18 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} bedrooms and an additional two single bedrooms. The suite, with a huge living area and balcony, is best for us because that provides a play space for the kids. I wake up last (around 8:30) and walk out to pillow fights, couch jumping and breakfast crumbs everywhere. Someone (who knows who) goes down to the cabanas long before I awake (the first kids usually get up by 6:00) and saves us three spots overlooking the ocean. Then around 9:00, everyone packs up and the party moves down to the beach, where the rest of the day is spent ordering drinks and food, chasing children and swimming (actually, I’m the only one who swims; the others “play”) in the myriad of pools and hot tubs. Before there were grandkids to play with, I would go find a chair, read for 10 minutes, get burned and be done. Now it is so much better. As the resident “Saba” to the seven little kids, I play in the sand, walk down to the ocean to let the waves attack us, go splashing in the kiddie pool, hunt for seashells, look for whales, play catch, go to the room to get something left behind and generally have a good time. It is a far cry from my earlier experiences, and I enjoy myself. I know that I’m lucky for the opportunity to have these vacations and now I’m luckier still because I have some pretty sweet little kids to play with (along with seven wonderful children and children-in-law). One afternoon, lying in a shady cabana, I thought for a moment about seeing if there were any museums to visit, but then I felt a tug on my swim trunks by a rowdy four-year-old who wanted to go back into the waves for the fifth time that day. A better idea, far, far better. For several years now, my family has traveled to Cabo over the winter break. Each year, our number seems to increase (as my grandkids multiply) so that this year our count was 16. Since I’m not a fan of sand, sun or ocean, I have begrudgingly gone along, playing the role of the good sport for the chance to spend time with my children and, increasingly, my grandchildren. If I had my druthers, we’d go somewhere where we could tour museums, study traditional architecture or visit old bookshops. But the rest of the family seems more interested in imbibing piña coladas on lounge chairs while staring at the ocean (and the many vendors selling their goods). Until this year, and I say this honestly, I did not know the name of the resort that we religiously settled into on this annual excursion. Since people would ask and I could never answer, I made a point of learning that we go to Cabo Azul. And I also learned that Cabo Azul is in San José del Cabo, not Cabo San Lucas. I also made it a point to remember that the funky yet exquisite garden retreat where we go for a meal or two is called Flora Farms. This lack of knowledge, including when we go, how long we stay and when we return, is courtesy of my children, who do absolutely all the arranging. My daughters, Arielle and Talia, take care of the hotel bookings, transportation, Flora Farms, meals, ancillary food and such, while my son, Josh and his wife Adara, experts in air travel, book the tickets. Finally, if we are lucky, my son Coby travels all the way from Tel Aviv to join us. Sometime in November, they send me an email with the dates, and I put it on my calendar. I show up at the airport and like a small child, hand over my passport to my daughter-in-law Adara, who goes to the counter to check us in. The ticket agent eventually calls my name to match me to my passport and I smile and raise my hand. That is my sole responsibility, and one that I seem to be able to handle. While I am naturally a leader, given that this is not my vacation per se and that there are 16 people—several with strong opinions—I have learned that keeping my mouth shut is the best, easiest and safest course of action. I don’t venture an opinion on anything if I can help myself— not what or where to eat, not if we are deciding to walk downtown, not even choosing what to order at a restaurant. I, as they say, go with the flow. Though sometimes I have to hold myself back, I find this whole concept of letting go somewhat liberating, except to my ego. This last trip we flew Alaska Airlines. Fortunately, the plane was filled with families, so the screaming from my group of little ones was hardly noticed. The flight, especially when compared to my travels to Israel, is quick. One of the reasons my kids like going south instead of, say, to Hawaii, is that the time only changes by one hour, which makes it much easier on the parents and their children, who are all five and under. At Cabo Azul (see, I remember the name of the place we stay) we get a large suite with three surrender to the waves
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