Early up – have already had 8 hours sleep by 6:30 a.m. Sara, as usual, is awake before me. Both she and Mitch have discussed the fact that they do not sleep through the night anymore. I hope I never get as old as they are.
More coffee and rolls on the terrace and we are off on our separate excursions. I’m determined to find the path down to Bacocho Beach today. The map is not too helpful. This area is obviously newly developed and I walk for a few blocks looking for something that looks like an outlet to the beach. I do not find a path, but there are many interesting homes and buildings to look at on the way. It seems this is definitely the most middle-class section of the city. Homes here are quite nice. I do see a preponderance of gringo names, though.
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Typical Houses in our Neighborhood-- Probably Owned by Canadians |
Dead End in the Search for a Path to |
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Soon, I find a very new, ritzy hotel—the Posada Real. Stand outside trying to get my bearings and watch work men tear up the streets, wondering how I am going to get across the construction site. As I stand there, a bellman from the hotel appears and asks if he can help me. I ask the way to the beach and says, sure, come this way and he leads me into the hotel to the manager who effusively welcomes me and says, look around, enjoy the beach club, whatever. I guess they are hoping I’ll come stay with them, because I didn’t see too many people there.
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The Grounds of the Posada Real
The bellman guides me around and shows me the path to the beach. The grounds are truly beautiful and the view is stunning. I decide to stop for a little refreshment at the gorgeous restaurant before tackling the trek to the beach.
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The View From My Table Not too shabby |
| Bococho Beach from the Posada Real |
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Renewed with a Victoria, I head down the path. Unfortunately, the steps are narrow and there is no railing. (Typical in Mexico.) I am such a wimp. At one point, I freeze on the steps unable to go forward or back up. Luckily, there is a young man in a hotel uniform sweeping the steps behind me. I enlist him to help me down the stairs. Embarrassing, but nice to have a willing, young man on my arm, too. He helps me to the road, which I can maneuver much more easily than stairs. If a car can drive on it, I should be able to walk on it. Not always true -- I couldn't handle the streets in St. Emillion, but then just because you can drive on it doesn't make it a road.
Shortly, I am at Coco’s Beach resort, which is part of the Posada Real, 20 feet from the beach with an amazing pool and a very nice open-air restaurant and bar. It is perfect.
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Coco's Pool |
 Bococho Beach from the Air |
Taking a short walk on the beach, I am stunned by the beauty of the topography. I love the rocks. This is a great beach for me. The sand is easy to walk on. I suppose because the waves come smashing down so hard, unlike the gentle slap of the waves at Carrizalillo.
There are some rather alarming warning signs as you leave the resort for the beach. Apparently, this is an open beach and there have been more than a few instances of banditry. But I don't intend to walk far, and I'm willing to take my chances, since I have no valuables with me and it is broad daylight, for cryin' out loud, and I come from New York.
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Bococho Beach Carrizalillo is just Around from the Headland Someone is Burning Something on the Beach There is always the smell of smoke in the air in Puerto |
| The Rock Formations are Gorgeous I Love This Beach |
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A Great Little Cove on Bacocho |
Back to the shade of the restaurant and a lunch of tamales Oaxenas which come with a wonderful mole negro, a spicy-sweet mixture of chocolate, chillies, garlic, peanuts, and a score of spices and other flavorings, cooked to a sauce. Muy, muy bien. The best I will have in Oaxaca.
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My View from the Table at Coco's Beach Resort. Wow. I Could Stay Here Forever!
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I sat for a long time at the table watching the people play in the pool. I’m alone in the restaurant, except for the help. Since I said I would go to Carrizalillo this afternoon, I don't want Mitch and Sara wondering where I am. I pay my bill, find the sanitarios and begin to walk up the very steep drive. I had not gone far at all, when a man in a van—who I thought worked for the hotel—stops and gives me a lift to the top of the cliff. When I get out, I notice the writing on the van – some government agency. He was just being kind, as was everyone we met in Puerto.
It’s about 2 pm and the sun is at its peak heat, but I begin to walk home and duck into shade whenever it shows up on the streets. I take a short detour to sus out Brad’s Half Coconut Bar and am not impressed. We will not be eating there on xmas eve. I had made a reservation online based on recommendation from one of the chat forums I was reading before we left home, but realized it is just a place where Americans/Canadians hang out, when they want to forget they are in Mexico. What is the point of that? If I wanted to talk to a bunch of Americans, I would have stayed home.
I’m fascinated with the palm trees and cannot believe how many varieties there are. Here are some of the main ones:
 Coco Palms Watch Your Head - No Joke! |
 Date Palms are Bushy and Grow Closer to the Ground |
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Back at the villa, I strip from my sweaty clothes and begin to cool off as Sara arrives from her adventures in the Mercado. She has bought great, gauzy white pants to wear on the boat tomorrow. We all have complained that we didn’t bring enough hot weather things. Especially since you need to change your clothes at least three times a day.
We hang out for a while to cool off and then get ready to go down to the beach. The stairs seem easier this trip, maybe because I’m wearing my sneakers instead of the water shoes, but it’s still a nasty descent. Mitch is waiting under Mary’s palapa. Mitch and Sara spend time floating in the great, warm bathtub that is the cove at Carrizalillo, and we hang out and watch the boats and the people and all until the sun finally drops over the horizon.
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Bliss on the Beach A Mollified Mitch and the Serene Sara |
A Perfect Moment -
One Among a Million |
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I am reading Margaret Drabble’s The Seven Sisters now and read a passage that were I writer, I would have written for this moment:
“You know that land. You have an image of that land. All the
cold and bitter children of the cold north have an image of that southern land.
There the palm and the cypress cut themselves out in antique shapes for your
delight against the blue sky and the noonday sun. Those are the very shapes
and patterns that are carved upon the antique heart, and you know them as your
birthright. From generation to generation, they imprint their shapes upon the
human heart. It is the land where the pale jasmine blossoms in the sweet night
air, and bright lemons hang like dim and secret lamps amidst the glittering
and the gloss of the ever-green. It is the sunny clime where you breathe more
freely both by day and by night, where your fearful lungs fill gently with the
soft air, where you no longer huddle and shiver and wrap yourself into your
own arms and clench yourself back into your own self. There you no longer need
to dread the threshold between the body and the world, for all is mild, all
flows easily, all is lightness. Your shoulders are without burden, your eyes
are clear, your skin is soft, and your feet in their sandals are free. You stretch
out your arms, you can see your toes. The sky is vast and blue, the sand is
golden, and the horizon shimmers with pledge and with promise. You know that
land.”
A slow pull back up the steps and a rest and shower before we head to the street again in pursuit of a cab. We walk to the corner next to the Shalom hostel, which is blasting some alternative cover tune, and hang out waiting for a cab. The Cafeteria Palapa on the hill is blasting something very Mexican and the cacophony is wild and amusing for as long as we have to listen to it.
Soon a cab drives up and takes us to the Adoquin (always about $2 from our place to the Adoquin plus a little tip.) We stroll into the Sardinia del la Plata, just west of the west end of the chain (There are chains across the road on the west and east ends of Av. Perez Gasga to keep the cars out in the evenings.) We have charming, handsome waiters who wait on us hand and foot throughout the evening. Sara and I have Arrachara, which is a grilled skirt steak. We order the meat medium-rare, but the waiter asks us twice, maybe three times if we’re sure. We’re sure. Soon the manager comes over and asks if we’re sure we want it rare, and now I’m starting to wonder, if we shouldn’t have ordered it well done, but we insist and it arrives perfectly with grilled cippolines (spring onions), nopales (cactus pads), a little chorizo sausage, and some melted quesillo de la plancha (melted cheese.) I love those little nopales. Very, very tasty meal.
The chef, who is Spanish, comes over to our table to see how we are faring and mimes that he had a tear in his eye when we ordered the meat medium-rare, as that is exactly as he likes it. He reminds me of Giancarlo Giannini. He looks like a rascal, as Connie Villiers would say.
We eat everything washed down with their version of a Spanish Sangria, which Mitch has watched being assembled: red wine, Fanta soda, and some kind of fruity liqueur. It's pretty silly, but it goes down just fine. The meat was really good after so much fish. I am a carnivore in my heart of hearts.
Our waiter tempts us to return for xmas eve dinner, when they will be making a suckling pig. We’re in!! We make arrangements to come for the 9 pm seating. Tomorrow will be a big night as everyone goes out to dinner – usually at midnight — and drinks and carouses until dawn of Christmas Day.
It’s is almost 11 pm and we have to be ready and at the gate at 7:15 tomorrow for our nature tour. A short stop at the ATM and a necklace purchase for Sara and we are on our way home and to bed.
Topes are Mexican speed bumps that are 2-3 times larger than the usual speed bumps most folks are used to gliding over in the US or Canada. If a taxi driver does not slow down to a snail's pace before hitting a tope, he can expect to launch his cab into flight, and potentially send his passengers into the roof with half-bitten tongues.
Our driver this night was going a little fast as he approached the tope near the school on Benito Juarez Blvd., and the rear end came down with a crash. Mitch was in front—as he normally was—since there really was not enough room in the back seat for all three of us. Sara and I are sitting in back. When we’ve recovered, the driver turns around, looks and me and states, “Mucho kilos,” and then laughs maniacally. Rude, but funny. We are all amused, because it’s the truth.
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Puerto
Escondido |
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