Peace and Quiet in Marina Ixtapa

Marina Ixtapa, Mexico

Emma Jo in Marina Ixtapa

After a long day of doing absolutely nothing in Zihuatanejo Bay, we spent a night with zero wind – which means the swells had their way with us all night.

And since we’ve got to repair the anemometer (requiring a trip up a ladder to the top of the mast) and the galley hot water, we decided to move 5 miles along to Marina Ixtapa.

It’s a lovely, sheltered place that requires a bit of surfing to get in – but once in, there was barely a ripple for the two nights we spent there.

The first night, we opted to walk a bit towards town, and ended up dining in a Mexican-Italian restaurant called Soleiada that was recommended by the lady at the marina office. While the margaritas were great, and the food was decent, we looked around and discovered we were the youngest people there.

Now we can look at that two ways: either we WERE the youngest people there, or we WERE the people there…it’s that whole “internal vs. external” world view. Scary stuff. After all, in my head I’m barely 30.

After dinner we walked another 10 minutes and found ourselves in what passes for “town” in Ixtapa. It’s a bit surreal, featuring a comfortable warren of what the Mexican tourism industry (Fonaturs) thinks that North Americans (us) want or expect to see while we’re in Mexico. Kind of like “Universal Studios.”

The “Frogmobile” from Senor Frogs in Ixtapa

There was the obligatory Anderson Brothers’ restaurant, Senor Frog’s, complete with overpowering anthem rock blasting through the narrow streets. There was a craft market, with beadwork and souvenirs, run by Mexican families. And there were smaller specialty restaurants scattered throughout, each with its own “tout” asking if we were looking for somewhere to eat.

The vast majority of the people out and about were American and Canadian tourists under varying degrees of tequila influence. And scattered among them were a few Mexican families taking in the evening air.

We felt perfectly safe, perfectly at ease, and realized to ourselves “this isn’t Mexico.” Kind of like Miami “isn’t the United States.”

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