Suddenly my brain is agitating for its morning fix. I stroll the path near the veranda of Pablo Bush’s house, past the rusting canons guarding Akumal’s little harbor. Turtle Bay nests in the lush vegetation, cool even as the heat of the day begins. It’s still early. The place is empty. I’m the first to arrive. I enjoy the stillness, interrupted by the clack of coffee cups headed my way. Beach dog Senor Cejas wanders by. He doesn’t like tourists. Why should he squander his affection on people he will likely never see again? He heads straight for the kitchen door. American breakfast sausages are frying and he’s ever hopeful for a serendipitous accident that may send one rolling his way.

The waitress who brings my coffee has the most beautiful Mayan face. I try not to stare too hard as I’m suddenly overcome with a thought that I have seen her face somewhere before and it immediately comes to me that she is unchanged from her ancestors, depicted in the glyphs on the temples of Chichan Itza and Coba. She has no idea why I am looking at her so strangely, but her eyes and her smile tell me it’s OK.

I’ve been many places, but Akumal is special. Turtle Bay is special. Even if Akumal eventually gets overrun with Disney theme parks like Xel-Ha that have brought nothing but ruin to so much of the so-called “Rivera Maya,” I’ll always have that memory of one beautiful morning to carry with me forever.