I have long felt that the best thing about living in a place is leaving it. Even if just for a day, some perspective is refreshing. And movement is a catalyst, it activates and invigorates, generating creative energy. I have needed something to combat the stagnation, the sense of lifelessness that has surprised me in this beach "paradise."

On this day, I packed in under twenty minutes, post-surf and pre-breakfast, and I didn't want to go. I'm glad I did. I needed the motion.

In a car full of acquaintances, we headed on a generally unplanned trip in search of a so-called circus in the nearby town of Mazunte. We scouted a beach, rumored to be empty enough to camp on, and found it entirely perfect for the goal. We went back to town, most drank too much mezcal, none could see the circus through the crowd, all ate tacos, wandered to a dance party, and at some point made it to our beach. 

I don't know how, because I was sleeping in the back of the truck, snuggled soundly with a stocky pit bull. I had thrown in the towel after a dreadlocked drunk stumbled over his singular Birkenstock to demand that I dance with him or I would prove myself a square. Happy to be a square this night, I gratefully accepted sleep while those more energetic than I kept working at the dance floor. 

In the morning I emerged from my tent to find everyone entwined around the remnants of the campfire. After playing in the surf, topless sun-bathing and cowboy coffee we made our way home — I rested, the others exhausted — all glad to have had an experience outside the routine.

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