In the beginning (of the lobster cruise, aka the “wobsta cwoose”), there was an open bar lined with rum punch and pina coladas…
But I’m getting ahead of myself… and on vacation, it’s best to just slow it down a little. Before the wobsta cwoose, Tyler and I had a few hours to kill. Heat-induced indecision reined for some time, but we found ourselves wandering into the Museo Maya de Cancun, conveniently placed directly outside Resort Headquarters. The Museo is exactly as it sounds: a museum of Mayan culture and artifacts. Our tickets also included a wander in the mosquito-infested archaeological site of San Miguelito.
Around 5 p.m., we took the public bus to the wobsta cwoose. It soon became apparent — as an unseasonably cool evening approached and a surprisingly stiff wind blew off the lagoon — that the pretty little navy and white sundress I wore scored major points in fashion but failed in function. Luckily, Ed let me borrow his sweatshirt and the wobsta cwoose came equipped with plenty of mantas (blankets)… Oh, and did I mention the open bar?
Later than we’d hoped for on Sunday morning (thank you rum, vodka, gin, wine, kahlua and amaretto, in that order), we hopped aboard the Nissan March and headed south. After much “dicking around” (as Tyler would say) in grocery stores in Playa Del Carmen, we finally turned west to Tulum.
Earlier in the day, we’d seen a man on the side of the road selling some sort of melon (it appeared) with bright orange flesh. On the road to the hotel district of Tulum, we saw another roadside display of the same, tantalizing fruit. This time, we couldn’t resist turning the car around. We learned these fruits are named mamey (pronounced mah-may). Ours — deftly sliced by the shy proprietor — wasn’t long for the world; its smooth, oblong black seed and cantaloupe-like skin was soon all that remained.
On we went. After we passed under the arch signifying we’d entered the Sian Ka’an (or “Origin of the Sky” in Mayan) Biosphere Reserve, the road turned to dirt.
At first the lack of pavement seemed docile enough, but then…
Despite pot holes the size of small cenotes, the day was unbelievably gorgeous. It was painstakingly slow progress with a Nissan March (aka no clearance), but the scenery was well worth the taxing drive.
About three hours and 50 kilometers (or 30 miles) of dirt later, we arrived in sleepy, tranquil Punta Allen and our home for the next two days: Posada Sirena.
We’d been to Punta Allen and stayed at Posada Sirena pre-2009 with Tyler’s parents (no one could remember exactly which year). It was so magically serene and un-touristy, we had to go back for another round. Through emails with Michele (daughter of Sirena, the original proprietor) I learned her mom had unfortunately passed away in April. We all enjoyed Sirena’s spirited company the first go ’round — she was an American named Gail who shipwrecked outside the town many years before and stayed, earning her new name: Sirena. Michele’s new hires and gracious hosts — Pierre from Montreal and Alejandra from Argentina — re-opened the Posada two months earlier. Their hospitality even extended to helping us acquire dinner to go (fresh ceviche with octopus, fish and shrimp and tacos al pastor) with a little assistance from their 250 motorcycle…
And in the next installment, Sylva and Tyler do absolutely nothing all day in Punta Allen. Except drink a shitload of coffee, check out some newfangled lobster traps, walk to La Laguna Negra (The Black Lagoon) and find out how to select a lobster, find someone to cook it and then enjoy the crap out of it. Stay tuned!