PEACED OUT IN TRONCONES

I’ve spent years wandering the shores of Mexico–barefoot, wide-eyed, half-healed–on a mission to recover from my toxic, over-caffeinated, undernourished life in Los Angeles. Post-pandemic, I escaped with nothing but my laptop, some silk caftans and a backpack full of unfinished screenplays and emotional baggage. I landed in San Miguel de Allende because, well, my mom was already there, and let’s face it—sometimes we need mom, fresh juice and cobblestones to find our way back to ourselves.

San Miguel was an easy love affair: colonial charm, artist enclaves, rooftop mezcal bars, a new tribe of expats with stories as messy as mine—and yes, a dreamy home I renovated into an AirBnB.

Paradise? Almost. But something was still missing.

The beach. My eternal craving. The saltwater baptism. I grew up a sun-kissed beach rat in Melbourne Beach, Florida. Then I chased long, lazy waves down the California coast when I moved to L.A. I thought that part of me was done. She wasn’t. She was just waiting for Troncones.

And sweet sun gods, why did it take me so long?

I’d heard the whispers–friends raving, showing off their off-grid beach houses–but I hadn’t made the trip until this spring. Now I can’t stop dreaming about my return. Troncones is the kind of place that seduces you slowly, without the all-inclusive resort chaos. No high-rises. No cruise ships. Just raw beauty and barefoot luxury.

Picture this: Old-school Malibu vibe with actual soul. Jungle meets Ocean. Palapas with twinkling lights. Horses meandering by during sunset dinner while your feet sink into the sand and a local chef serves you the best damn grilled snapper of your life. This place isn’t trying to be trendy–it just is. It’s what peace looks like when no one’s watching.

As a wellness junkie, yogini and self-proclaimed food snob, Troncones had me at “organic produce,” I’m talking ripe fruit that tastes like the sun. Smoothies blended with love and maybe some cacao magic. Beach massages that cracked open my solar plexus. And miracle of miracles: nothing is open past 9 p.m. You heard me right. No thumping bass at midnight. No tourist bar-crawl chaos. If you want that, head over to Ixtapa or Zihuatanejo. Troncones is where you come to slow down, stare at the stars, and maybe finally finish that book you’ve been pretending to write.

After visiting friends who now split their lives between San Miguel and Troncones, I get it. I see it. And yes–I want it. Some are building dreamy beach houses from scratch. Others are renovating already-charming bungalows. Me? I’m torn. Do I dive in with land and a vision board, or do I take a fixer-upper and sprinkle my bougie hippie charm all over it?

Either way, the dream is alive and salty.

Because at night, those waves didn’t just lull me to sleep. They recalibrated me. They told the girl who’d once been burned out in Beverly Hills that she’s allowed to rest now. That she’s allowed to exhale. And maybe even–finally–stay a while.

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Cyn Posner
Author of Escape to Mexico
https://amzn.to/3ZzfLmd
Bougie Hippie | Substack

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