Sam's Rental Story:
Her Journey From Impulse
Buy to Passive Income
For as long as I can remember,
I wanted to see
my parents’ hometown in the Dominican.
“Samanta, go be a good girl and get your mama some plantains. I miss home today.”
My mother’s familiar Caribbean accent called down the hall to me. I knew today was a homesick day for her. I had come home from school to a conversation between my mother and grandmother on Skype.
“Hola Abuela!”
I had waved over my mother’s shoulder as I threw my school bag down on my bed and began rummaging through the kitchen for snacks. I don’t think I had noticed till later that my mother had a box of tissues on her lap.
My parents were first generation immigrants from the Dominican Republic. My father had graduated top of his class from medical school and had been accepted at a local oncology center for his residency. He became so respected at the hospital where he worked, that they later sponsored visas for him and our entire family.
Like a balm to my soul, I soaked in my culture as much as I possibly could.
I was only three years old when I first came to New York with my mother and baby sister. Unfortunately, for various complications with our visa process, we had never been able to go back…not even once. As a result, New York became the only home I really knew. However, I still felt a tug, a yearning in my heart to know my parents’ home. The country of my roots.
Short of my parents’ distinctly Caribbean accents, they had fully integrated into American culture, but they never forgot where they came from. Photos of family left behind in the Dominican Republic lined our hallways and mantel. Of all our family photos, there was one that stood apart from all the rest. It was a photo of my mother, a young woman of only twenty-five at the time, myself as a three-year-old, and my sister in her arms. My sister and I wore matching pink dresses, and I clung to my mother’s long legs. We were on the beach, a single suitcase stood to our right.
The photo had been taken by our grandfather, just before he dropped us off at the airport. No one realized it at the time, but it was the last time that we would see our grandfather in-person. It was our last day in the Dominican Republic. I treasured that photo, often holding it my hands, admiring the confident look in my young mother’s eyes.
This was the photo that kept returning to my mind as I sat through a timeshare presentation in Puerto Plata, my parents’ hometown. It had been over twenty years since I had even seen the country of my birth, and I remembered none of it. I was now the same age as my mother had been when she left. I had already finished university and completed a great internship, when I could ignore the softly persistent call of my roots no more.
Just a week prior to this presentation, I had shaken hands with my direct supervisor. Having thanked her for the opportunity, I had grabbed my little carry-on and headed straight to the airport. Five short hours later, I was in Punta Cana, meeting aunts and uncles whom I had only ever known through my mother’s social media accounts and frequent video calls.
Dozens of hugs, a few tears, and an adventurous ride through the island’s interior, had landed me in Puerto Plata, my parents’ hometown. I wasn’t sure how comfortable I would be to stay with family I had only known from a distance, so I had booked myself into a nice resort, just a few minutes from where most of them lived.
It had been a wonderful week of reacquainting myself with two grandparents (one on each side were still alive, thankfully), several aunts and uncles, and a dizzying number of cousins. The resort I stayed at was beautiful and tranquil.
I woke early every morning to walk on the beach and sip a cup of island grown coffee. Almost every night my family and I stayed up late drinking rum and eating rum-cake, each family member eager to tell me old stories of my parents and even me as a baby (apparently, I was “the most difficult baby” they had ever seen).
However, it wasn’t just my family that I was reacquainting myself with, but also my culture…my roots, the place where I came from. As I walked through the streets of Puerto Plata, I couldn’t help but feel the strange echo from the past as the sights and sounds and smells of the city resonated with me. I felt like I was at home. Like a balm to my soul, I spent that first week just soaking in my culture as much as I possibly could.
I had only been able to schedule 13 days for my first trip back to the Dominican Republic. As much as I loved it, and toyed with the idea of staying, I knew that I had a whole life, which I also loved, waiting for me in New York (and a promising job interview). For the first time in my life, I felt torn between two homes and two cultures…and I really wasn’t sure what I could do about it.
It was on about day 10 of my vacation that I had finally agreed to attending the timeshare presentation at the resort where I was staying. I carefully listened to all that they had presented, and even toured the other rooms and cabanas which were available for purchase, but I really hadn’t even considered buying. I didn’t even have a job at the time…but that photo of my mother and sister and I just kept surfacing in my mind. I stared out the window of the sales room at that beautiful beach, and dared myself to think, what if?
I think the salesperson was just as surprised as I was when out of nowhere, I blurted out, “I’ll take it!”
The shocked salesperson had just shown me the breakdown of monthly payments on four weeks in a beautiful 3-bedroom villa on the beach. The payments were surprisingly affordable, and this villa was gorgeous. Plus, it had room enough to bring my parents, sister, and perhaps even treat my grandparents all to a week of luxury on the beach.
“Yes, I’ll…I’ll take it.” I stammered, trying to sound more confident this time.
I had come so far, and I knew that I would have to go back to New York in just a few days. The thought of leaving the Dominican, with just a little piece of real estate, gave me comfort…even if I had no idea how I was going to pay for it. All I knew, is that I needed this. I needed to make this work. I had to have a way to come back home, to my other home, to visit, to rest, to just feel the heat and hear Spanish, Caribbean style, at least for a few weeks out of the year.
After a flurry of paperwork and credit card processing, I walked out of that sales room with little more than a folder full of photos and contracts…but it was mine. I had found a way to come back to my roots at least for a couple of weeks out of the year. I was satisfied, it was just the right amount of time. And maybe its silly, but I felt a little pride thinking of how I had just purchased a little villa on the beach in my parents’ hometown.
The night before I left, my family threw me a going away party. It was a whirlwind of food and music, Spanish and dancing, and I loved every minute of it. I asked one of my cousins, who had a baby about one year old, if I could have one of her baby food jars. “Of course,” she had answered, looking a little confused while washing it out in the sink and handing it to me.
The following morning, my uncle took me to the very beach that my mother and sister and I stood on so many years before. I took the baby food jar out of my pocket and filled it with sand. I wanted to take just a little bit of the Dominican home with me. I looked out at the ocean and thought, farewell is not the same as goodbye. My uncle smiled and nodded.
Back in New York, however, things were not nearly as magical as they were in the Dominican.
“Are you out o’ your mind?” my mother exclaimed as I explained my timeshare purchase to her.
“Uh…no, I don’t think so.” I replied.
“How are you goin’ to pay for dat?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“Well, I’m not sure yet,” I said, “but I will figure it out.”
My mother gave me “the look” as she walked out of my room.
With that over with, I got out my timeshare contract and looked at a little pamphlet that my salesperson had slipped in with the rest of my paperwork. It was from Latitude21Resorts, “WE RENT TIMESHARES,” it said in big bold letters across the front.
I went to the Latitude21 website and browsed other timeshares for rent in Puerto Plata. I was surprised to find that most of them went for 3 or 4 times my all-inclusive fees (which translated to about 2 or 3 times my all-inclusive fee for profit). I immediately booked an appointment with a Latitude21 representative for the next day.
I spent at least two hours on the phone with that representative. I had so many questions, but the agent just calmly and patiently explained the rental advertisement services to me. She suggested that I rent two of my four weeks out. This would give me enough income to basically cover my monthly payments and would save me two weeks for my own use. I could even schedule a longer visit in the summer, using my resort’s last-minute deals. I signed-up by the end of the phone call and booked another appointment for the next day to set-up my ad.
Setting up the ad was a cinch. We adjusted the price and let the ad go live. Within about the first four months of listing my property, I had rented both of my weeks. That first rental income was set aside to cover the automatic payments to purchase the timeshare for the first 12 months. It was enough to get me started and put my mind to ease. One of my two renters also purchased at my same resort, as I said, the property is gorgeous, which meant that my resort gifted me another week in all-inclusive fees. I was thrilled with the results.
About four years have passed since I signed-up with Latitude21Resorts. I have been able to visit my “home” in the Dominican five times and have consistently rented my weeks (yes, even during the pandemic). My initial purchase has just recently been paid-off and I have over 3 weeks of all-inclusive fees credited to my account (every time a renter buys, my resort gives me a credit towards my own stay). This amounts to basically 3 weeks of free food and beverage and accommodations paid for…in a five-star resort…which is amazing for me because it means that I only have to pay for my airfare to get to there.
The most amazing thing, however, wasn’t actually the rental income, it was something far more valuable. After the pandemic, I wanted to treat my whole family to a week at “home on the beach” in Puerto Plata. My parents, my sister, and I all flew down for our first visit as a family. You should have seen my grandmother’s face, when I opened her door and said, “Abuela, pack your bags, you’re staying with us this week!” THAT look on her face, made all the work totally worth it. That was the true magic out of this whole experience.
Now, I truly feel like I have a way to visit my home, my roots, as often as I would like. Of course, the destination sells itself, but most importantly, the beauty and authenticity of the location shines through to me and to all my renters (as more and more of them buy). I feel like not only has this purchase opened the way for me to enjoy my “other hometown” to the fullest, but also to share it with others. Truly, the whole experience has been a blessing and I would not change a thing.
