Yucatán, Revisited
Yucatán, Revisited
I’ve always wrestled with the idea of writing about travel. Not just describing places or listing top-ten-anythings, but grappling with what it actually means to move through a place and let it shape you.
On one end of the spectrum, you have the titans—Hemingway, Paul Theroux—the kind of writers who sell the sizzle, not the steak. They let you feel the air of a place without telling you what restaurant to book or how many pesos to tip. On the other end: “content.” SEO-choked listicles, AI-fed beach rankings, or the human equivalent—people who spend 72 hours somewhere and publish a definitive guide.
There’s almost no middle ground. And while I crave it, I’m not interested in becoming that guy either.
Even Saveur, once our household travel compass, has shifted to online-only. And though I hold out hope, the magic feels like it’s in limbo.
So let’s get this straight:
I’m not here to tell you where to go in the Yucatán.
I’m definitely not going to tell you how to find the places we found.
And I’m not going to upload coordinates or drop names in your DMs.
Yemen? Sure, I’ll share. You’re not going there next spring break. But the Yucatán? That’s different. Too many places that once felt wild now feel washed out, reshaped by algorithms, influencers, and an entire travel economy bending itself into what it thinks the Western traveler wants.
But here's what I will say:
We went back. Twenty years after our honeymoon, Lindsey and I returned to the southern edge of Tulum, the very last stop before you cross into the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve. Back then, it felt like the edge of the world. This time, it was harder to find that feeling; but not impossible.
We celebrated our 20th anniversary there. Just the two of us. Quiet, remote, raw. A few days later, our close friend flew down with our kids and met us in Mexico. We scooped them up and made the long drive to a completely off-grid house on a 10-mile stretch of private beach. No power most nights. No flushing toilets. No backup generator. And honestly, no regrets.
After a week there, our friend caught a bus out, and we made our way to our third and final location as a family of four. Even more remote. Even less defined. The kind of place that doesn’t appear in a sidebar list.
If you're into resorts, wristbands, and curated experiences, this isn't your kind of story. If you want to hear about the trip, pour a mezcal and come over. I’ll tell you about the roaches, the power outages, the things that didn’t work, and the quiet moments that did.
But I’m not here to sell a version of travel. I’m here to protect it.
Two Weeks in Oaxaca
Two Weeks in Oaxaca
Before we left, I was surprised how many people asked, “Wait, where are you going again?” Followed quickly by, “Where is that?”
Oaxaca is a state in southern Mexico, but it’s also the name of the capital city, Oaxaca de Juárez. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to go.
Most Americans’ experience of Mexican food skews heavily toward the north—border states, Tex-Mex, or the kind of “Mexican” cuisine tailored to fit a certain palette. It’s not unlike those Italian-American restaurants where everything’s drowned in red sauce. Familiar, but not exactly rooted in place.
Oaxaca is different. It’s the culinary soul of Mexico. Mole, mezcal, tlayudas, markets that make you want to spend the day talking to every vendor just to understand what’s in season and why. That was reason number one for this trip: to eat, to learn, to cook, to taste.
The second reason was a little less savory, a little more salt and sun: Puerto Escondido. About seven hours south by road, this stretch of Pacific coastline is home to the famed “Mexican Pipeline.” It’s one of the only spots in the country fully exposed to southern hemisphere swell, and it delivers. Rugged, raw, and alive.
Oaxaca exceeded every expectation. The food, yes, but also the people. We made friends we still keep in touch with. The warmth and generosity we experienced was unforgettable.
