We spent the afternoon strolling the cobblestoned streets of Patzcuaro, peeking into 16th-century churches, colonial monasteries and plenty of stores. Bobby usually hates shopping, but even he was intrigued by the fine crafts, copper and embroidery and carved wood. By day's end, he had mastered a new phrase: "Cuanto cuesta?" -- How much?
The next morning, after a hearty dish of chilaquiles, a sort of nachos-for-breakfast affair, we went horseback riding. To my nephew's dismay, an employee of the hotel, Sixto, walked in front of him, leading his frisky horse with a rope. But what the trip lacked in velocity it made up for in beauty. First we rode through quiet forests, then fields of white wildflowers and finally up a hill to see the shimmering periwinkle lake of Patzcuaro spread out below us, reflecting an endless sky of puffy white clouds.
A steep staircase wends through the shops and restaurants of Janitzio, an island village in Mexico.
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It was spectacular, and we could have enjoyed Hacienda Mariposas for another week. But the beach beckoned.
Mexico has an excellent (if pricey) system of toll roads, which covered most of our trip south to the resort town of Ixtapa. It was a five-hour journey of dramatic changes, from mountains to the cactus-studded desert and into the moist warmth of the west coast.
Scenery, of course, only goes so far with a 13-year-old. But Bobby had plenty of entertainment on the drive: Dave Barry and me. Now, it's tough to compete with Dave. But when Bobby wasn't guffawing through his books, I had the chance to chat leisurely with him, discovering so much more than I usually did on my quick trips to his family's home in Connecticut.
I learned that he was fascinated by ancient Greek and Roman history. I learned that he wanted to be a history teacher. He was curious about everything -- particularly my travels during a decade as a foreign correspondent. And I saw how he was picking up the gentlemanly ways of my brother. When we stopped at a gas station for sodas, he quickly stepped forward. "I got this," he said, confidently brandishing his pesos.
I was impressed. Where had this grown-up come from?
By evening, we had arrived at our hotel in Ixtapa, and suddenly the boy re-emerged. Bobby had only seen the Pacific once in his life, in California, where it was too cold for swimming. Could he please, please go in? I kept an eye on him frolicking in the water as I sat at the beachside bar, renewing my acquaintance with the pina colada.
The following morning was our date for parasailing. Fortunately, a drenching early morning storm passed and by noon, the sun was blazing. We drove to the main beach in Ixtapa and found a makeshift stand marked "Water Sports."
Bobby's parents had agreed that he could go parasailing, and all my friends had told me it was safe. But was it? I suddenly felt the unaccustomed weight of parental responsibility on my shoulders.
