It has been many years since I made my first solo journey to Mexico, but I remember certain moments well. Upon the advice of a friend I arrived in Merida, the capital of Yucatan.

While wandering about the city, I met another American and a Mexican couple. We quickly fell into an amiable rhythm and decided to go farther afield. We traveled a few hours by bus to what seemed like the middle of nowhere and located a cenote. The waters were of indescribable blues and the atmosphere was magical. We swam, sunned ourselves dry, ate lunch and continued on to a nature reserve for the night, planning to see flocks of flamingos at dawn.

Arriving quite late, we found the only accommodation, a small bungalow near the water’s edge. We entered to note enough hammocks for each of us and a double bed. I was intrigued by the hammock, as was my American friend. The Mexican couple, unwed, seemed content with the hammocks as well as hesitant to share a bed before their marital bond was official. We all wished each other a good night. Moments after the lights went out, I heard some movement, the rustling of sheets, and then a few murmurs. Two of the hammocks were now empty as my American friend and I settled into the lulling swing of our hanging beds.

The following morning the bed was made and no mention of the chaste breach was said.