Last Saturday, Skyler and I hopped on a plane (preceded, of course, by a few rounds of mimosas and Jack Daniels at the airport bar), heading south to the sunny world of Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic to celebrate our marriage! Fast forward about 12 hours, and we were sitting on the porch of the room at our resort, watching a few men and women dance in the rain, wearing butterfly wings and dripping in glitter. Skyler looked at me. “Wanna catch the first flight out of here tomorrow morning? Turn this into an adventure?” Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to do. So, that’s exactly what we did.
One week ago, I was dipping my toes into the salty blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, completely immersed in the sound of waves gently slapping against the white, sandy shores. We were on vacation, and we had one mission: complete and utter, melt-into-a-puddle relaxation.
Most days, we lounged around the pool, laying lazily under the shade of the cabana, only emerging into the sunlight to refill our empty glasses. But, as a first-timer in Mexico, I had one requirement: I wanted to go to Tulum.
Tulum (whose name stems from the Yucatan Mayan word for fence or wall) is an uber-populated resort town just south of Cancun, home to a 13th century, walled Mayan archeological site overlooking the sea. Every photo I’ve ever seen painted this incredible picture of paradise. Of course, I had to go.
We arrived in Tulum nearly an hour after we hopped into a taxi and told our driver vaguely where we wanted to go. She dropped us off at the entrance to the ruins, an area that has been hyper-gentrified and filled with tourists. But the energy was palpable. Spanish songs filled the air, and dancers in costume could be seen near and far (and dangling in the sky). Dozens of shops pushing their commemorative trinkets lined the outer edges, and stray cats darted through the crowds.
We were ravenous; it was past noon and we hadn’t eaten anything all day. My eyes glazed over the Starbucks and Subways and overtly-Americanized restaurants, and settled on a little hole in the wall joint near the back. Up until this point, we had existed on burgers, pizza, sandwiches and Asian cuisine. We were in Mexico, for goodness sake. I was craving some authenticity.
On the most basic level, the fish taco can be reduced to a very simple equation: Fish + Tortilla = Fish Taco. When you consider it in this capacity, there’s no question that people have been eating fish tacos in the coastal areas of Mexico for an awfully long time. It probably goes back thousands of years to when indigenous North American peoples first wrapped their offshore catch into stone-ground-corn tortillas. Today, this humble delicacy typically consists of a lightly battered mild white fish that is deep-fried, then served in a corn tortilla (often two) with shredded cabbage, a thin sour-cream- or mayonnaise-based sauce, a bit of salsa, and a most vital spritz of lime.
Well, my fish tacos didn’t come with that essential sauce or salsa, but my oh my were they delicious. Maybe it’s my bias towards the first authentic Mexican meal I ate in while in — wait for it — Mexico, but it was absolutely, finger-lickingly delectable. And when served with an ice cold mango margarita on a hot and sticky day, there really isn’t anything better. Except for maybe Skyler’s chicken fajitas and Dos Equis.
Voluntown, Connecticut. Population: 2,603. Last weekend, we added 8 to that number, and spent our Fourth of July weekend at my Uncle Peter’s lakehouse. 18 hours of travel and three blissful days of boats, lobsters, beer, and Miley Cyrus filled each of our souls with happiness and laughter. Thanks to my incredibly talented friends, I have these pictures to share with you, to give you just the smallest taste of the beauty we surrounded ourselves with during the holiday weekend.