Nickelodeon’s "Luxury" Resort Courts Millennials With Nostalgia. Is It Working?

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My husband and I have traveled 10 hours, but I guess it was worth it to end up in an alternate universe. Our first meal at the all-inclusive Nickelodeon Hotels & Resorts Punta Cana, in the Dominican Republic, is at Spacewalker—one of nine restaurants at the 460-room resort—which resembles a janky spaceship, with white walls illuminated by blue LED strips, faux tulip chairs, and atomic-inspired chandeliers. The eatery serves dishes like Earth Crust (tempura cauliflower) and Coral Reef (garlic shrimp), and waiters wear astronaut costumes that look like they were ordered on Amazon. Occasionally, they throw on plastic helmets for photo ops with gleeful children. (Though workers at the hotel tell me many guests are adults without kids, my husband, Raffi, and I seem to be the only ones.)

"I am your server and astronaut," our waiter tells us, intent on giving us the full experience even though we are fast approaching middle age. "This is your water from Venus," he says. Above ambient space-mission music, Raffi notes that the grid-like orange wall behind me is "trying to do a Verner Panton thing and failing." But it’s good enough for me and certainly all the kids who are punch drunk on the Sky Blue lemonade being served in shot glasses.

If you’re wondering why I’m here, you’re not alone. In a bid to get Raffi to join, I explained that as a reporter with an interest in trends that say something deeper about our culture, this comped press trip is a dream. For the past couple of years, I’ve noticed brands court millennial buying power with nostalgia; there’s Taco Bell’s "early retirement community" in San Diego, the Polly Pocket Airbnb, and Chain restaurant, in which chefs reimagine fast-food classics. The resort’s Pineapple villa is designed in the "Bikini Bottomcore" style born from the aesthetic of SpongeBob’s house on the animated Nickelodeon show, which takes place in the city of Bikini Bottom on the floor of the Pacific Ocean.

The trip is also personal for me, as a brain-poisoned millennial who came of age during the TV network’s heyday of the ’90s and early aughts. Growing up, I preferred Nickelodeon to Disney for the more adult (read: cool) themes the shows explored. But aside from chuckling at a Squidward meme, I haven’t meaningfully engaged with the brand in decades. I definitely don’t identify as a Nickelodeon Adult, though the hotel staff saying "Bob Esponja Pantalones Cuadrados" does stir something deep within me.

The meal at Spacewalker leaves me less than inspired, but that’s what I get for ordering vegetarian curry. After, we head to our villa, which is a couple of doors down from the resort’s crown jewel: the 1,500-square-foot, pineapple-shaped suite, modeled after SpongeBob’s home on 124 Conch Street. In 2022, it won the Magellan Award for Upscale (Four-Star) Penthouse Design and is "always booked," PR says in an email. It’s no pineapple, but our Super Pool Villa features two bedrooms and three bathrooms, an infinity pool, an outdoor bath and shower, and the help of a lovely concierge named Jeans. I was expecting a Nickelodeon explosion inside, but the room gives Generic Resort, save for some orange and aqua throw pillows and small SpongeBob handprints on the glass shower doors.

This subtle approach to branding is evident upon arrival. Outside the giant "Nickelodeon" sign at the front, lush lawns and tropical fauna mimic the look of Caribbean beachfront resorts. This is not Disney, nor is it trying to be. There is no immersive world-building; similar to our accommodations, the visual Nickelodeon references in common areas are restrained—not counting the occasional character sculpture or delightful Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle walking around.

 I definitely don’t identify as a Nickelodeon Adult, though the hotel staff saying "Bob Esponja Pantalones Cuadrados" does stir something deep within me.

As I enter the lobby, I’m struck by the sleek trappings of the All-Inclusive Resort Industrial Complex. Uber-shiny marble floors look dangerously slippery; there’s inset white lighting, a hammered chrome feature wall, and gray, modern couches. A closer look reveals the Nick: orange velvet ropes, coffee tables that reflect the geometry of a pineapple, a small orange blimp (a call back to an old logo) on which a boy engrossed in a tablet rests his arm. The young man at the front desk wears a white button shirt with just a tiny patch of green slime hanging from the pocket.