It all started in the 70’s. No, I wasn’t born til ‘80, but my wild and infinitely cool mother decided in her hippie glory to head down to this new spot called Casa de Campo with her roommate and invite her parents. See, my grandparents were incredibly good and avid golfers. They traveled the world playing golf. And this new spot boasted a new course by Pete Dye. So they all tried it. My mom apparently danced on a bar, everyone tried the rum and played golf, and a love affair with this country and this particular place was born.
The grandparents initially rented, then bought a golf villa. Then, since they were spending so much time there, they bought a patch of jungle.
They did THE thing we all dream of doing when we retire. Amazing.
They built their dream house. My grandfather was a closet architect, my mom an interior designer and this house is just gorgeous. When I need peace, in my mind, I close my eyes and picture their deck. The house is all one floor and there is no glass. It’s fresh air, which some snotty people find awful but I find it awesome (now that the bedrooms have air conditioning). It’s screeened in with shuttered doors. All doors on the back of the house open onto the giant deck. One part of the deck has a thatched roof. And under that thatch roof sat my grandparents. For years.
When my grandfather got prostate cancer, he went to the DR longer, and he beat it. When it came back in his bones, the docs were all abuzz but he went back to his seat under the thatch roof and I swear prolonged his life that way. When he passed, there was only one place to put him to rest. In a wild blue flowered garden out back. This place has a spirit. It has the ability to take two New Yorkers and supremely quiet them down. I love this house. It’s on the market, which breaks my heart, but I’ll know that it’ll sort of always be ours. I hope it brings it’s future family the same joy and peace as it’s brought mine.