Heaven on earth is a $250/night penthouse in Baja

Last week, Mark and I spent the better part of a week in Mexico City knee-deep in furniture showrooms, flood remediation logistics, and eating our way through every taco stand within a five-block radius of our home. By the time we came up for air, we were ready to remember one of the reasons why we bought a house here in the first place: so we could use it as a home base for exploring everywhere else we hadn’t been yet in the greatest country on earth.

After spending three weeks of our summer in Peruvian winter, we were craving the beach, so we booked a very last-minute off-season trip to the quiet, laid back East Cape of Baja. La Valise Los Cabos had piqued my interest the first time I saw it during my research for affordable hotels in Mexico. I pulled up their website expecting no availability, and my jaw dropped—not only were five out of their seven rooms available, but their palatial penthouse with three patios and a 180-degree ocean view was only for $220 a night for our dates! Member’s rate, it said, but I didn’t have to sign up for a membership. Thinking it was way too good to be true, I clicked “book” faster than I’ve clicked anything in my life. I was terrified the deal would disappear, or that I’d get an email right after booking saying it was a system error. Thankfully, that didn’t happen, and the best room on property was blessedly ours for three nights.

We landed in a 95-degree Cabo after an easy, breezy two-hour domestic flight. After picking up our $89 rental car, we hit the road. Or, the lack thereof. It’s about an hour drive from the Cabo airport, and 55 minutes of it are completely unpaved—fine clouds of dirt were permanently suspended in the air, cattle roaming as they pleased and enjoying any shade reprieve they could find. There was no cell service, either. With every rock we hit, I prayed we wouldn’t lose a tire. This was a drive that had me questioning how the earth has an overpopulation problem—we only passed one other car during the journey, and we felt like the last humans alive during an apocalypse.

Finally, we crested the last hill, and the ocean came into view. Every time I see this stretch of ocean after time away, I have the same realization: that Taco Bell’s Baja Blast is so aptly named, perhaps the best and most accurate product description of all time. The water really is that color—a visual thirst quencher on a hot summer day, an instant solve to all of life’s problems. I hope whoever was in the conference room when that naming decision took place got a raise or a promotion or a big novelty check for their contributions.

We were greeted by Adan, who shepherded us into the open-air lobby. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he chirped. “You got on the road and lost signal earlier than I expected! You’ll have so many texts from me once you connect to WiFi. I just wanted to make sure you were safe and okay!”

He then offered us a welcome drink, alcoholic or nonalcoholic. Welcome drinks are usually a pain point for me. I rarely drink alcohol, and when I do, I can’t think of a worse time to do so than after a long travel day, when I’m already so dehydrated from hurtling through the air in a pressurized tin can that I have the anatomy and hydration levels of a discarded Sun-Maid raisin. Nonalcoholic welcome drink offerings at hotels are usually cloyingly sweet, like an out-of-context Capri Sun or Kool-Aid Jammer, things that only ever really belong and taste relatively legal at a child’s suburban bouncy castle birthday party. Imagine my surprise when Luis, the bartender, brought me the most perfect virgin mojito, barely sweet and drier than the desert behind us. Perfectly refreshing and ice cold, especially since the heat made it feel like the earth was scorched underneath us. I wanted to give him a forehead kiss.

Adan led us up to the behemoth penthouse, and I did a triple take when he opened the door. The photos online really undersold the vastness and beauty of the space—there were three connected patios! An outdoor kitchen! A dreamy green-tiled bathroom with the best shower view I’ve ever seen! And the best hotel room view I’ve ever seen, period. The space was without a doubt bigger than our Brooklyn home. I started to worry that Mark and I would need tin-can phones to hear each other from opposite sides of the bedroom. I mimed that I couldn’t see or hear him. We needed binoculars! We needed megaphones! The room could be seen from the International Space Station! Adan, understandably confused by our charades, left us to get settled and didn’t bother miming his way through an overly complicated room tour. If we had questions, he’d be right downstairs. Oh, and there was no room key. Music to my ears—one less thing to be responsible for. “If you feel unsafe, don’t,” Adan assured us. I felt safer than I ever had, because we were seemingly the only people around for miles, save for the French guests occupying two of the other rooms.

We quickly changed, eager to head to the beach. The entire property runs off solar power, and air conditioning only works at night to conserve energy. Our room during the day felt like a convection oven working overtime on Thanksgiving to brown a turkey, so we escaped quickly and swiftly. On the way to the ocean, my curiosity got the best of me, and I found myself in the property’s ornate central living room. It looked like a time capsule from thirty years ago—there was a frescoed ceiling, complete with swirling vaporous clouds, winged cherubs, and wispy palm trees. Two massive overstuffed couches were flanked by glass coffee tables filled with architecture and design books from the late 1990s and early 2000s. In the corner sat a globe that still showed Burma instead of Myanmar, Czechoslovakia instead of the Czech Republic. There were chess sets, cabinets of curiosities, and perfectly preserved vintage rugs. It felt like I had time traveled to someone’s precious vacation home—and then Adan strolled in and told me that I basically had.