Alex and I needed a vacation. We whined about our stressed-filled life to six of our friends who also live in La Paz. They said that they needed a get-away, too. This gave me a perfect excuse to organize a pre-vacation planning party. We ate pizzas and agreed on a departure date. Vacations can be like pizzas. For some people pepperoni is essential; others prefer artichoke hearts, goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. And pine nuts. We needed to find some common ground.
Ana and Steve don’t camp. Jeanette and Mike love the mountains where they can hike for miles. George and Ros prefer the ocean but avoid crowded resorts where waiters hover. Alex and I favor indoor plumbing. I looked at Alex and together we said, “Mar Azul.” It meets everyone’s wants. And it’s less than 1 ½ hours from La Paz.
Ricardo and Cha Cha Troyo own the concrete, geodesic dome, which they call The Igloo, situated at the high-tide line on a pristine beach 30 Kilometers south of Todos Santos. Twelve years ago Alex and I were invited to join the family to spend the day there.
I remember that day clearly. We saw the Igloo from highway 1. We drove through the cement arch and as the car approached the igloo, I heard the surf. I inhaled deeply and felt my shoulders relax.
I get that same feeling every time I return to Mar Azul. And we’ve returned every year. A few years ago Ricardo built a larger, second igloo near the first but that hasn’t affected the feeling of seclusion. In fact, when Alex and I pick up friends at the San Jose airport, we often arrange to spend a night at Mar Azul. It’s a wonderful introduction to Mexico. In just two short days, our friends who live busy and stressful lives in the States, relax and unwind. Alex’s daughter actually cried when she first saw the beach.
The day after our planning party, I called Ricardo on his cell phone 044 612 141 18573 and reserved both igloos for our two-night vacation.
Last Monday we loaded our cars with coolers, beach chairs, books, bed linens, towels and enough clothes to face any type of weather. We stopped at Karla’s Bakery for pastries and warm rolls (because Pan d’Les wasn’t open yet). It was an easy drive on the new four-lane highway. We stopped in Todos Santos to eat fish tacos and bought a kilo of carnitas “to go”.
As we passed kilometer marker 82, my heart began to race. Excitement with a touch of worry. Would my friends love the rustic domes and drop-dead gorgeous beach as much as Alex and I do? Their smiles answered my question. Then Steve shouted, “Whales!” We dropped bags and coolers – we dropped everything and began to point. Whales spouts were everywhere.
For three days we: watched whales breach, walked the beach, talked, played games, took photos, and read. And we ate. We warmed my chicken mole on the stove and toasted the rolls in the oven. At night we could read or play Mexican Train because the igloos have 12-volt electricity. We made campfires and roasted sausages on sticks. At low tide we explored a sea cave. We walked to the top of Monkey Hill and watched the waves pound the rocks far below. At night the moon lit up the ocean. I fell asleep to the roar of the surf and awoke to the smell of cowboy coffee.
But good food, conversations, and beautiful surroundings don’t make memories. No, memories are created by the unexpected. And I had wanted something memorable to happen although I never imaged that I would be the subject of the memory. It began so innocently. I was sitting outside reading and noticed that I began daydreaming about a cup of coffee so I took a short-cut around the back of the igloo and, in full sight of my friends, I tripped, knocked over the 45-pound propane tank and landed on top of it. As it hit the ground, it hissed in protest and released a cloud of…something. Alex rushed over, grabbed my hand and dragged my prostrate body about seven feet – yelling the entire time, “Get back, get back, get back!” In a flash Steve and Mike turned off the gas nozzle. While the men concentrated on the propane tank, my female friends concerned themselves with the state of my body. No blood. No scrapes. No dislocated arm. I could be wrong, but I think I managed to create a memory.
As we headed back to La Paz Wednesday afternoon, we agreed that we got a $600 peso (per night) bargain. We decided that the next time we’ll call Cha Cha’s son, Juan Pablo, who offers his guide services into the nearby Sierra Mountains.
Next week we’re going to have a post-vacation party. We’ll make each other copies of the hundreds of photos we shot. And of course, we’ll order pizza. Maybe we’ll plan another vacation. Life is good.
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