17 November 2004
|
Los Cabos is almost Disney-like in its perfection, as if Walt himself crafted the blue of the sea, the pink of the flowers that flourish in the rocks, the cacti that fill the desert sands with spots of green. It's as if you're not in Mexico at all, but rather someone's idea of what Mexico should be. It's beautiful.
Which I guess is the point of a resort - to transport you to the world you'd inhabit every day if you could.
The infinity pools drop into the ocean, the water so rough it breaks on tiny waves hundreds of feet out to sea. The waters speak of adventure, of Cortez and explorers. At the tip of the Baja Peninsula it feels as though you're at the end of the world. Where else is there to go? The waters of the Pacific rage against the insulated sea, fighting over their majesties. The sea stretches ad infinitum and it's amazing anyone ever discovered it at all.
Mexico is the kind of place where anything can happen, if you let it. You subsist on tequila and cold Coronas, stuffing yourself with enchiladas and chicken drowned in mole sauce. Cabo is a perpetual party, and you dance at establishments called "El Squid Roe," and think not much of it. Women with whistles around their neck shove Jell-O shots in your face and you slurp them down and salsa dance with strangers.
You visit places where a tiny stretch of sand is all that separates an ocean from a gulf, and sea lions bask and bark on rocks that have stood the test of time.
Mexico is the kind of place you leave knowing you'll return one day, unsure of who you'll be when you get there, but knowing that Mexico will you change you once you arrive.
The notify knows about Weight Challenged.
|
