The room in a sprawling lodge held Tiffany-inspired painted glass, luscious bath products thick with lemongrass, rosemary and sage. We hadn't had a vacation that wasn’t all-inclusive and off-season for some time, and with a sigh, we swore we would do it up, no matter what the cost.
“We don’t belong here,” he said.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” came my reply as I jumped into a mountain of pillows with glee.
After a desert walk turned bucolic beyond the golf course, a 2007 S550 Mercedes was our ride to a section of beach where the cabanas and cabana boys (“beach attendants” they insisted we call them) were $250 a pop for the day. Somehow, some way, and some smooth talking got us comped.
The water foamed turquoise green and our striped cloth tent lay under a red rock overhang.
Two dogs wearing life vest frolicked near an overturned surfer and I was at peace, ease, and near sleeping-calm.
But, men, one in particular, can never be placated. “Tijuana,” he said.
I flipped over on teak to sun my back and begged. “We just got here—and for free, can’t we stay?”
“Let’s see how we feel in twenty minutes,” came his reply. Then the re-plug of ipod earphones.
“An hour?” As if I had any choice in the matter.
(Un)luckily, cock-fighting was won-out by Sea World…but we still left the sand in record time, off to the car and a friend’s couch, far more in line with where we belonged.