thing, to hole up in an unfussy retreat where they couldn’t get into much trouble. Did such a place exist?