Tulum, Mexico
The walls are made of sticks, and people and housecats pass by in the night in soft forms stepping on the sand. My eyes watch them from bed: stick, edge of dark shoulder, stick, back of head, depart. Happy Gecko singing on the wall behind our heads. Ocean sounds all night. Salt water never really washes out of my hair. Shower water was salt. Ocean water was salt. Sunburned skin hurt on sheets. Rolling under D., mosquito netting over his head, candles flickering across the thatches of palm leaves over our head. Kissing him moistly in the morning. Walking down to easy water and lying in the sand. Reading, reading. Sun moves; edge of the water comes closer and falls away. Naked Europeans play in the big waves. We play in the big waves. We took a long walk one day across a mile of rocky coast. The sun was so hot, hotter than the hottest August day in Boston.
Squinting into the camera, iguanas and ruins, ruins topped with iguanas, tourists and tourists, tourists and strollers. Overhead, an osprey moves on the wind. Hiding in the shade from the hot sun. Taxi back to sticks and salty showers.
Quiet bay in the biosphere: wink at a little brown fish through my snorkel. Blue on his edges. He ventures out from under his rock to get a better look. A sweet face. Swim with a school of bay fish. Startle a sting ray. Ask D. to hold me so I can recover from my startle. He holds me as he stands in sea water up to his shoulders, somewhere a sting ray swimming safely away. "Phew!" thinks the ray. We put our masks back on. Tiny bumblebees swim up to us, the size of my fingertip, striped with yellow. The look at each other. They must be too small to see us. We hold hands and stop kicking to move, instead fluttering our flippers as they flutter their fins. Back in the car to soak the seats, we find a soft beach not far away. Crackers and peanut butter and D. pulls down a coconut to break open. We drink the coconut milk. Lie in the shade of the palm and read, read. Easy.
Another day we drive through villages and dry and rocky jungle. Long straight road. Cenotes! Fish and deep, deep caves. Cool water. Far below us, a flashlight has fallen from someone's hand. A snorkeler takes a deep breath and plunges many feet into the deep dark cavern. A small light from the bottom gets bigger and brighter as the snorkler kicks back up, holding it in his hand. I lift my head up to take a gasp and a bat swoops by and circles a nearby stalactite.
At more ruins: Coba. These have more trees, more shade, I'm more at peace with the sun. But a tall pyramid nearly undoes me; I try to climb and vertigo wins. All the heavyset sunbaked Ohioans climb confidently up while I return to a tree shade in tears. My husband makes it to the top and looks out at the jungle. He's a winner.
I redeem myself a little from this failure by orchid-hunting for him and finding instead uncovered ruins, and partially covered ruins down underused paths where Mayan feet once walked. We climb smaller pyramids, some covered in jungle trees, and photograph a few orchids. I kiss him. We clamber down and buy ourselves quesadillas and guacamole. The corn tortilla has just been made and is perfect.
Our last night in town, we get strong salty margaritas. "The ice is fine," says a grumpy solo American, and that's all it takes; soon we're drunk. It's Tulum; the stars are stunning; the rope lies across the road in one of many surprise speedbumps; the mangoes are 15 cents each and melt like butter, juice dripping down your feet to be sampled later by blinking, shy ghostcrabs. On my plate, fish wrapped in palm leaf; singing along with Mariachi; walking along a little road in my sundress at night. Pelicans in formation. Holding my husband's hand underwater. Catching the waves in my throat again and again until I had to rest. That was Tulum.
