Oh, I love the beach. We spent three days doing what most people envision when you say, “I’m going to Mexico”: lounged on the beach, swam, ate meals in an open-air “palapa,” watched the sun set over the ocean, and walked barefoot on the sand in the moonlight. Only thing is, although we’re not short on alcohol, we still haven’t gotten into any margaritas. Maybe later. My tour guide tells me this is the land of mescal, not tequila, so we’re not really in margarita country, anyway.
The weather was perfect: hot in the sun, just right in the shade. First thing I did was jump into the ocean for a swim. I haven’t been able to go swimming for over two months—first because of a broken wrist, then because of a change in seasons—and I was delighted to get back into the water. Especially this water: turquoise blue and so clear you can see every rock 20, even 30 feet down. And a perfect temperature: just cool enough to be refreshing, just warm enough to be lovely. I went for many long, lazy swims, out past the surf where there were fewer big swells, just floating and playing and renewing my request to be a seal, or maybe an otter or a dolphin, for my next incarnation.
I couldn’t get my not-always-so-macho Mexican to come swimming with me, because he doesn’t like saltwater. I should be able to understand that, because I used to not like it that much either, but I am so over that. There’s something awesome about floating in the ocean with the surf lifting and falling, far from shore, just me and the water and the waves and the sun shining down, and the beautiful view of the palm-lined beach in the distance. If I had to define the word “peaceful,” this would do it.
So he walked on the beach and found people to talk to while I swam and talked to the water spirits. Then we’d meet up at our beach umbrella and lounge in the shade. Before we left Puebla, we found a used bookstore that had an English book section, and I found a copy of John Steinbeck’s “The Winter of our Discontent.” I have read many a Steinbeck novel, and always love them, but hadn’t come across this one before. I figured, if it’s Steinbeck it must be good, and I was right. He’s a brilliant writer, and in this book he tackles a subject I have been grappling with myself—namely, money, and all the games people play to get it, how much is enough, does it really have anything to do with happiness, etcetera. I’m enjoying it a lot, and also just enjoying reading, which I don’t do enough of in my everyday life. Give me a beach and a book, and I am a happy clam.
The bad news is I’m so conditioned to running on the work treadmill that I actually brought work on this road trip—and not just any, but the worst kind: taxes. But as soon as we got here, I realized that was ridiculous and left the papers zipped up in the suitcase. Steinbeck, good; T-word, later!
The first night we were here, there was a wedding on the beach. We were assured not to worry, as it was a Christian wedding and there would be no alcohol and the music would stop by 11 o’clock. (We’re talking Christian as opposed to Catholic, which are two very different things here.) Even as they said this, the guys on staff were smirking and joking about how anyone could have a wedding with no alcohol. But that’s what it was, and even without anyone getting drunk, it was quite a production. We were reminded of our last trip to the beach, when our anticipated tranquility was blasted to bits by a crew coming in to do a Clamato commercial. By comparison, the wedding wasn’t so bad, and everyone really did go home by midnight. The next day, even on this holiday weekend, the beach was peaceful and uncrowded.
We stayed three days; it would have been easy to stay longer. On our last night, we had dinner in the palapa: shrimp soup, mmmm, and carne asada, beans and rice—a very Mexican dinner. We toasted to “la playa” and in the morning, after one last swim, we hit the mountain roads back to the city of Oaxaca.