My Husband and I Redid Our Honeymoon 14 Years Later and Realized So Much Has Changed
When my husband and I went on our honeymoon we didn’t own passports. It was 2003, when Americans didn’t need one for traveling to Mexico. We were just a couple of kids, 25 and 24 respectively, and our post-wedding trip would be our first real vacation together.
I remember sitting across the travel agent’s desk in a shabby office, decorated with tropical posters of happy families. Life preservers hung on the wall, and beach balls adorned the counter. A woman named Sandy ran down the list of amenities for the destination we’d ultimately choose: El Dorado Royale, an all-inclusive resort in the Mayan Riviera. I’m not sure we had much say in the matter: This was before the days of scouring TripAdvisor, we didn’t own a computer, and Yelp wasn’t a thing yet. The cost was more than we’d spent on anything in our lives, and we'd have a year to pay it off. We secured our deposit, and in return, Sandy handed us a brochure that would be worn to a soft tissue—I looked at it every day. I remember it well: There was an image of a woman in a rose-petal-strewn Jacuzzi tub; a photo of a luxury hut, where we’d be sleeping under a dreamy mosquito net. And there was a sparkling blue beach, intoxicating to a couple who lived smack in the middle of America.
It’s 2018 and we’ve now been married for 14 years. But as two people who have traversed the globe (about 40 countries and counting), we wanted to see if it’s where you’re at that makes a place romantic—or who you’re with. Could revisiting our honeymoon destination rekindle the spark of young love? We decided to venture back to the very place where it all began.
El Dorado Royale is now El Dorado Casitas Royale, and the brochure is now a snazzy website, but not a lot else has changed. There are the same casitas—with gussied-up rooms and swim-up pools, massage huts dotting the white-sand beaches, and loads of couples milling about.
The last time we were at this resort, our lives were a blank canvas. Since then, we’ve filled up the pages of our passports, built a life together, and defined ourselves as individuals and as a couple. The resort may have not changed, but we certainly have.
My husband, Nate, says, “I don't know that I had a strong vision of what our life would be like this far down the road (or I don't remember it anyway), but I would never have expected to live such an interesting life, having gone to so many places, met so many people, and seen and learned so much.”
On our flight to Mexico, I pulled out my customary BYOBlanket before we chose a movie. We queued it up, each on our own personal seatback screen, and counted to three before pushing play. It’s our routine: We like to watch the same movie on the plane and start it at the exact same time. It’s one of the million geeky married-people things that we’ve been doing for years. I glanced behind me and a couple wearing “Wifey” and “Hubby” T-shirts clinked plastic glasses of Champagne and open-mouth kissed. I immediately missed the new stages of marriage—that honeymoon phase—when you’re willing to French kiss at 7 A.M. and wear a T-shirt emblazoned with your new moniker.
Perhaps this honeymoon redo would get us back there. We hoped to recreate it to the best of our ability.
I brought along a swimsuit that I wore for our previous trip, a similar dress, and Nate packed a shirt that he’d saved, along with a very ancient sport visor. All that I needed was a face void of wrinkles and platinum blonde hair to feel as if nothing had changed.
The resort did even more to make us feel as if we were on our honeymoon—including a nearly identical room (with a fancy private pool upgrade) and reservations at restaurants we’d eaten at 14 years prior. Immediately, our trip felt nostalgic.
On our first night, I lost my voice due to a cold. While I felt totally fine, I couldn’t eke out a sentence, which proved to be a hassle to everyone but my husband. As it turns out, 14 years of marriage provides the ideal base for mind reading. At dinner that evening, Nate could order a specific wine for me, tell the waiter that I don’t want ice in my water, and prefer cheese to sweets for dessert. This wouldn’t have happened on our original honeymoon. As Nate puts it, “I know you far better than I did then, and I think we've gotten really good at being together, which is something you can't realize or know when you're new at it.”
The following evening, when my voice reappeared, we made a romantic toast—something about loving each other more than we did 14 years ago. I followed it with an equally romantic fart joke and Nate spit his wine across the table in uncontrollable laughter. This also would not have happened 14 years ago.
While our actual honeymoon was very dreamy and exciting, we were still learning about each other’s travel styles—and, even more so, about each other. Even though we were at an all-inclusive resort, there was an expectation to take tours and find exciting places outside of the property. As newlyweds, there was pressure to never have a disagreement—even if he did want to spend an evening watching a college football game. And Nate actually got a couple’s massage withe me, which he despises. This time around, we slept late, exercised zero times, and sipped umbrella drinks before cocktail hour. Absolutely zero pressure.
The trip was completely different than our actual honeymoon, which, as it turns out, is a very good thing. Yes, it was romantic and relaxing and what a honeymoon should be, thanks to the resort. But it was also comfortable and fun and silly, which is who we’ve become over the past 14 years. Nate and I are past the stage of practicing PDA on a plane and wearing matching marriage T-shirts. It’s OK. Our perfect version of romance is ordering the other’s cheese plate in sickness and making inappropriate jokes in health.
Anne Roderique-Jones is a freelance writer and editor whose work has appeared in Vogue, Marie Claire, Southern Living, Town & Country, and Condé Nast Traveler. Twitter: @AnnieMarie_ Instagram: @AnnieMarie_
