Pen and Ink: What do you mean, no Diet Coke?

Last week I did something that I never do at work: I nearly ripped a colleague a new asshole. The particulars aren't that interesting, but I open this posting by mentioning it because it points to my state of mind last week and the fact that I was desperate for a vacation.

So here I am, writing this while staring out at the Pacific Ocean in Playa la Barqueta, a remote beach in Panama. Andy and I, along with our friends Bernardo and Greg, and new friends Tom and Todd from Palm Springs, rented a gorgeous "villa" right on the beach. There's nothing around us except for some other houses and a so-called resort (here, it's a resort; at home it would be closed). We're so remote that it took Bernardo and I five stops at various little bodegas (loosely called such, as these places make NYC bodegas look like Dean & Delucas) just to find some Diet Coke.

It's been such a peaceful vacation. We planned our meals in advance (the nearest grocery is at least 30 minutes away), and have taken turns cooking amazing meals. Indian one night, Italian the next, followed by Mediterranean, a "white trash barbeque" theme, and tonight's make your own pizza format. We've walked the black sandy beaches, gone kayaking, had massages and our own yoga class, and taken a day trip to Boquete, about an hour's drive. We've read books and watched DVDs. And slept. I think I've taken at least one nap every day that I've been here.

Today's our last day here in Playa la Barqueta; tomorrow we head back to Cerro Azul to Bernardo and Greg's home in the mountains about an hour outside Panama City.

This is the beach where we are staying.

Our part of the beach. The waves here are dramatic. You can't go too far into the ocean; the undertow here is strong.