Puerto Escondido . . . West Coast Perfection

Puerto Escondido is the most exceptional place on the west coast of North America.

Perhaps I should have prefaced this statement with the sheepishly-disclosed fact that I have never been to the west coast in the States, and my other experience with the west coast in Mexico (Puerto Vallarta) was cruelly clouded by, well, clouds. And lots and lots of rain. Enough rain to do Scotland proud, I thought at the time.

Anyway, that rain is all under the bridge and my faith in all things west coast was thoroughly restored the moment I arrived in simple, rustic, blue and white Puerto Escondido. This beloved beach getaway of the Oaxaqueños also boasts the well-earned title of surfer’s paradise. Boards and their masters dotted the enormous swells of Zicatela Beach from early morning to sunset, patiently awaiting the perfect wave, catching it and losing it without ever seeming to tire of the chase.

I traveled with a friend that I met in Guadalajara, who, of course, hails from none other than neighboring northern Virginia, two of her friends, both fascinating and unique, and a Swiss girl, blond, beautiful and in fierce pursuit of a freer existence. It was my first all-lady trip in ages and and I found the company both invigorating and effortless.

We stayed at literally the first hotel we encountered—German-run Hotel Innes—in a divinely-beachy appointed two-story room with red walls, crisp white sheets and a sturdy wooden footbridge between beds. Located a stone’s throw from the beach, the most satisfying part about the room, besides the cool, zen atmosphere, the balcony with a view encompassing the ocean, the pool and some soap star that I indefensibly failed to recognize, was the $15 a night per-person part.

In the weeks leading up to this impromptu escape, I had hit a serious wall in my Spanish-learning and was feeling positively defeated. I felt my work at the center for street children was grossly inadequate in light of the amount of help they needed in their lives. To top it off, various bits of news from home had me further preoccupied with the fact that I was too far away to be a part of anything or to be of help to anyone. Things were a bit rough.

It did not take long for me to realize that the greatest concern in Puerto is how long you have lain on your front and when you should roll over (and if, in fact, your bathing suit is still tied to your body when you do roll over). Or, if that rooster stealthily approaching your table has an eye on your last bite of mango. The release and tranquility afforded by a couple of days in this escondido (hidden) place . . . great coffee, breakfasts with yogurt, fresh fruit and granola . . . excellent conversation . . . perfect weather . . . the shocking inspiration to get up and go for morning runs down the beach . . . horseback riding through the waves . . . was more appreciated than I could ever sufficiently put into words.

Studded with nothing but palm trees and the occasional petite beach side cabana bar, Puerto’s minimalism is everything to one in search of an as-yet undiscovered beach paradise. People don’t go here to be seen, or to inadvertently fall into playing the dreaded tourist role, to hit it hard après-playa, or to later fret over any perceived gringo-induced price gouging. People go to Puerto to ride the waves and to wage a leisurely battle with the undertow reminiscent of those battles waged as a child. They go to eat incredible sushi at $6 a roll, drink beers that run $1 a piece and watch the sun set in shamelessly ostentatious red, oranges and peach stripes over a sleepy seaside village in absolutely no hurry to catch up with whatever so absorbs the rest of the world.