puerto escondido feels like a steam vent in your backpack

my apartment faces the ocean. you can see the waves crash against rocks that look like they’ve been fighting the sea for centuries. the air tastes like salt and regret. last night, a guy in a neon t-shirt tried to sell me tequila at 3 a.m. his name was diego. he said, “if you don’t drink this, you’re not real”. i’m sitting here now with a headache and a new appreciation for filtered water.

walked along calle encrucijada earlier. the street’s alive. street vendors selling hand-drums like they’re going out of style. this guy behind me was playing a conga like he owed the ocean money. i bought a guava juice. it tasted like a tropical hug that doubled over in pain. locals here say the mountains guard the city. i saw a guy yesterday sitting on a rock plane, playing a flute to a flock of birds. i think they hated his guts.

heard from a waitress named marisol that the best, sketchy spot for adobo is in the alley between three broken taco stands. she slugged me a napkin with a scribbled address. also, she said the guy who owns the falafel truck is a former pirate. not sure if that’s true, but the falafel’s wild. your teeth’ll hurt today. that's the upside.

if you’re bored, acapulco’s not far. but honestly, this place slaps so hard you forget you need a vacation. the beach at zipolite looks like liquid midnight. i tried to take a selfie with a scarlet macaw and it stole my sunglasses. original, right? also, if you’re lost, just follow the smell of garlic. it leads to food that’s chasing you.

i called my cousin. he’s a fan of concrete jungle sounds. he said, “you’re somehow wilder than belize’s internet”. he’s probably right. this place is the kind of beautiful that bites. you’ll leave your flip-flops in the mud, your playlist on zero volume, and this stupid charm. bring your passport. they stamp it weird here.