In the 1980s Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu set about building a workers' paradise inspired, curiously enough, after Pyongyang. Besides concrete, the predominate building material of his dream was travertine. It lines government building hallways, metro station walls and floors, hospitals, well-off orphanages, and the city's bizarre mosque-like, wedding cake National Theater.
Needless to say, because of extended time spent in Bucharest, I have a negative reaction to the stuff.
Grand Coral Beach is a travertine palace. It didn't help that all the sales people we met had Eastern European names.
Sales manager Nadia led us through the resort. It's a massive place with a vague smell of Clorox mingled essential oil.
At the entrance to Gem Spa, director Elena greeted us and explained how untold millions of USD had recently transformed two lonely tennis courts into Cancun's biggest, most modern, sanctuary. As a gift, Elena gave us little gauze bags filled with fruffy polished quartz pebbles.
With the exception of the bathroom's brass fixtures, the rooms are minimalist lovely, with uncompromising views of the ocean and Isla Mujeres beyond.
Cancun's night scene is a block from the resort's front door. The beach is golden, the guestrooms are sun-drenched, pools abound.
There is travertine everywhere.
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