Nervous Nellie vs. Mr. Wing-It

For about $55 a night, we had a humble but pleasant little room with air conditioning, a DVD player and free movies, and two comfy queen-size beds. Downstairs, under the thatched roof, was a full bar, with good selection and generous pours, and a restaurant that served huevos rancheros for breakfast; fish, shrimp and lobster fresh off the boats for dinner. We ate barefoot, toes curling in the sand.

Las Brisas drew a crew of regulars from Canada and the States who set up every day on the loungers out front, deep-tanning, working crosswords, splashing in the gentle surf -- one called it a "kiddie pool" -- and spending long hours staring across the fine golden beach and out to sea. Looking at what?

Maybe big waves, ships, whales. Maybe, after the second cerveza, marlin and mermaids. Maybe, after three, old loves and lost lives.

I soon unfolded onto a lounger in this unexpected paradise and joined them in the Long Watch, eyes glued, mind unglued. As hours turned into days, and days melted away, I found myself mulling the nature of travel. I thought about all the great wanderers through time: Odysseus, Marco Polo, Kerouac, Frodo. I thought about the thrill of discovery that attends the adventurer, about the differences between trips and journeys, between tourists and travelers, between those who need to know and those who let it go.

* * *

I finally put niggling Nellie to rest on Day 5 of Week 2 during a crazy side trip that started with an early-afternoon taxi-dash to nearby Las Varas for a look around. Once there, we spotted the big bus station across the main highway. We wandered inside and, for the heck of it, plopped down 50 pesos each to bus it to the inland colonial capital city of Tepic.

We thought the trip might take a half-hour. It took almost two. I started worrying: We'd have to return in the dark, the buses wouldn't be running, we'd never find a cab back to Chacala from the station.

I was alternately chewing on my fingernails and gazing at my watch when I suddenly stopped and actually looked out the window at the beauty passing by. There were lush jungles, fields of sugar cane, rugged volcanic peaks. I saw pretty little towns with walls painted bus yellow and rose red. I saw bullrings and cemeteries with giant white crosses and pink memorial wreaths still wrapped in plastic. There were big blue birds with long tails and lush green trees fruited with tangerines.

There was a world going by, begging my attention.

And it didn't require advance booking.

I took a deep breath and settled in. Finally, I got it. I wasn't a hundred miles down the highway heading home; I was here, on a bus, off the clock, going nowhere in particular.

In all my fretting over the future, I'd been missing out on the romance of the moment.

We arrived in Tepic about 3 p.m. and quickly caught a taxi to the Plaza Principal, a town square surrounded by stately stucco buildings from the 1800s and a large neo-Gothic cathedral, dedicated in 1750. At one end of the plaza, we found shy Huichol artists, down from the mountains, selling intricate beaded masks and shamanistic yarn paintings at prices half those in Sayulita galleries. On recommendation of a government guard, we climbed up to the roof of a 200-year-old hotel to dine on velvety filet mignon in an excellent open-air restaurant, La Gloria, overlooking the town square.

Down below, as the sun set and the old wrought-iron lamps went on, couples gathered, a mariachi band began to play and dancers in big ruffled skirts and hand-tooled cowboy boots high-stepped and twirled in the fading light. We wandered down, and I, too, found myself dancing in the dark, not giving a thought to when, or if, we would ever get back.

We did, easily enough. The buses ran. The taxis were waiting at the station. I arrived back in little Chacala feeling light, liberated, ready for more adventure.

Mr. Wing-It caught my smile and couldn't help putting in the last word.

"See?" he said. "It all works out."

M.L. Lyke last wrote for Travel about La Manzanilla, Mexico.