Thinking Small at the Huge Resorts

I am wary of places called mega resorts, of hotels that seem larger than life. I don’t believe that bigger is necessarily better. I know it is more confusing.

I like individuals better than mobs, and real waterfalls better than fake. I lean toward the crackling sound of a fire in a hearth over most tape recordings.

Yet drawn by meetings and curiosity, I visit mega resorts. And I marvel that these mini-cities work as well as they do. Could their successful rule be more feudal than democratic?

This illusion is enhanced by the fact that many such sprawls, whether the fantasy theme is medieval or tropic, are encircled by moats.

When I visit these blockbusters I doggedly prowl the mazes of corridors and follow garden trails. I study landmarks (newborn palms, overblown statues) between my hotel room and a pool or dining terrace so I can find my way home on the first try--day or night.

I face up to memorizing a room number that is in the thousands, instead of, say, Room Four at a Scottish inn.

Twice I have ended up in a high-rise room next to a baby who’s a screamer. Maybe it was twins. That is when I use foam earplugs (the ones I routinely carry to hush jet noise) and contemplate the notion of future hotels with designated nursery wings.

I have other problems with mega resorts. I don’t want to have to plan my holiday moves so far in advance. I don’t want to book a seat in a hotel restaurant even before I arrive. Especially on a first visit.

What about the mood of the moment? What about romance? What about getting so sunburned that you cannot sit still in a formal dining room?

I wonder if mega-resort restaurants intentionally overbook, like airlines, so that they can fill in for no-shows? Does a voice ever come over a restaurant microphone and offer a free future dinner to anyone who will relinquish a window table?

I like a hotel that makes room service seem not only possible but desirable. I like spontaneity and snacks. That can be tough when your hotel is bigger than Andorra.

I play a game at mega-resorts: Find a favorite corner. There are few places--hotels, cruise ships, islands--where I have failed to find at least one out-of-the-way spot to escape glitz.

I have not yet found a favorite corner in Las Vegas proper. So far my closest favorite corner lies east of town on the Colorado River banks near Diamond Springs, where my raft tied up after a star-spangled week of rapid transit.

I know that I’m odd. I know that most people do not go to Las Vegas for peace or quiet.

At the Hyatt Regency Waikoloa on the Big Island of Hawaii I found a corner beyond the Kona pool, where bushes of lime-green naupaka bristle with white star blossoms. Benches border a rocky path and face the turbulent sea, into which no one ventures.

Why should they? The pool is warm and gentle. It is spanned by a hanging bridge of jungle rope and planks that waver as you cross. The poolside Orchid Cafe is quiet in the early morning, and a tall urn of free coffee awaits.

Another mesmerizing moment at Waikoloa: watching youngsters swim with dolphins in the pond by the Lagoon Tower. Because of the popularity of this adventure, adults must submit their names for a daily lottery.

Mega resorts may work best for families of diverse interests. They have sufficient amusements, activities and acres to allow entertainment on several levels, from business sessions (with golf or without) to lei-making classes.

And a word on the Waikoloa spa. I had the best massage of my life at the mercy of a small woman named Ginger. She swiftly straightened the kinks from my spine and neck.

Afterward I sat alone in a whirlpool, which was hidden by lava walls and yet open to the sky. I closed my eyes and listened to the jet-blown surf.

I wondered what it would be like to be the mayor of Waikoloa. Or, perhaps, the king or queen.