Oaxaca’s heart beats to a frequency of stone and earth. You feel it in the layers of history underfoot, from the Zapotec ruins of Monte Albán to the vibrant pulse of the Zócalo. Beauty here is a conversation between past and present—found in the geometric patterns of a handwoven textile, the smoky depth of a good mezcal, and the rich complexity of a mole recipe passed down through generations. Smoke from roasting chiles drifts through the colonial markets, where countless artisan hands shape a culture that has resisted the passing of time with grace and resilience.

After three days, we shed the city by bus and pass through a threshold. A rugged highway winds south through the Sierra Madre, the weight of coastal humidity pulling the road toward the sea. Urban order yields to something wilder: denser vegetation, sharper scents, and the elemental energies of surf and sand. There’s a shift in rhythm as we near the shore, from an intricate world of human design to one governed by nature. Upon arrival, the only constant is the water.

Puerto Escondido moves to the rhythm of its break—the Mexican Pipeline—a force so constant it becomes the measure of the day. The palette here is visceral: pale green surf, steel blue sky, and the rust-colored rooftops stacked above the beach. Life bends to the tides, whether in the timing of a paddle-out or the stillness of watching waves collapse in rhythmic succession. You feel the pulse of the ocean as a part of its current.

From our perch near the lighthouse at Punta Zicatela, perspectives are as clear as ever. Oaxaca and Puerto Escondido exist in balance—one as a celebration of endurance, the other of release. Cole and I watch the sun slip into the Pacific, letting the trip wind down on its own terms with a cold beer in hand. We’ll carry home two distinct lessons in being, connected by a long road and a shifting tidal pull.

Originally written for myself in April 2025.