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You've tied the knot, now it's time to get away from it all. Discover a land marked by deserted beaches, cozy oceanfront huts and other simple pleasures.

We’re driving down Highway 307, and we’re about 90-some miles south of Cancún. On one side of the road lies the Caribbean Sea, visible as glints of blue through the foliage. On the other lies the tidal flat of the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve, Mexico’s largest protected wildlife area and one of the densest, lushest rain forests you’ll ever see. Directly in front are potholes. And these are not just ordinary potholes—they’re deep lake-size craters beside which pelicans have gathered together to drink rainwater. As we get closer, the birds burst into the air, and there’s a gangly flap of wings that’s awkwardly beautiful and moving.

My brand-new husband, Lawrence, and I are traveling from Cancún south along the coast to Boca Paila—a small village down at the end of the peninsula—on a quest to find someplace that matches our idea of the perfect vacation spot. We want miles of deserted, unspoiled beach and surfside restaurants serving seafood caught minutes before dinner—a place where the only sounds come from nature. For the past 20-odd years, the 75-mile piece of the Mexican Caribbean Coast that runs south from Cancún to Boca Paila, called the Mayan Riviera, has been an in-the-know secret among travelers who shun the tequila-soaked, dance-’til-dawn parties of Cancún and Cozumel. Unfortunately, like any in-the-know secret, the Riviera has gotten a bit, well, known. At the very northern tip a village called Playa del Carmen, which lies just south of Cancún, even boasts its own T.G.I. Friday’s and a Häagen-Dazs. That’s why we’re embarking on this quest: We’re headed way down south to find our very own lost paradise.

Global Village

Our journey begins in Cancún, where we rent a red Volkswagen love bug (sappy, yes, but we decide that’s allowed on a honeymoon) and speed out of town, waving bye-bye to the spring-breakers. About an hour south on Highway 307, the two-lane road that runs up the coast, we come to Playa del Carmen, intending to drive straight through. But we discover that while it may not be the rustic fishing village that it was 10 years ago, this town still knows how to seduce. The whole place feels surprisingly sophisticated—a smaller, more upscale version of Cancún, with a lot more character and the European flavor of art galleries and elegant restaurants.

We book a room at Deseo, one of many downtown boutique hotels, for a night, then plant ourselves on chaises under a striped umbrella on the beach. We sun and swim all day as waiters scurry across the sand delivering cool drinks, hot grouper tacos and chilled ceviche. Lawrence keeps ordering bowl after bowl of rich guacamole. But he let my dog be our ring bearer, so he can eat guacamole until he turns green as far as I’m concerned. I smile up at him as he dips a chip, and try not to think of the calories.

After a four-hour nap, we head back to the room to shower and dress for the evening. Our first stop is at the hotel’s patio bar for drinks poolside. It’s a sophisticated space, with sexy, gauze-draped lounge beds that are bathed in candlelight. The pool water, which is architecturally framed by the deck, gleams turquoise. We order cosmopolitans, lie back and try not to spill. We spill anyway, and crack up, holding hands and enjoying the warm night.

Cove Love

In the morning, we drive south 45 minutes toward the next village on our map: Akumal. Well, the map is wrong—a village it is not. It’s a cove, ringed by small, family-run resorts on a blazing-white beach. And that’s it. This seems promising, so we check into the Club Akumal Caribe hotel for the night, then swim straight out to the reef for a snorkel.

The ocean breaks beside us, and we circle around the reef’s resident fish in search of turtles. It’s a beautiful spot, but after we swim for a while we start to notice that there are a lot of families here. Kids scream about grilled cheese during lunch. We decide that we need to find a still lower-key scene. We have a map. We have a dream. So, after breakfast the next day we head south for another five miles and take a random left off the highway, ready for some adventure. We bump down this dirt road, that dirt road, and have a Spanglish question-answer encounter with a farmer. We travel through more jungle, then past a series of bizarre, unsold housing lots—a drive that ends, miraculously, back at the coastline at Casa Cenote.

Cenotes are freshwater caverns, used by the ancient Maya for centuries as water sources. People come from all over the world to explore them—people who don’t have fears about losing their new husband in a dark, watery cave. So, we take the easier, danger-free choice and swim at the mouth of the cenote. It has the clearest, cleanest, calmest water I’ve ever seen, and it’s lined with mangroves and black rocks. Thousands of fish flash under the surface. We explore the root systems, and pop up to look at the canopy of mangroves overhead.

After our swim, we drive down more dirt roads to a restaurant where you can pick out your own freshly caught fish (mostly snapper, by the look of it). We point to the ones we want (“not that fish, this one with the fat tummy!”), then wander up to the dining area to turn over our purchases. Here, the protocol is to lie in a hammock under the coconut trees with a cold beer in hand, and wait for the restaurant to grill your selection. After lunch, we have the option of paddling a free kayak into the bay like the other patrons, but we just order some more guacamole and take another snooze in the hammocks. Hey, it’s our honeymoon.

A Hut Built for Two

A bit later, pressing ever southward, we set out for the town of Tulúm. Here, “hotel” means a collection of thatch-roofed cabanas on the beach, or sometimes a larger structure meant to feel like a cabana. We view the whole range, from a basic hut with a shared bathroom to a high-end one, with native tile work, an outdoor shower and a hand-painted bed draped with mosquito netting.

Could this be our “paradise”—the privacy and quiet we’ve been looking for? We hope so, and go whole-hog, high-end and splurge on the most luxe option, a hotel by the name of Zamas, where the towels on the bed are folded into two kissing swans. Breakfast begins with a stroll from our cabana to the outdoor patio, where a waiter delivers a liquido melon (freshly whipped cantaloupe juice) and eggs benedict. A morning breeze lifts the heat off the beach. The ocean crashes up against the black volcanic rocks. Lizards skitter by.

We’re tempted not to move, but the area’s impressive Maya ruins are close by. Ten minutes down the road from Zamas, we take in some architectural glory from the heyday of the Maya—in the form of Tulúm, a massive limestone pyramid complex from 564 A.D. that overlooks the ocean. Afterward, we could go back to Zamas for a dinner of grouper with garlic and lime. But all this culture has us hungering for more down-to-earth flavors, and the largest section of the modern-day town of Tulúm lies minutes inland from our seaside cabana. There, the taco stands are frying up some of the best dishes you’ll ever eat for about 50 cents apiece. We’re talking carne asada (grilled pork) and chorizo (spicy sausage) piled inside a fresh tortilla, topped with fried onions and cucumber salsa. We clink tacos as if they’re glasses, and tuck in.

Vision Quest

There’s no denying that Zamas comes pretty close to our ideal. But, because the food’s so good, the hotel’s restaurant fills up at night with guests from neighboring hotels. And there are other couples near our hut—we can hear them chatting and laughing about their day. So, in the morning, we pull out the map and stand in front of our car, puzzling over lines and squiggles. We decide we should continue on to the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve, where eateries at the tiny, tiny villages—including the town of Boca Paila—serve fresh lobster.

“Why do you want to go down the road?” the manager of Zamas asks. “It’s not paved and very bumpy.”

“We want to eat lobster on the beach.”

“Oh, lobster! Then you have to go down the road. But it’s not paved and very bumpy.”I think he was trying to tell us something. He’s right—the road is very bumpy. But, even hours south of Tulúm, deep in the jungle, we’re still too high on honeymoon love to be worried that we may have made a mistake. When we’re hot, we pull the car over and swim at deserted beaches. When we’re tired of singing to amuse ourselves, we play Mexican cowboy rock on the radio. Somehow, we manage to drive past the village. After miles of looking around hopelessly, we pull over at the first sign of civilization—a small, crooked wooden sign reading “Sol Caribe”—then plop down on the deserted beach just past a small cluster of buildings, one of which is a hut-style bar. We order two frosty rum and cokes and decide that Boca Paila can wait a little longer.

And then we look around. This place we’ve stumbled upon by accident is perfection. Rancho Sol Caribe is a resort made up of two cabanas, a small bar and a beach, and there’s nobody else around. We can skinny-dip. We can read without hearing a sound other than the waves and the cawing of birds. All around us the jungle is thick. The lobster is as sweet and rich as we imagined it would be, and we discover from the owner it comes from the next village on the Riviera, another hour and a half down the road—Boca Paila. But why push on? We’ve found our paradise. Now all there’s left to do is watch together as the sun drips into the sea.