Travel Notes From A Novice Marielle Guth   © Copyright 2026 by Marielle Guth

Photo of pool at Hotel Luz courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

The pre-trip alone made me wonder if I’d accidentally joined a secret society of hyper-organized adults. I got to pick my room months before takeoff, we had a Zoom call to go over logistics, and communication was so smooth I started questioning my entire life. Is this how workshops usually go? I thought. Why didn’t I do this sooner? By the time my flight rolled around, I was buzzing with excitement.

The real adventure began a day before I arrived. Our group chat lit up with arrival times, layovers, and those slightly awkward but sweet early introductions. A couple of attendees even messaged me directly, and suddenly I had plans before I’d even left the country. It felt like being adopted by a group of friendly strangers who somehow didn’t give off serial-killer vibes. That early warmth set the tone for the whole week.

The setting, Hotel Luz En Yucatán, was basically our own private kingdom for the week. The whole place was reserved just for us, which gave the entire retreat this delicious “exclusive creative residency” vibe. Every room had a desk area, perfectly ready for whatever brilliance we felt like unleashing. If inspiration struck at 7 a.m. or 11 p.m., there was a spot waiting for it. And honestly, it felt good to have a space that assumed we were there to make art, like the hotel itself was gently nudging us, saying, “Go on, write something amazing.”

The common areas were just as inviting. Tables of every shape and size were scattered through the hacienda-style hallways pool area and dining room, plus cozy sitting areas in private patios with couches and little tables. You could wander around and pick your writing vibe like you were choosing a character in a video game. And if you were feeling social, all you had to do was sit down near literally anyone and suddenly you were in a great conversation or sharing breakfast like you’d known each other for years.

And speaking of breakfast… oh, the breakfasts. Served every morning in this charming little dining room that felt like your favorite grandma’s kitchen. I’m pretty sure I tried everything on the menu at least once, purely in the name of research, and not a single dish disappointed. By day three, the staff already knew to bring me coffee with almond milk and a glass of orange juice before I even said a word. At that point, it felt less like staying at a hotel and more like being adopted into a temporary family, one I had absolutely no desire to leave.

Mornings were for workshops. Because the group was small, everyone actually had to participate — which was both lovely and mildly horrifying. Maria, our facilitator, had this magical ability to give feedback that felt insightful and craft-focused instead of “let me gently destroy your ego.” The prompts were fun and sneakily challenging, pushing me to use skills I didn’t know I had. And before I knew it, words were pouring out of me like I’d been storing them in a pressure cooker. I kept thinking, Wait… I can actually do this? Sure, I need practice — lots of it — but that’s literally why I came!

Then there were the group activities: the dinners in town, the little excursions, all the things I didn’t realize were part of the “retreat lifestyle package.” Two nights were reserved for evening reads. Each of us was given a few minutes to read some of our work to the group. As I’ve said, I was a retreat novice, which meant that I had never read my creative work out loud to a group before. Sure, I’ve done work presentations like every other functioning adult, but creative writing is a completely different beast. It’s not quarterly metrics; it’s your heart and soul doing a little striptease in front of people you met three days ago.

I spent the entire afternoon before my reading tweaking and retweaking my material, tossing out ideas like I was cleaning house before a big move. Eventually, I landed on three poems, freshly translated from my native language, plus a piece I’d written that very morning in workshop. To say I was nervous is an understatement; my stomach was auditioning for a blockbuster movie.

But when the moment came, something shifted. The pool area, which is where we shared our work, felt safe, warm, and strangely intimate, like we were all in on the same secret. Sharing my work didn’t feel scary anymore, it felt rewarding. And hearing my peers read their pieces, each one so different and so deeply them, made the whole experience feel complete. It wasn’t just about reading; it was about witnessing each other, cheering each other on, and realizing we were all a little braver than we thought.

These were the people I got to know: new friends, long conversations over coffee or cocktails, dinners that stretched into laughter, dancing, day trips, and the kind of bonding that usually requires a reality TV show. I didn’t expect these connections to last beyond the workshop, and I definitely didn’t expect to want them to. Luna, the proud vegan from LA; Carol and Collin, who wandered through sun-drenched Izamal with me; Brien, Maria, and Sanum, with whom I shared conversations that still echo in my mind — every single person brought their own story, their own quirks, their own way of seeing the world. Somehow, all our differences fit together like a weirdly perfect puzzle. Saying goodbye felt like leaving an adult summer camp, complete with promises to stay in touch, share work, and maybe meet again somewhere warm and margarita adjacent.

I gained exponentially more from my Mérida Chestnut retreat than I ever imagined when I nervously hit that submit button. I thought I was signing up for a week of writing prompts and maybe a tan. Instead, I walked away feeling like someone had quietly rewired my creative brain while I was busy eating breakfast and making friends. The whole experience left me with vivid memories and a renewed sense of purpose, the kind that doesn’t fade once the suitcase is unpacked. It was this clear, steady feeling that writing isn’t just a hobby or a fling or something I do when the stars align and my inbox is empty. It’s a lifelong journey.