Puerto Morelos and vacationing, reconsidered

So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Puerto Morelos is, still today, just a beautifully small fishing village.

Late in the evening, Salvatore, a long ago transplant from Mexico City, or actually Venezuela, or you could also say Paris, and owner of the newest taco place in town says with contentment – this place will never change. There are only two streets running through the village. There's nowhere else to build. And the limit on height is firm. He should know, he’s an architect by trade.

Salvatore likes things small. His eating place has only three tables. It’s nicer this way. You get to see who comes in. Do you like the name? (Taco.com) It feels modern, no?

In truth, I don’t think it’s a great name. I almost did not go in because of the name. It sounded to me like a chain serving fast food.

But that couldn't be further from the truth: I eat what have to be the best tacos of my life -- two with chipotle chicken, two with shrimp. A wonderful last dinner at this small... well, fishing village.





Because here’s another thing about Puerto Morelos. There are men here who do fish for a living. I came across two this afternoon – this in the space of a short expedition into town. One man was bringing in a morena (Moray eel)...









... the other? Well, flat fish with a bit of color to them. Purchased by a man who could have been a cook. Or not. (While the pelicans looked on.)









Unquestionably, there are fish to be had in these waters. I had a chance to see this early in the morning as Ed and I decided to borrow a kayak and some snorkeling gear and head out. In spite of the clouds and wind.





[That photo I just took? -- Ed tells me. It’s a typical “we’re on vacation” shot. But we are on vacation! For this one day, let’s please just do conventional vacation things!]

Where should we look for fish? I had asked the man at the Dive Shop.
You could head out with us by boat to the reef at the National Park.
That’s too long of a snorkeling commitment. We have a long list of vacation things to do. Anywhere within swimming or paddling distance?
Just stay close to the pier. You’ll be amazed what's under there.

The man knows his fish. Ed and I snorkel among thousands of darting fins. Oh, they are rather monochromatic, but still, the sheer volume is mesmerizing.

Our kayak expedition is equally close to home. The day is windy, the waves are choppy and we are told to stay by the shore. So we do. It’s a good thing that the water is warm. Waves have a way of washing right over you in their rush to the shore.


What else might I say about this day? Well, it started early. I was up watching the sun rise over the water.




And perhaps that was a first peek at what lay ahead -- plenty of gold, and even more of the color orange.

At lunch (which consisted of breakfast foods; papaya and huevos Mestiza for me):









People watching: kids, returning from school, a woman hurrying somewhere, resolutely:









Ed, buying a coconut cinnamon ice cream bar from a street vendor (with an orange cap):





...and so on.

But let me not forget to list the other components of "vacationing." I cannot neglect mentioning the bike ride: we borrowed one from the hotel and set out. One bike. For the two of us. Tall Ed and short-ish me. On a tandem. It was hell, particularly going over the speed bumps. (The grin was before we got on.)




I spent some hours, too, reading cases by the pool. And swimming a few laps. And in the evening, we took our second trip into town – this time, thankfully, on foot. It was then that we met Salvatore and it was then that we picked up evening pastry treats from a baker's van.





To experience a feeling of vacationing is, of course, to turn your back on the demands of a work day. Much like these young women were doing this afternoon on a stretch of sand in Puerto Morelos.





Over the years, Ed and I have developed concepts of vacationing that had very very little in common. Now that we spend so much time traveling together (occasionally), we devote not a small amount of time sifting through all that we cannot possibly share and figuring out where our overlap may be. As I listen to Salvatore and Ed exchange sailing stories (it is amazing how days on open waters can generate so many diverse stories), and then proceed to swap stories myself about Poland and Paris (Salvatore is quite familiar with both), I am again reminded that when Ed and I talk of our likes and loves to others, we rarely are speaking about the same thing.

And still, on a day like today, we can walk home in the dark along the water's edge thinking -- what a splendid vacation day this was. Truly. Down to the last taco bite and the last step over the wet sand.

from Puerto Morelos

I’ll give it the "low key" star of approval, but you cannot say of Puerto Morelos that it is a mere humble fishing village (this to Ed, who remembers it as such). It's expanded enough to please the vacationing types who come here for the quiet and the lovely white sand.

Our beachfront hotel (Ceiba del Mar) is just a couple of kilometers out of town. It’s actually a lovely and unobtrusive place (with absolutely bargain rates at the moment: Mexico is only slightly recovering from a tourism slow down, what with the recession and the flu issues of last year) and when I sit down on a beach chair in the afternoon, I feel myself sinking in for the long haul. A good beach chair will do that to me, especially when there’s a lovely breeze passing through and the waves hitting the sand sound just right.

But by evening, the eggs of the Isla café are but a memory. I’m hungry.

We’re told that the fastest way to town is along the beach. That is one lovely walk – especially at sunset. At the moment that the sun throws colors to the eastern clouds, the pastel tones are airy and beautiful.





And even as the last rays fade and dusk sets in, the colors remain, as enchanting as in full daylight.






At Puerto Morelos, the main square is coming to life. The handful of eateries are filling up, the kids are playing on the playground, the churchgoers are moving in a procession behind the bearers of three statues – the Magi I should think, as it is January 6th.





We walk from one eating spot to another and I can tell that Ed is wishing for something more local. We leave the square and stumble upon a backyard kind of place (La Pepita), with tables spilling haphazardly over a sandy lot. In various spots, egg cartons are strewn about and lit to burn slowly, so that the smoke spreads like incense over the sprawling space. As we sit down, I can see their purpose – the bugs are out. We move a carton closer to our feet. The bugs move away.

The menu is simple – sea food. In a ceviche (raw, marinated in lime juice), fried, or grilled. (I later read that this is where the fishermen go: big plates of seafood and cheap beer.)

The waiter brings starters of beans and fish spread. We order guacamole and shrimp.





It’s all quite tasty and fine, though we’re stumped by the shrimp: they’re significantly overdone, by the standard of our palate. But is it us, or is it the shrimp? Suppose you accept the idea that shrimp should be grilled until they are firm, and I mean firm! Under such a premise, suddenly our platefuls are astonishingly fine!

So which is it? The mother figure of the place looks on. I catch her eye, and nod, she smiles, pleased. Clearly proud of her food. And this is enough to convince me that we are eating the shrimp as they are, for this cook at least, meant to be eaten. Spicy. Very firm.

We finish every last bite, delighted with the flavors and frankly, with the homeyness of the place.


It's late now. I suggest that we walk back by the road. Ed looks doubtful. We don’t know which road...

But how could we not find it? We are two kilometers away, straight on the sea. Just hug all roads by the sea.

It’s funny how easy it is to get lost when you don’t know what you’re doing.

We give up on the roads and find a path to the water, finishing our walk along a now dark beach. The wet sand is solid and easy to navigate. The clouds are scattered, the stars – bright as holiday lights. A thin jacket keeps me warm, the noise of the gentle waves momentarily erases the stress of too much work back home.

Isla Mujeres, one last time

No stone unturned, no corner untouched. You can do that on an island where in the morning you’re able to hike to the southern tip and back, and in the afternoon, turn around and head to the northern tip, then home again come nighttime.

What’s fascinating is how different these two tips are from each other and how even more different is the middle (where we are staying).

The south has the craggy coast and a handful of tourist draws: a pully that'll swing you over the water, a small lighthouse, and a few hotels and bars looking out over the bay toward a distant skyline of Cancun beach hotels (less than ten miles away, as the gull flies).

The north has the ferry port. It goes without saying that the north has 95% of the tourist shops, the souvenir stands, the beach bars, the time-shares.

The island is said to do everything on a small scale and so nothing overwhelms you – not even the north end. And in any event, the ferries take the bulk of visitors back to the mainland come nighttime. The pace is slow, the island is quiet. Cats and children. Lots of both. So perfect for Ed (who loves being in the presence of cats) and me (who loves being in the presence of kids).









Tuesday afternoon. Our protracted café moment ends when I feel the first gust of late afternoon wind on my shoulders. If we’re going to make it to the North Beach, we should go now.

Of course, the closer we get to the water’s edge, the gustier it becomes.

The North Beach, reputed to be the loveliest city beach on earth (and it is quite lovely), is deserted.





But we like it that way. I button my cardigan and we forge ahead – from one end to the next and back again, until the sun begins to play with low lying clouds, losing any real warmth value for the remainder of the day.




The water here is clear and the waves less threatening, but neither of us has a great urge to swim (actually, I don’t even take off my shoes – the sand is too cool). We watch one or two hearty types splash around and then we head back to the hub of the town, where the boats come in and the vendors congregate.




As the afternoon sun nears the Cancun horizon, we settle in at our café (twice in one day!), this time with a plate of guacamole and a wonderfully zesty mojito for me.


With the sun completely gone now, we considered our options. Eat in town? We look in on one spot, then another. We’d be eating with the likes of us, gringos.

We decide to hike back to the belly of the island.

It’s a long walk in the dark. At one point we stop and peer out at the water that suddenly comes close to our path...



... but mostly we pay attention to the road. The sidewalk is an adventure trip – it’s there, it’s not there. Sometimes well tended, sometimes crumbling. The variety that is the island can be found right there at your feet.

The brisk pace keeps me warm, even as the locals complain bitterly about the “cold spell” (it dips down to near sixty at night). As we approach our mid-island village (Colonia La Gloria), we hear a honk of a golf cart. Miguel is there, driving by. He offers us a ride for the few blocks back to the apartment, but we're not ready to retire there yet. We ask, instead, for the name of his favorite Tacqueria.

Tacqueria Medina – up on the other main road.

Sure, we passed it many times on our walks to town. We turn around and retrace our steps just a little.

The Tacqueria is small and the choices appear to be two: beef taco or pork taco. I order two spicy and delicious pork tacos (the pork meat roasted right behind the counter), Ed stays with the vegetarian option (a basic quesadilla). We watch a large family pack in platefuls of tacos and I think I maybe could add a few more myself. But, the bill is paid and we're ready to go. Next time.





The night is star studded and beautiful. I’m thinking of the places we didn’t try yet – the grilled fish on the beach, the other bakery...


Next time, next time. In the morning, I look out and watch the children march into school (our apartment looks out on an elementary school). They're bundled. It's a chilling 74 F outside.





We need to get going as well.

We hike in glorious sunshine, past the colors of the island: past the carts that sell breads and tortillas, past mothers buying, children eating, purple houses, blue houses, past beaches with boats – all the way into town...













...for one last visit to our favorite café, for that great coffee, and eggs with beans and salsa, wrapped into a warm tortilla.





We catch the ferry back, over the Caribeean blues...





...to the mainland, where we pick up a car (is this really the smallest one you have? Yes...) and head out. Not far: to Puerto Morelos – a fishing village just south of Cancun. "Low key" -- as the books say, and as Ed remembers it.

This time we are staying right on the beach and I know that Ed is groaning inside because the place (home for the next two nights), though subdued, still has too many comforts: a pool, chairs in the sand, tended grounds – too much, too much, especially after the belly of Isla Mujeres.





Me, I find it calming. A change of pace before we take the road away from the sea. A chance to take some work to the beach and look up only occasionally, to watch how the pelicans are doing out there on the aqua waters of the sea.

Isla Mujeres, day two

There came a moment when I thought we would not leave the café. Notes of music coming through somewhere, the breezes blowing through the open spaces, the comfortable chairs, good coffee... why go?

There are deep navy clouds just off shore, but Ed is unruffled. Rain clouds? Over the Caribbean, they can sometimes sit for hours. We may never see the rain from that system. He should know -- he's sailed these seas often enough.

Still, our landlady is waiting (though I Skype her of our café delay) and we have our packs at our feet. Time to go.

The island is narrow (maybe quarter of a mile at the thick points) and long (maybe six miles). You can’t believe that a house, any house would be hard to find. I am given instructions: Leave the village, continue past the old airstrip, eventually, maybe after two miles you’ll come to Oscar’s Restaurant. Bear left then, one block, past something that looks like a church. Ours is the house with the hedge.

Okay. We set out. It’s colorful and completely beguiling at every step.









(At the Tortilleria Mama Lolita:)




(look closer:)












But we think we have walked for significantly more than two miles. No Oscar’s.
Where’s Oscar’s? -- we ask. It’s not well known. Maybe that way...
We walk some more. We don’t find Oscar’s, but we see a guy with a tin container waving at us.





He’s the fellow from the bus, with the delicious thin wafers.

And still no Oscar’s.

A golf cart pulls over (they’re not only for tourists). A man speaks to us in Spanish. Apartamento...He’s Miguel, our landlord (he and Sue rent out these terrific places).

I suppose it’s easy for locals to find us, even as it’s hard for us to locate them.

Miguel and Sue have just finished adding a lovely little studio to their handful of rooms. Perfectly placed, away from any tourist bustle (but you need to love to walk, as we do, or just go for the rental of the ubiquitous golf cart), we are happy as anything in our large, airy room on the top floor of this building: (At $35 per night, it is lovely in price as well.)




Miguel and Sue tell us where to eat, where to find the local market, where to pick up a taco if we have a craving, or a grilled fish, or roast chicken.

They drive us to their favorite bakery, we pick up some sweet rolls for the morning (there’s some fresh orange juice for you in the fridge – Sue tells us)...



...and now we are finally "at home."

We know we should wait to eat. We know that the village square comes alive late in the evening. People watching should be wonderful.

But I also know that if we linger, Ed will sleep and I’ll dig into the sweet rolls. I’m hungry – Sue said La Bruja Restaurant, just up the street, is open all day long. Let’s go now.

By 7, we’re sitting by the curb, eating grilled seafood and drinking Mexican beer and life feels so very good.




Next door, a family gathers around a sweet bread cart that has pulled up to the curb. The woman buys the kids sweet rolls and they grin with pleasure. Looking on, I try not to think about how long it will be before Madison sees any food cart outdoors.





This morning, the skies slowly lose their threatening clouds. We are only on the island until tomorrow. I am anxious to set out.

Mercado. Let’s start there.





We do. Juice – more of that wonderful juice, Ed says. (Ed can chug a quart down in no time.) The market is small, but it has a few fruit stands, plenty of meat vendors and, of course, a tortilla maker.

But no coffee. I find that Coca cola trumps coffee here as the drink of choice – mornings included.

We go back to La Bruja, where the kind people serve up a wonderful coffee with toast on the side.




Fortified, we hike to the southern most tip of the island, and, as they say, the eastern most tip of Mexico.

Let me say this about how beautiful it is here, in the center of the island: I am, at every corner, surprised with a splash (sometimes more like a burst) of color.









Well, yes, and coca cola adds...



(at our corner grocery store)


...and flowers...









...and people eating in secret corners at unusual (for me) times.





...and children telling you thank you when you take their photo.





...and water and sky – ostensibly both sharing the color “blue,” but letting you know that there are as many blues as there are people on this planet.





And let me not forget to say this: Isla Mujeres, at least where we are, is quiet (except for the morning rooster and the evening dogs) and uncommonly friendly.


In the afternoon, we hike back to the main town on the north end (just over an hour for us). We find our local waiter at our first café. He brings us eggs and beans and tortillas and a fruit milk for Ed and coffee for me and again we find it very very hard to leave.

Isla Mujeres

There is something wonderfully uplifting when, after a long flight, you first notice specks of the land that will be your home for a little while.





The Yucatan coastline is shielded from the warm heavens by a misty cloud cover. It's dreamy and beautiful, with bands of aqua colors touching the strip of sand.

We take our packs and head for the bus. Or, the first bus. The easy one to Cancun. From there, we look for the local to the town of Puerto Juarez - the point from where the ferry leaves. Many inquiries later, we are in a rickety van, first solo, then with a local fellow, taking his tin of... something to... somewhere.
What do you have there? – this from Ed.
We’re told the name, but neither of us remembers it. It's sweet, right?
Si, dulce comida.
Can we buy one?
Sure.
He carefully removes a packet with a large wafer.



It’s crispy thin and delicious – much like the wafers I would sometimes buy in the mountains of Poland. Mountains of Poland, coast of the Yucatan.

Someone on the outside is shouting into the van that we should get off. Ah – the ferry landing. Thanks for paying attention. We’re too busy munching thin wafers of crunchy sweetness.

At the ferry landing, we are taken aside by a time-share promoter. If you come to our place, right on the best beach of the island, we’ll give you a golf cart for the day (the mode of tourist movement), a free breakfast, two t-shirts and a lovely beach bag.

Ed hesitates.
No, Ed, no.
But I’m curious about time shares.
This is Ed – forever curious, but only that. I push him toward the boat.

We board the ferry. The ride is lovely – a little cool for me, but oh my, is that a relevant statement! It’s not near zero here, it’s in the seventies.


And now we are on the island -- the Isla Mujeres. We sit down at a café and time stops.








The island hasn’t changed, Ed remarks. I remember, in years past when...

I listen as I watch a guy carry heavy crates of beer into the café. Hard work.





And for me, at this moment in time, no work at all.

In a few minutes we’ll look for our room somewhere in mid-island. In a few minutes. Or longer.

I look up: Ed is in shorts already. I drink my coffee, he sips a platano licuado (basically bananas and milk). The sun comes out for just a minute. Or two.

traveling

Welcome to Apple Vacations! We hope you’re enjoying your Fun Jet Cancun adventure!

How is it that Ed and I found ourselves packed into a jet full of fun-loving, sun-seeking, underdressed in a sweetly optimistic way Wisconsinites, bound for an Apple Vacation? Air Tran canceled our early morning (or was it night?) flight to Atlanta (connecting to Cancun), which is sad... but they booked us on one of their charter tour jets that flies directly to Cancun. Which is terrific! It’s truly dumb luck to have a cancellation work in your favor – we’ll be in Cancun hours ahead of schedule.

I don’t normally post in the mornings, but as usual, when I am away from home, I flip my schedule and write before my traveling companion wakes. And when there is WiFi.

The plane has WiFi.

Actually, I am not certain where my traveling companion is at the moment – somewhere in the front of the plane I presume (I am in the back), but I’m sure he is sleeping. We left Madison when the night was in the early stages of development.

No photo for you yet. The ground below is flat and uninteresting – I’m guessing it’s the Florida panhandle. No photos of the passengers either. Fun loving types that they are, they also appear groggy and disheveled from a disrupted night.

I think I’ll take off my sweater. I want to fit in. Happy Cancun vacationing, fellow travelers! Shake off the northern airs and rub in the sunscreen! We are on our way!

done. off we go!

So how many times have you been to the Yucatan? – I ask Ed, whose travels in the past appeared to have favored anything south and preferably reachable by a sailboat.

Oh, maybe four. There was a fifth, but I hardly remember that one. I flew in. Weird to fly to the Yucatan, when a sailboat or a motorbike can easily get you there.

Well, we’re flying in this time. I have plenty of reasons to avoid sailing or motorbiking to the eastern tip of Mexico this winter. Besides, we’re flying Air Tran – the airline of choice for the frugally inclined. Ed should not mind.

My own visits to Mexico date back to a distant past. (Border crossings from Arizona do not really count.) I vividly remember the presence of parents as we bused from Mexico City to Taxco and then on to the western coast. I ate wildly, came home with a parasite and never traveled with my parents again. The memories are that good.

Still, I’ve wanted to go back, preferably with a companion who speaks Spanish (I, unfortunately, do not; and no, it’s not so close to Italian that one can pretend). Ed assures me that he can ask pretty much any question, so long as we can get by without understanding the answer.

We’re set to go. In the middle of the night we’ll be driving to the nearest Air Tran hub and then, in a roundabout way, we’ll fly south, to the Yucatan Peninsula.

We have some tight connections and no promise of WiFi when we get to our first night’s destination – Isla Mujeres. Wish us luck.

six years later

This is post number 4608. Blogger tells me this. That number doesn’t particularly stand out. It’s not cute, not even rounded. The more significant to me, is the number six: today marks the sixth anniversary of daily blogging here, on Ocean.

Oh, I’ve become less fussy about counting. I’ve skipped maybe a half dozen days in these six years, mostly because I just could not arrange the circumstances in a way that would permit writing and/or posting. But you know this about Ocean: if you click here each day, you'll find, pretty much always, a new post.


Numbers. Let me throw down a handful for you to consider:

Today, even in the middle of this very sunny day, the thermometer never passed five degrees Fahrenheit.

Of course, I did not know this when I said to Ed – let’s take a break from work. [I meant my work; Ed doesn’t work (anymore) per se. On this day, he could be found fumbling with machine designs on the computer; I think machine designing to him is like book writing for me. The difference? He actually anticipates reaching a final product.]


I propose a quick hike.

In retrospect, writing now from the warm interior of my condo, I can say it was quite beautiful.









But cold.

[Though this is relative: at the shop tonight, I chatted to a customer who loves winter and hates spring. Something to do with having to plant potatoes once the earth softens up a bit...)

Numbers. Let me not neglect to mention that this is day two of a decidedly work filled week-end. One more tomorrow. And then I kiss the deep freeze good bye. I hope.