Last week I was staying in a small, one-room cabana on the beach in Tulum, Mexico. Sand surrounded the cabana so a short path had been dug out to the door. Inside, everything was a warm shade of white: the walls, the wooden bed frame, the sheets and pillowcases, even the mosquito net draped over the bed. A bright green blanket was the only exception.
Each night I fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the beach and wind rustling through the palm trees. By morning a pile of sand had collected on the floor, swept under the door by the wind, and I woke up to the chirping of birds and sun pouring in through the window.
Some mornings I ran on the beach. Running barefoot in the wet sand as cool waves licked my feet. Other days I woke up and read on the beach as the sun rose in the sky. When our stomachs began to grumble for breakfast my family walked a little ways down the beach to a rustic Italian restaurant where the menu was painted on to a small board of wood. There were seven options and by the end of the week I had ordered each one: the giant pancakes, sliced and stacked into a tower; the egg in a hole, made with fresh eggs and their homemade bread; the toast, served in a hand carved wooden dish with nutella and jam.
