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French doors everywhere.
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French doors everywhere.
Living room, dining room
Fully equipped kitchen
Living room
Master bedroom with king size bed.
Side porch off living room
Main porch. Perfect for meals.
Main porch
Outdoor dining area
View out onto porch from second bedroom
Each bedroom has an en suite bathroom
The pool.
Looking at Casita Coba from the quiet cul de sac. Ours is on the second floor.
Tennis courts
Our beach, 2 minutes away.
Casita Coba is part of a small complex, Villas Arqueologicas.
Casita Coba is right next to some mayan ruins.
Playa Del Carmen
The pool from the balcony
Our complex
Playa del Carmen, 5th Ave. Five minute walk from Casita Coba
Traditional romantic Mexico just a quiet 75m stroll to the most pristine beach in Playa. Enjoy the revelry of downtown a five minute walk away but come back to this delightful, secluded and peaceful sanctuary. We love to take off our shoes and walk home along the sand after a night out in downtown.
And don't worry about a car, you won't need one.
This is old Playa, full of charm, the most sought after neighborhood in this extraordinary beach town. The quiet tree shaded street ends at the Villas Arqueologicas where Casita Coba is located. Next door are actual Mayan ruins, across from them just the whisper of the ocean on fine white sand. Gorgeous dark wood french doors open onto deep, breezy porches.
You're a 5 minute walk from the cosmopolitan buzz of fifth avenue yet all you hear are the birds in the Banyan trees.
Wrap a towel round you, forget your shoes and you're in the water in less than a moment.
www.casitacoba.com
www.casitacoba.com:
We are sitting on wickedly reclining wooden chairs with our feet in the fine white sand. We are different now. Opposite is our brand new compatriot grinning and plying us shamelessly with margaritas on the rocks with salt. The brazen July sun is setting over a lazy Caribbean. Our Caribbean. But it wasn’t always this way.
Sometimes it’s just necessary to come clean, to take responsibility or to deftly shift blame for the things that happen. In this case the fault lies squarely on the shoulders of that beguiling, bewitching Mexico, a country altogether too colorful for it’s own good.
We were innocents, not young, but innocents. Innocents with a slowly gleaned sliver of savings gathering dust in our bank account. It was May and it was necessary to take our family away from a shy Colorado spring. We chose Mexico, but really, Mexico chose us.
We were level headed before we got there, in possession of as many faculties as we could muster over the turbulent, trying landscape of the years. We were level headed maybe a few days into the vacation, and then we lost it. It wasn’t a loud thing this losing, no crashing sound as it landed on the ground. More the whisper of stays loosening in a light breeze.
We didn’t know we’d lost it or what the ‘it’ was that had left us wide open. All that grew was a capacity for spontaneity, which, by its very nature, is hard to see coming.
Where we were exactly when it hit was on the warm paving of a curved road in Playa del Carmen on our strolling, heedless way into town.
“Lets just go in and see what they have,” Michel said, pointing at the local realtor’s office not quite hidden in amongst some riotous bougainvillea...
We stepped into the airconditioned office all sandaled and casual and were led immediately into the office of our grinning compatriot, Oswaldo. Of course.
Michel introduced the subject but then I took over and pointed to a spot behind the realtor’s head. We all stopped and turned to look at the white washed wall.
“Only if you have one of those,” I said. Strong voiced like Julia playing Erin Brokovich, but shorter.
They both knew what I was talking about. Next door was Villas Arqueologicas, subject of many swooning ‘if onlys’.
“If only we knew who stayed here. If only they’d rent these out. If only I knew who to contact to arrange that. If only…”
And the ‘how lucky’s’.
“How lucky these people are. How lucky to live here.”
“As a matter of fact”, Oswaldo said, and picked up a set of keys. We walked out the door, in through the next gate, round the pool and up the stairs. The doors were French and mahogany, and lots of them. I stepped in on my feet with no weight on them and fell in love.
Two days later we’d made an english offer to the spanish owners and they’d accepted, in spanish. That’s how you jump. How an alternative reality seeds and takes root. That’s how our feet are in the sand. We’re just back from the extraordinary experience of a bilingual closing in a foreign land. That’s how this is ours now; another life, another country, another language. Mexico made us do it.
The cool touch of the tile under foot, the way the light falls. The dark wood, the white walls, the verdant green outside, the way the birds gather and sing at sundown and sun up. The incredible ruins just next door and of course the turquoise ocean steps away, so close you don't have to think before walking across to meet it.