I didn't much care for our hotel choice (the Radisson on the hillside overlooking the bay) because it was just a little too isolated, and the rooms were frankly quite weird. They featured an enormous plaster cockle shell carved out of the wall with a light set behind another plaster shell. It was recessed lighting with a vengeance: beds, balcony, bathroom, shell. There was hardly any room for anything else. The bottom part of the shell made a pretty decent place to stash books and wet bathing suits, though. And then there was the glacially slow funicular: you were meant to take the little cars up and down the steep hillside to the pools, the beach, and the waterside cafe. The grounds were confusingly laid out so if you didn't want to funiculate, you walked thither and yon through side gardens, tunnels, staircases, cunningly designed watercourses, hand-built, unevenly paved shortcuts, and eventually wound up, sweating and gasping for breath, at the main patio area. Then you had to walk up two flights to your room. I just took the damn funicular after awhile. There was no pharmacy on site, either, which meant we had to take a cab into town just to buy postcards and bottled water. But the view was absolutely stunning, and the staff were lovely, and the beach was all that a tropical beach should be.

It was a perfect vacation. Denise and I got up long after sunrise each day, had our morning coffee on the balcony or in our beds, then stumbled down to the beach and flopped onto plastic chaise lounges to while away a few hours reading under the thatched palapas. I read Vonda McIntyre's The Moon and the Stars which was a delightful fantasy novel set in the court of Louis Quatorze, and thoroughly deserved its Nebula award. I got sunburned even though I was sitting in the shade the whole time. I went swimming every day in the ocean or at the pool, or both. I wore nothing but linen in pale, tropical colors when I wasn't in my bathing suit. We ordered margaritas at the swim-up bar which tickled us no end. We wandered the road near our hotel photographing fluttering masses of fuschia and orange bougainvillea, whitewashed walls, intricate iron gates, and intriguing vistas glimpsed through unexpected doorways or private driveways. We ate a lot of Mexican food. We drank a lot of bottled water and cerveza. Denise talked a lot, and I talked very little, and both of us utterly relaxed.

On our last night, we went into town for dinner. The shuttle bus dropped us off in front of the amazingly large Wal-Mart on Costera Aleman. The stores and discos were lit up, and music blared into the sultry night as we dashed into traffic, endangering life and limb, to get to the other side where the Hyatt Regency was ensconced at one end of the main beach. It was a beehive of activity since a lot of people preferred to pick up cabs there and pay an established rate rather than bargaining in shaky Spanish with independent drivers (most of whom drove souped up Beetles painted blue and white). We pushed our way past packs of chattering, tanned, giggly teenagers in search of a restaurant I'd found listed in a guidebook. Beyond the lobby it was spacious, quiet and very pretty. I noticed the Hyatt had a synagogue and a Shabbat elevator which seemed worth remembering. Walking outside, we discovered lush grounds with splashing fountains and arched walkways over pools. The restaurant was set up in the open air overlooking the beach. We ordered soup and fish, and watched a man smooth out the sand under the palapas with a two-by-four on a stick. Our food came, and with it the cats.

I can't help it. I see animals wherever I am, even on vacation. At our hotel I'd made the acquaintance of a very handsome parrot who lived in a little grove near our room. At the restaurant, I noticed a lean, apricot-colored cat strolling along the beach. I pointed him out to Denise. Then I looked down. A fluffy kitten about four months old was sitting on the narrow ledge of the restaurant's floor just where it protruded beyond the iron railing over the sand, a full storey below. It mewed at me. I was totally charmed. I gave it some red snapper. The apricot cat came over and circled around below. A smaller grey cat showed up. Then another. And another. By the end of the meal, my little friend was full of snapper and there were six cats padding around leaving pawprints all over the nice, smooth sand. They had some fish pieces as well. I enjoyed their company immensely. The food was good, too.

I didn't bring home any souvenirs. I don't seem to do that much any more. You can only buy so many t-shirts and refrigerator magnets, after all. I prefer to buy ceramics and folk art when I go somewhere new, but that wasn't on for this particular trip as I had only enough money to buy beer and leave propinas for the maids. So I brought home a tan, a bit of sand in my shoes, some rolls of film, and a deep-seated feeling of calm. And that, when all is said and done, is my favorite kind of souvenir.

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