The Riviera Maya is an unfortunate yet apt name for the stretch of Caribbean coast that runs from Cancun to Tulum. Driving down Highway 307, one is confronted with huge monolithic entrances to exclusive resorts that suggest country club prisons for the spoiled and fearful. If unlucky enough to be sentenced for a week or two, one must survive on 10 dollar club sandwiches and 5 dollar bottles of purified water. There is no escape except by rental car. Thank God I had one.

Puerto Morelos is more like it, the Mexico of my youth. Sleepy and half developed, the town revolves around its square and pier where the locals gather to figure out the day's promise. Nicer people you will never meet: shy and reserved with Mayan features and stoicism. Laughing with the owner of the Alma Libre Bookstore we both exclaimed together "but they should hate us!" The only asshole I met all week was a bartender from Monterrey who thought finely aged tequila was a good thing and couldn't admit that Obrador did a good job running D.F. Que pendejo.

Inland, the terrain is a trippy limestone that rose from the ocean floor only two million years ago. Cenotes, freshwater ponds, make great swimming holes and are fed by underground rivers. Local land owners charge a small fee for entry and they are everywhere. The water is startling clear and a nice change from the beach. If you're lucky, you won't see another gabacho. The most dramatic caves and cenotes have been incorporated into tourist sites run by private concerns. It's as if Bryce Canyon was owned by Disney. The beach they can never have, belonging to the Mexican people. Access, however, can be problematic, and you sure won't see a sign... just like SoCal.

Towards the end, I drove down to Tulum with la familia hoping it would freak the little guy out but I wound up in awe myself. A more dramatic archaeological site I have yet to encounter. I wondered about Juan de Grijalva sailing upon these settlements back in 1518... he sure didn't stick around to chat. A half century later Bishop Diego de Landa burned every Mayan codex he could find in the Yucatan, another example of Catholic magnanimity. It really is the same old shit.

Back in NY, I'm already thinking about citrus marinades for arrachara and where I'm going to find queso panela. My son is asking if he can hang with Juan Carlos next door and give him our unopened Scrabble in Spanish, it's his 10th birthday. Just the other day, a humpback whale was spotted in the harbor after a long migration north from the Caribbean. People rushed to the boardwalk to get a rare glimpse of fleeting nature. Next winter, the whale will return back south to the warm sea and I will follow. Ojala.