Finding the "Real Mexico" in Quintana Roo

Text and photos by Todd Morrill
            The following piece is based on a press trip I took in August, 2011 that was sponsored by the JW Marriott Cancun Resort & Spa and the Rosewood Mayakoba Resort.

Cenote El Jardin de Eden, a Garden of Eden in Quintana Roo, Mexico.

       I’m standing on a 30-foot cliff looking down into a cenote, one of hundreds of freshwater sink holes scattered across Mexico’s Riviera Maya, the coastal area directly south of Cancun. 

The ancient Mayans believed cenotes were sacred entrances to the underworld, and dropped gold, precious stones and people into their waters to convince the gods to send them a bountiful harvest.

Normally I’m not a fan of cliff diving, but the 95-degree temperature makes the water look awfully inviting. 

I count to three and offer myself to the gods.

View of the Caribbean Sea from a balcony at the JW Marriott Cancun.

For years I avoided Quintana Roo, the Mexican state that is home to the country’s two most popular tourist destinations:  Cancun and the Riviera Maya.

While I had visited most other parts of Mexico, and had fallen in love with the architecture, food, and culture, I didn’t think Cancun—which the Mexican tourism agency built from scratch in the 1970s—could offer me an authentic Mexican experience.  Sure, the beaches looked great in pictures, but when I travel, I like to get to know a place, not read novels on the sand. 

Another mark against Cancun in my mind was its reputation as a cheap getaway for rowdy U.S. college students.  From media reports and word of mouth, I pictured the city (whose name means “snake nest” in Mayan) as a raucous Vegas-by-the-sea, a cultural black hole of nondescript hotels, U.S. fast-food outlets and drunk 18-year-olds. 

As for the Riviera Maya, I imagined a land of tacky Mayan theme parks and cookie-cutter, all-inclusive resorts that could just as well have been in Tahiti as in Mexico. 

Cancun:  more international than Mexican, but great base for authentic day trips.

     When I finally did visit Quintana Roo, however, I found my perceptions had been wrong—or at least outdated.  True, there’s not a lot that’s typically Mexican about Cancun, but the city—in addition to being a world-class beach resort—makes a great base for day trips to Mayan ruins, cenotes and smaller towns on the Riviera Maya.  These places will quickly remind you that you are, indeed, south of the border. 

      And the frat boys?  They’re gone.

     “Several years ago, the Cancun hotels decided to no longer offer the cheap rooms that brought in the college students,” says Ashish Khullar, director of market strategy at the JW Marriot Cancun.  “That crowd now goes to Acapulco.”

     Phew.

     When it comes to the Riviera Maya, my dim view may have been correct a few years ago, but certainly not today.  The theme parks and all-inclusives are still there, but the 100-mile stretch of coastline now includes resorts with first-rate architecture, gourmet food—Mexican and otherwise—and respect for the area’s unique ecology.

Guests houses on a canal at Rosewood Mayakoba on the Riviera Maya.

     SAFETY CONCERNS

     At this point you may be thinking, that’s great, but why would I choose to vacation in a country plagued by drug wars?

Sense of security:  police station on Cancun's main
tourist thoroughfare, Avenida Kukulkan.

     The question is valid, but it’s important to remember that Mexico is a large country, and according to the U.S. State Department, drug-related violence is limited almost exclusively to a handful of areas.  These include sites along the U.S. border, as well as the cities of Monterrey, Mazatlan and Acapulco, all of which are at least 1200 miles from Cancun.

     That said, visitors to Quintana Roo should be cautious, but the evidence—as well as my own experience—suggest there is no reason to avoid the region for fear of drug violence.

View of Caribbean Sea from JW Marriott Cancun.

     SNAKE NEST
     As I step into my Cancun hotel room, I’m drawn immediately—as if by Siren’s song—to the balcony and its view of the Caribbean.  The blinding white sand forms a stunning contrast to the water, which morphs imperceptibly from aquamarine at the shore to sapphire at the horizon.  I didn’t come here for the beach, but I have to admit it’s more beautiful in reality than on postcards.

     After staring at the scene for nearly half an hour, I can’t resist getting in the water, so I put on my trunks and go downstairs.  In addition to earning a 10 for aesthetics, this beach rates a perfect score for comfort:  the sand is soft and powdery, the water warm and gentle.

     But I must press on.

Mayan-style chocolate at Ah Cacao, one of hundreds of
upscale shops on Cancun's Avenida Kukulkan. 

As I walk along Avenida Kukulcan, the manicured main thoroughfare of Cancun's Hotel Zone,  it’s hard to believe this was once Spring Break headquarters for much of North America.  The avenue is home to posh retailers like Gucci, Hermes and Louis Vuitton, as well as upscale restaurants that serve everything from Argentine barbecue to Asian fusion.  And the large hotels that line the boulevard (which number more than sixty) are attractive and surrounded by lush landscaping--a far fry from the concrete bunkers I had imagined.  As for the visitors, they're well dressed and well behaved.  The atmosphere here is decidedly luxe, not loose.  

The Hotel Zone also seems safe.  Police officers in shiny new cars are on constant patrol on Avenida Kukulcan, and a station marked “Tourist Police”—in English—is located next to the restaurant and shopping district. 

Ruins of the Mayan city of Tulum, on the Riviera Maya.

      TULUM

The beach calls to me again the next morning, but I’m here to explore the real Quintana Roo, so I head, instead, to the Mayan ruins of Tulum.  Located 80 miles south of Cancun on the Riviera Maya, the city was founded around 1200 A.D., long after the Mayan empire had reached its zenith.  As such, the ruins are not as large or as elaborate as those at other Mayan sites, but Tulum’s setting—a limestone cliff a hundred feet above the Caribbean—is unmatched.

Soon after I enter the city, through a narrow gap in the 15-foot wall that surrounds it, I catch a glimpse of the Temple of Kukulcan, perched directly above the beach.  The three-story structure is the largest building at Tulum, and its gray stone melds beautifully with the stunted coastal greenery, the blue sky and the multi-hued Caribbean. Stairs lead down to the water, where dozens of visitors are taking refuge from the heat. 
        I’m tempted to dive in as well, but I move on to what’s known as the Temple of the Descending God. 
        Carved on the frieze of this building is an upside-down human figure with wings. Theories vary as to what the figure represents.  A bee god, come to teach the people of Tulum to produce honey?  An early astronaut?  We may never know.
        As I leave Tulum through another narrow passage, I look back to see several dozen coatis—native animals that look like a cross between a spider monkey and a lemur—running along the top of the thick stone wall.
        In the parking lot, I buy a coco frio, or cold coconut.  As I watch, the vendor hacks off the husk with his machete, pokes a hole in the top and inserts a straw.  The icy water must be an acquired taste, I decide, but since I’m parched, I slurp it down.

Authentic Mexico:  a coco frio in Tulum.

GARDEN OF EDEN  

Back at the cenote, the gods must not want me, because I quickly pop back up to the surface, ready to jump in again.

This particular cenote, a rough oval that covers the area of two Olympic-size swimming pools, is called El Jardín de Eden, or the Garden of Eden.  It does seem like paradise, with jungle-covered limestone walls surrounding water that shifts from sea foam green to inky blue.

I snorkel awhile, observing a school of feathery yellow fish.  Then I watch a group of scuba divers who are training to enter tunnels that connect this cenote to several others.  Who knows, maybe this is the entrance to the underworld.

Quinta Avenida in Playa del Carmen.

         On my way back to Cancun, I stop in Playa del Carmen, a one-time fishing village that has become the budget travel center of the Riviera Maya.  Bathing suits are de rigueur on the town’s pedestrian thoroughfare—Quinta Avenida—lined with moderately priced hotels and open-air restaurants.  It’s also home to odd places like Crazy Mexican Photo, where tourists dress up like mariachis and get a sepia-toned record of the event.  Tourist police in a modified golf cart are a constant presence on the boulevard.

          I'm tempted to spend some time on Playa del Carmen's fantastic beach, but I resist.

La Cueva del Chango restaurant in Playa del Carmen.

Instead, I have lunch at La Cueva del Chango, or the Cave of the Monkey, where I sit at an outdoor table surrounded by greenery.  When I tell the waiter I’d like to try something native to the region, he suggests a cream soup made of poblano chilies.

“Pica?” I ask, meaning, loosely, “Will it burn my tongue off?”

“No,” he says, “no pica.”  He explains the soup is made with plenty of cream and other ingredients that thoroughly dilute the effect of the chilies.

I take his word for it, but when the soup arrives, I need a fire extinguisher. 

I try, instead, the chalupitas--corn tortillas topped with black beans and a soft white cheese from Oaxaca--and sopes de pollo, open-faced chicken tacos served with mole, the traditional Mexican sauce made of ground nuts, spices and chocolate.  Everything is fresh, flavorful and authentic, so different from the Tex-Mex and Mexican fast food I usually get in the U.S.

Chalupitas at La Cueva del Chango, Playa del Carmen.

MAYAN MASSAGE

Back in Cancun, I have a traditional Mayan massage at the JW Marriott Spa, during which my therapist surprises me with a serenade on a Mayan flute.

Later that evening, I take a cruise on Nichupte Bay, the body of water that separates the hotel zone from downtown Cancun, where the city’s workers live.  I admire the skyline as we cruise along mangrove-covered banks, passing signs that say “Watch out for Crocodiles.”

Just as the sun begins to set, we dock at Harry’s, where I’m planning to have dinner overlooking the bay.  But the sunset is so astounding—oranges, reds, magentas and purples merging together seamlessly and changing every few seconds—that several other diners and I spend half an hour taking pictures before we even look at the menu.

Cancun sunset from Harry's restaurant.

     The sunset gone, I order pozole with Caribbean lobster.  This is an upscale take on a traditional Mexican soup made of hominy and dozens of other ingredients, including chopped radish, onion, cilantro and fried tortilla strips.  I’m wary of the concoction at first, but it’s actually very tasty.

UPSCALE GREEN

For my last two days in Quintana Roo, I stay at the Rosewood Mayakoba, a five-star eco-resort on the Riviera Maya with the philosophy that it’s possible to vacation in luxury while saving the earth. 

The resort, which consists primarily of one-story detached suites set along ecologically sensitive mangrove canals, has an on-staff biologist, Alonso Ortiz, who is tasked with making sure the complex meets—and exceeds—Mexico’s strict environmental regulations.

Ortiz gives me an eco-tour of the property on an electric boat that resembles a Venetian gondola.  “Here comes the welcoming committee!” he says as a flock of cormorants takes to the air.  According to Ortiz, a hundred species of birds, as well as 250 other animal species, make the Rosewood Mayakoba their home. 

Staff biologist Alonso Ortiz points out a few of the more than one
  hundred bird species at Rosewood Mayakoba, Riviera Maya.

          As we glide through the canals in the silent, non-polluting boat, we see blue herons, egrets and turtles, as well as some more menacing residents—alligators and crocodiles.

“That’s why we have plunge pools,” Ortiz says.

Having explored the ruins, cenotes and towns of Quintana Roo, I’m now content to stay inside the resort.  One afternoon I have lobster tacos overlooking a mile-long stretch of beach.  One morning I take a yoga class.

Another afternoon I wander the complex admiring the architecture, which can only be described as Mayan Deconstructivist.  Structures are free form, with few right angles, built of native woods and stone that blend seamlessly with the mangroves and limestone canals.  Outdoor lighting is kept to a minimum, allowing for fantastic views of the night sky.

I think the ancient Mayans would approve.

Bathroom with outdoor shower at Rosewood Mayakoba, Riviera Maya.

I think they’d also like my suite, which is nothing like the thatched huts found at some eco-resorts.  This place has limestone floors, mahogany furniture and a garden courtyard complete with shower.  It also has a walk-in closet the size of an average hotel room.

On my final day at the Rosewood Mayakoba, I visit the resort’s private cenote--at the center of its spa--where I sit on a stone bench and contemplate.  I wish I had discovered Quintana Roo years earlier.  Far from the bland, Americanized experience I had feared, my trip has been full of authentic Mexican experiences, teaching me a great deal about the region’s Mayan culture, native cuisine and fragile ecology. 

The beaches have been pretty enticing, as well.

Maybe next time I’ll bring a paperback.

St. Kitts: The Little Island with Everything, Including Monkeys

With an old British fort, a volcano covered in rainforest, pristine beaches and great food, why go anywhere else?

Text and photos by Todd Morrill

A tale of two oceans:  from St. Kitts' narrow mountain ridge, you can
see the Caribbean on the left and the Atlantic on the right.

     This piece is based on a press trip I took in April 2011 sponsored by the St. Kitts Marriott Resort & Spa.

I’m in the front seat of an old black Range Rover on my way to climb Mt. Liamuiga, the highest peak on the Caribbean island of St. Kitts.

O’Neill, my guide, is driving—on the left side of the road, since the island was once British—and we’re listening to an old cassette of gospel reggae music, played so many times the voices have become eerily distorted.  That doesn’t seem to bother O’Neill, who is singing along and hitting the high notes as we speed through sugar cane fields with fantastic views of the ocean.

According to occasional signs, the speed limit on the narrow road that circles the island is 20 miles per hour, but O’Neill is easily going three times that, slowing down a bit—and honking his horn plenty—as we enter the various villages along the route, with their stone churches, breadfruit trees and brightly painted houses. 

O'Neill's Range Rover at the base of Mt. Liamuiga.

Some Caribbean islands are known primarily for their beaches, others for their cuisine, and still others for their historic sites or eco-tourism opportunities.

     But tiny St. Kitts—only 10 miles wide and 30 miles long--combines all the best qualities of the Caribbean in one compact package.  Here, in addition to relaxing on world-class beaches, you can explore an 18^th-century fort, hike an extinct volcano and feast at restaurants that are on their way to making the island a mandatory stop for foodies.  Accommodations on the island have recently improved, as well, with a $3 million face-lift at the St. Kitts Marriott, the island's only full-service resort.

     Oh—and St. Kitts also has monkeys—allegedly in greater numbers than humans—although in my case, they proved elusive.

Locals claim monkeys can be found everywhere on St.Kitts--
including on the golf courses--but I never saw one.

     Originally christened St. Christopher by Columbus in 1493, St. Kitts—and its sister island, Nevis—now make up the Federation of St. Kitts and Nevis, a country that gained independence from Great Britain in 1983.

     The French and the English both settled St. Kitts in the early 1600s, establishing sugar plantations with African slaves to work them.  Because the sugar industry proved highly profitable, the two countries later spent more than a century fighting over the island, which changed hands several times before the British finally won out in 1783. 

     Today, this British heritage lives on in the island’s bright red phone booths, Anglican churches and signs with spellings like “Tyre Repair.”

     But there’s nothing British about the view—or the smell—from my balcony at the Marriott, which overlooks Frigate Bay.  Pastel houses cascade down green mountains to the turquoise Caribbean, which laps at pale pink beaches.  Bougainvillea, jasmine and other exotic flowers grow everywhere, filling the air with tropical perfume.

View from my room at the St. Kitts Marriott Resort on Frigate Bay. 

Frigate Bay.

     After a morning swim and walk along the beach, I’m off to explore Brimstone Hill, the massive fortress the British built between 1690 and 1790 to protect the island from the French.

     On my way, I pass through the capital city of Basseterre with its benignly neglected Georgian buildings.  A bright green Victorian clock stands inside the central roundabout, called the Circus, where wealthy plantation owners once came to promenade.

     When I arrive at Brimstone Hill Fortress, the actual construction of which was carried out by slaves, I immediately see why it was known as the Gibraltar of the Caribbean—perched on a limestone cliff, 800 feet above the water, the structure is highly intimidating.

Cannon at Brimstone Hill.

     But that didn’t stop the French from attacking the fortress several times, with a final assault in 1782.  In that battle, the thousand British forces stationed in the fortress fought off eight thousand French soldiers for a month before surrendering the island.  Ironically, a year later, the Treaty of Versailles gave St. Kitts back to the British.

Brimstone Hill changed hands several times during the 18th century.

Interior courtyard of Brimstone Hill Fortress.

     Brimstone Hill is now a national park and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, as well a photographer’s dream.  With backdrops of jungle-covered mountains, the Caribbean and several other islands, you can’t take a bad picture.  Part of the complex is in ruins, which adds to the mystique, allowing for shots through crumbling stone doorways and lichen-covered windows.

At Brimstone Hill, ferns grow on a stone arch overlooking the Caribbean.

One of many tunnels at Brimstone Hill.

     After taking hundreds of pictures at Brimstone Hill, I drive to Cockleshell Bay at the southernmost tip of the island, which is home to Reggae Beach.  Here I find a volleyball game in progress, equestrians guiding their mounts through the waves and a host of personal watercraft.  The beach’s mascot—Wilbur the Giant Pig, who must weight at least a ton—is taking a nap on the sand.

Reggae Beach:   pull up a surfboard and stay a spell.

Wilbur the Giant Pig takes a siesta at Reggae Beach.

     I head to adjacent Cockleshell beach for lunch at Spice Mill, the design of which is based on indigenous Caribbean architecture.  Here, beneath a thatched roof and chandeliers made of woven crayfish traps, every table has a perfectly framed view of Nevis, an island dominated by a deep green mountain rising abruptly from the Caribbean just two miles from the St. Kitts coast.

Tables with a view:  Spice Mill restaurant at Cockleshell Beach.

     Spice Mill is one of several newer eateries on St. Kitts that specialize in pairing fresh local ingredients with traditional Caribbean herbs and spices grown on site.  The restaurant’s menu changes every few days, depending on the fresh seafood and produce available, but typical items include conch fritters, fried tilapia with grilled lemon and more elaborate dishes like truffle pumpkin risotto with wild crab. 

     Owner Roger Brisbane tells me that along with innovative new restaurants, the addition of a cooking school on St. Kitts is helping to develop new talent and refine the island’s cuisine. 

     “It’s getting to the point where it needs to be to attract the food people,” he says.  “It’s not yet St. Martin or Barbados, but it’s on its way.”

     As I bite into my perfectly grilled mahi mahi—caught by local fisherman just hours earlier and served with a tangy pineapple salsa—I have to agree.

Grilled Mahi Mahi with pineapple salsa, a Spice Mill specialty.

Après-eat:  covered chaise longue on Cockleshell Beach.

     The next day, I’m hiking the steep rainforest trail that climbs 4,000 feet to the top of Mt. Liamuiga.  Islanders once referred to the volcano as Mount Misery because of its frequent eruptions, but since its last blast came more than 300 years ago, I’m not worried about being consumed by lava. My problem is trying to keep up with the 60-something O’Neill, whose 20-something strength and stamina are running this 40-something into the ground.

O'Neill takes it easy at the top of Mt. Liamuiga.

As we hike, O’Neill stops occasionally (thank goodness, because I need the rest) to point out items of interest, like trees with hollow trunks designed to catch rainwater, clumps of giant mushrooms and half-eaten mangos left behind by monkeys.  The French, he says, brought the monkeys to St. Kitts centuries ago, and they now outnumber the island’s human inhabitants.

     According to O’Neill, the monkeys are not afraid of humans, and therefore get first pick of the island’s fruit.  He tells of a time he and some friends stood and watched a group of the sly simians attack a guava orchard.  “We be about a stone’s throw away,” he says, “and dem monkeys, dey eat all the guavas.”  Despite O’Neill’s insistence that the monkeys are everywhere, we don’t see any. 

As we reach the peak of Mt. Liamuiga, three hours after setting out, I’m panting.  But the views—an emerald crater a mile across and cane fields that roll down to the aquamarine sea—make every step worthwhile.

Mt. Liamuiga's mile-wide crater contains a lake.

That night—still stiff from the hike—I take a tour of Fairview Great House, a 300-year-old plantation home built for a French military officer who was also a great grandfather of British novelist Virginia Woolf.  The two-story wooden structure, which was recently renovated, has a formal parlor and dining area painted a historically correct deep red, as well as upstairs bedrooms with high ceilings and verandas that look out over the Caribbean.  The complex also includes a private chapel and a bathing room, where slaves once heated water for their masters using sun-warmed volcanic stones.

I wander through Fairview’s extensive botanical gardens, which an employee tells me are home to monkeys, but I don’t spot any.  I can only assume they’re avoiding me.   

I have dinner at Nirvana, set on a candle-lit terrace between Fairview Great House and its swimming pool.  Like Spice Mill, Nirvana uses fresh local ingredients, as well as herbs and spices grown in its kitchen gardens, as the base of its Creole fusion menu. 

            I try the Kittitian (rhymes with petition) lobster tail infused with fresh herbs, served with a sweet potato gratin.  The lobster is unlike any other I’ve tasted—exceptionally seasoned and sweeter and more tender than lobster from other areas.  The gratin is so creamy and full of flavor that I swear off regular potatoes forever. 

            As I eat, it suddenly starts to rain—a tremendous tropical downpour that makes me think the whole restaurant will be swept down to the ocean.  Staff members are unconcerned, however, and simply lower some vinyl blinds and carry on with their duties.  Ten minutes later, the storm is over.

The lights of Basseterre--St. Kitts' capital city--seen from a catamaran.

     On my last night in St. Kitts, I take a catamaran cruise from Basseterre along the west side of the island.  Reggae music is blasting on board, and crew members do their best to see that everyone dances. 

     As the sun sets over the Caribbean, I look at the lights of St. Kitts’ capital city and wish I had more time to explore it.  I also wish I could see more beaches, visit more plantation houses and sample more restaurants—but I’ll come again. 

     And when I do, maybe I’ll see the monkeys.

Florida's Panhandle Beach Towns, with Kids

This piece appeared in The Miami Herald March 27, 2011.

       The sun is be­ginning to set, and my wife, Nancy, and our three kids and I are playing in the turquoise surf and sugary sand of Deer Lake State Park on Florida’s Emerald Coast.

     We have the entire beach to our­selves. The only sounds are the waves and the wind rustling the sea oats on the dunes. The beach is pris­tine — there’s no sign of the tar balls or oth­er oil residue that washed up here last July from the Deepwa­ter Horizon oil spill.

     Our kids — Sophia, 9, Andy, 8, and Stella, 2 — are wa­ter fiends. They could spend an entire week on the beach or in a ho­tel pool and consid­er it the great­est vacation they’ve ev­er had. In fact, when we go to Or­lando, we skip Epcot and the Magic Kingdom and go straight to the wa­ter parks.

Sophia, Nancy and Stella at Deerlake State Park.

       But as fun as wa­ter vacations are, Nancy also likes to shop and eat (it’s okay for me to say that, since she weighs only 100 pounds), and I like history and na­ture. So we decided to vis­it the beach towns of the central Panhan­dle because they offered some­thing for all of us.

      Most of Florida’s Panhan­dle, from Pensacola in the west to St. Marks in the east, has brilliant white beaches and warm, rel­atively calm emerald wa­ter. But the central section, running from Santa Rosa Beach to Apalachicola, has some of the Gulf Coast’s most stunning scenery, as well as a wide va­ri­ety of          

ar­chi­tec­ture, historic sites, shopping and restaurants. The west­ern section of this route is known as the Emerald Coast, while the more rus­tic east­ern section is re­ferred to as the Forgotten Coast.

     Our goal for this trip was to give the kids their beach and pool time, but also expose them to nat­ural and cultur­al attractions that would teach them some­thing about Old Florida.

Apalachicola

     We began our adven­ture on the Forgotten Coast in Apalachicola, a fish­ing village that was once the largest port on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Be­ginning in the 1820s, steamboats came down the Apalachicola Riv­er to the port city bearing Georgia cotton, which was loaded onto ocean ves­sels and sent to New Eng­land and Eu­rope.

     We stayed at the Consulate, a boutique ho­tel that occu­pies the sec­ond floor of the re­stored Grady Building, which served as the French consulate to Florida dur­ing Apalachicola’s heyday.

Sophia on one of the non-haunted beds at the Consulate Hotel.

     “This place looks haunted!” said Sophia as we made our way up the narrow staircase that leads to the Attaché Suite. But she soon changed her mind when we opened the door and saw the bright and wel­com­ing living and kitchen area, dec­orated in a nautical theme with a mix of con­temporary fur­ni­ture and antiques. The spa­cious suite, which sleeps five, also has a large terrace overlooking a walled garden.

     The charms of Apalachicola include its working                  

wa­terfront — right across the street from the Consulate — and its historic downtown, which includes the Dixie The­ater, dozens of antiques shops and restaurants, and the Old Time Soda Fountain. The soda fountain is located in a 19th-centu­ry building that was once the city drug store, and its current décor dates to the 1950s. Andy was amazed at the va­ri­ety of ice cream sodas and exot­ic items on the menu, including sasparilla, but decided to play it safe with a root beer float.

     Af­ter their dose of Apalachicola history, the kids were      

itch­ing to get to the beach, so we drove 20 minutes to St. George Is­land State Park. One look at the beaches threw us into glucose shock, and the wa­ter was warmer than what we normally draw for the kids’ baths. The park also has good chang­ing and shower fa­cilities.

     Nancy and I love seafood, but our kids don’t, so fresh shrimp and oysters, so abun­dant in the Panhan­dle, weren’t a prior­ity on this trip. But before we left Apalachicola, Nancy in­sisted on trying the local shrimp at Tama­ra’s Café. The Creole pasta was amazing, with shrimp (straight from the boats), chicken and sausage in a spicy tomato cream sauce.

Panama City

     The next day we set off to Panama City Beach, which could not be more differ­ent — in ar­chi­tec­ture or ambiance — than Apalachicola.

    “This looks like a lit­tle Las Vegas!” said Nancy — with glee — as we drove down Front Beach Road with its high-rise ho­tels, neon signs and hordes of bathing-suit-clad pede­s­trians. Sophia was also im­pressed with this mi­ni “Strip,” but it wasn’t exactly my style.

     We compro­mised and stayed at the Marriott Bay Point Resort, located off by it­self on St. Andrews Bay across from St. Andrews State Park. The ho­tel has four pools — which my kids loved, of course — three out­doors and one indoors, in case of rain. (It did rain.)

Andy and Sophia in one of four pools at the Marriott Panama City.

     For dinner we drove 15 miles west to Rosemary Beach, where the tightly-con­trolled ar­chi­tec­ture can   best be de­scribed as Florida Dutch Colonial. Here the Panhan­dle collides with South Africa and Curacao in white-washed walls, gabled roofs and im­mac­ulately maintained landscap­ing.

   Af­ter a sunset walk along the beach, and af­ter checking out the toy store and some accessories shops along the village’s main street, we headed to Cowgirl Kitchen, which claims to be “Where Beach Meets West.” Here you’ll find specialty pizzas like “No Bull” (roast­ed garlic, fresh spinach, and three cheeses) and “Fancy Cowgirl” (portobello mush­rooms, feta cheese and truffle oil on white sauce). My kids opted for plain cheese pizza and French fries. We sat in a red vinyl booth, admiring the kitschy West­ern mem­o­ra­bil­ia on the walls.

     The next morning we drove far­ther along the coast to Eden Gardens State Park, where the focal point is the Wesley House. Lumber baron William Henry Wesley built the plantation style home, now surrounded by formal gardens, in 1897. The house fea­tures white columns, wrap-around porches and one of the largest col­lections of Louis XVI fur­ni­ture in the U.S. Sophia and Andy were at least slightly im­pressed when the guide pointed out that this fur­ni­ture was made to fur­nish the French royal palaces. We took a walk around the gardens and explored a na­ture trail, which led to Choctawhatchee Bay.

Relaxing on the front porch of the Wesley House, Eden Gardens State Park.

Sea­side

     Next was Sea­side, the planned community that began the New Urban­ism move­ment back in 1979 and  spawned the oth­er planned communities along the Panhan­dle’s Route 30A.

     Sea­side is a storybook town, where porches are wide, streets are narrow, and ev­ery­thing is with­in walking dis­tance. The ar­chi­tects who planned the community searched the Panhan­dle and oth­er ar­eas of the South for the best examples of wood­en vernac­ular ar­chi­tec­ture; then they devel­oped an ar­chi­tectural vocab­ulary that reg­ulates all of Sea­side.

Andy, Sophia, and Stella in Seaside.

     Adults will ap­preciate the aes­thet­ically pleas­ing results, but there is also plenty in Sea­side for kids, especially when it comes to food. Our first stop was Daw­son’s Yogurt & Fudge Works, on the central square, where we bought a slab of Tiger Fudge (milk chocolate, white chocolate, and peanut butter). Then we were off to Heav­enly Short­cakes and Ice Cream for au­thentic Ital­ian gelato.

Andy, Stella, Nancy and Sophia stop for a gelato break in Seaside.

     We window-shopped at book­stores, art gal­leries, cloth­ing boutiques and a toy store. When the kids said they were hungry again, we had a lunch of sandwiches and nachos on the terrace of Pickles Beach­side Grill.

Wa­ter­col­or

     As our Panhan­dle vacation came to a close, we explored Wa­ter­col­or, an­oth­er planned community just west of Sea­side on Route 30A.

     While Sea­side is an ide­alized South­ern beach town, Wa­ter­col­or is a Med­iterranean village, with ar­chi­tectural roots in Spain and Italy. The community is          

especially beautiful at night, when the street­lights come on, the arcades glow, and the palm trees sway in the breeze.

     We were starving when we arrived, so when we spied some kids playing in a fountain next to a sidewalk café, we stopped. The café turned out to be the restaurant attached to the Wa­ter­col­or branch of Wine Bar.

Stella and Sophia after playing in the fountain in Watercolor.

     We didn’t want wine, but the ambiance of the fam­ily-friendly eatery was per­fect, so we sat by the fountain and shared a pizza Margherita and an antipasto tray. Stella gobbled down the prosciutto before the rest of us could grab a slice. Nancy, Sophia and Andy devoured the pizza as I waxed po­et­ic about the mozzarella di bufala, artichokes and olives.

     I glanced at my cell phone — it was almost 10 p.m. The tempera­ture was a per­fect 70 degrees as the kids splashed wa­ter from the fountain on their moth­er and me. We were the last ones on the terrace as we fin­ished our Key lime pie and climbed back into the mi­ni-van.

     We all agreed the trip had been a big success — plenty of wa­ter, a bit of history, some communion with na­ture, and lots of kid-friendly food. We won’t be for­getting the Emerald Coast or the Forgotten Coast any time soon.