Welcome to One Night In, a series about staying in the most unparalleled places available to rest your head.

The first time I went to Puerto Escondido in June 2023, it’d been almost a decade since Mexican artist Bosco Sodi’s Casa Wabi, designed by Tadao Ando, put the remote stretch of Oaxacan coastline on the global design map. Once a quiet fishing village with a legendary beachbreak, Puerto Escondido has been on the verge of overflow—particularly since the pandemic—due to a boom in tourism bolstered by the ongoing development of its popular backpacker accommodations and slew of design hotels and rentals that have followed in Casa Wabi’s visual tradition.

For years, the area’s main saving grace against overtourism was that it was relatively hard to get to, requiring a costly series of flights or a 10-hour drive through the Sierra Madre del Sur Mountains. When I returned to Puerto Escondido in early 2024, however, everyone was talking about the impending opening of the new Barranca Larga-Ventanilla highway: a contentious project poised to flood the area with even more tourists, cutting the drive down to two hours from Oaxaca City.

Conflicted about my own role in Puerto Escondido’s development, I originally stayed away from the one-mile stretch northwest of town called Punta Pájaros, where Casa Wabi and the nearby Hotel Escondido by Grupo Habita (also established 2014) gave way to similarly brutalist-style hospitality projects that blend traditional elements of Mexican and Japanese architecture. Among those places is Terrestre, a 2022 retreat from Grupo Habita that was designed by Mexican architect Alberto Kalach, who was also behind the brick-and-stone Casona Sforza south of the famous “Mexican Pipeline” at Playa Zicatela, and designed a pavilion at Casa Wabi, as well as a Mexico City outpost for the arts nonprofit. At upwards of $350 per night, however, Terrestre also wasn’t in my budget. But when I learned about the low-impact ethos behind its design—the resort says it operates fully off-grid using solar power—I was intrigued. After reaching out to the team to see if I could set up a stay and getting a yes, I decided to find out more for myself.

Terrestre’s 14 villas are crafted from concrete, brick, sand, clay, and wood. The sharp, geometric forms, earthy materials, and bare surfaces fall in line with Mexico’s architectural heritage. " layout="wide" credit="Photo by Jaime Navarro, courtesy Hotel Terrestre" photoUserId=""/>

Wednesday

11 a.m.: After a 40-minute taxi ride from Playa Zicatela, where I’ve been staying near Puerto’s touristic center, the driver rolls up the windows as we turn onto a dusty, single-lane road. I’m greeted outside Terrestre’s entry and led down a path shrouded in wild greenery: craggy cacti, copal trees, and yellow oleander, to name a few. The open-air lobby features a reflecting pool balanced on a concrete platform. There’s ambient music playing softly. I pull out my phone to Shazam, but: no service.

Given the hotel’s carefully curated appearance, I half expected a stiff experience catered to the Instagram-inclined. My first impression proves me wrong. With only 14 villas, an open-air restaurant, and a few geometric structures holding pools and spa areas, the grounds are exceptionally quiet. The staff give me an overview of the property and services, including the complimentary hammam, where I book a later reservation. I grab a map that will come in handy for navigating the maze of sand pathways that circumnavigate the site’s buildings. It’s small enough to walk across in about five minutes—that is, if you can find your way. I also indulgently sign up for an afternoon massage.

Outside each villa, and strategically placed across the property, are foot-washing basins made from volcanic rock. Before I enter my room, I gently rinse my feet in the cool water and get my first taste of the simple but sensorial sophistication that the hotel markets itself with. It’s fabulous.

Each of the monolithic villas comprises two floors with a private garden on the ground level and an exterior staircase that leads to a personal rooftop pool. I walk in to a queen-size bed situated in front of a small side table and pair of chairs by Mexican architect and designer Oscar Hagerman, all oriented toward a wall of slatted wooden doors and windows that open onto the gardens. The palette is earthy and restrained: smooth concrete floors, thick brick walls, barrel-vaulted ceilings, and wooden accents. A floating shelf with a Bluetooth speaker and a chaotic selection of English- and Spanish-language secondhand books—a Bill Gates biography, a compendium of Mexico’s 250 best restaurants, and a Marianne Williamson title—are neatly placed alongside a note gently reminding me to watch my energy consumption at the solar-powered property. Hanging in the closet are lightweight, robe-like garments made by Oaxacan designer Maison Gallot for guests to wear around the property. It’s not my thing, but I’ll eventually see a few others wearing them while wandering the sinuous sandy walkways.

1:15 p.m.: I head to the pool where I take a dip after rinsing my feet in another basin. A few daybeds dot the perimeter, but the only sign that I have company is a crumpled towel left on a cushion.

2 p.m.: On the way from the pool to my appointment with the hotel masseuse, Carmen, I get lost for the first of many times over the next 24 hours. After a couple of wrong turns and a few minutes, I arrive at the conical pavilion that fits a massage table and not much else. In place of a door and windows, the treatment area has a beaded wood curtain and louvers that let air and light circulate. My rambling thoughts are spirited away through the thick wafts of copal incense that burn throughout the hour-long treatment. I leave feeling relaxed and ready for a snack.

3:15 p.m.: I head toward Lunático, Terrestre’s quieter take on a beach club. On the way, I pass various disco balls hanging inexplicably from the otherwise unadorned structures throughout the property. It feels counterintuitive to the hotel’s pared-down vibe. But I’m nothing if not a hypocrite: by the end of my stay I have a camera roll littered with snaps of the glittering decorations.

Knowing I have an early dinner reservation, I opt for an order of guacamole and make my way down to the beachfront. I settle into one of the daybeds and savor the nearly empty coastline. It feels like a luxury—with the price tag and cost to reach the relatively remote property, it is a luxury—and I happily spend the next hour sunning myself before heading to my next appointment: the hammam.

4:30 p.m.: The seven-chamber hammam is a sculptural brick tower with a hot tub, steam room, rain shower, and cold plunge. It’s small enough that I understand why the staff regulates reservations to one at a time. Even if the building were bigger, I imagine the rules might be the same. The atmosphere at Terrestre feels unexpectedly introverted; it’s not the place with a hotel happy hour encouraging you to mingle with fellow guests.

My name isn’t on the reservation board and the chambers all feel like varying degrees of tepid. I know it’s an easy fix at the front desk—and the staff have been unfailingly friendly and accommodating— but I’m starting to lean into the solitude here. Despite the fact that my villa shares walls with other suites on both sides (the 14 guest rooms are split into two rows of seven, bisected by the property’s pool) it feels like a private sanctuary. I nix the hammam and head back to my room. I spend the next hour running a plunge circuit of my own creation, alternating between a dip in the saltwater pool on my terrace and sunning myself like a lizard sprawled out on the concrete. Occasionally, echoes of waves and stains of soft music waft through the breeze.

5:30 p.m.: For sunset, I consider the obvious choice of heading to the hotel’s Mirador adjacent to the hammam. The brick viewing platform rises from stairs to overlook the surrounding triptych of architecture, ocean, and mountains. Tempting, but I decide to continue relaxing around the villa before dinner and resolve to save it for tomorrow morning, perhaps.

After a successfully hot shower, I open up my room’s terraced doors and lie in bed, clean, warm, and not doing much of anything. Terrestre’s off-grid design means there’s no air-conditioning. Instead, the buildings rely on passive design techniques to regulate indoor temperatures. Prior to my visit, I was skeptical of how cool my room would actually feel without a mini split on full-blast. And yet, the temperature outside is in the upper 80s, and I’m impressed by how comfortable the room is.

7 p.m.: Terrestre has an on-site restaurant that serves three meals a day, but I opt to venture out. Admittedly, I don’t have to go far: my dinner reservation is at Cobarde, a mezcal spot with a pink-concrete bar under a wooden, thatched-roof structure about a 30-second walk from the lobby.

My palette is decidedly unsophisticated, but even I can tell the Espadín I order is something special: smooth and hintingly sweet. I order the fish of the day, which is huachinango (red snapper). With my unrelenting sweet tooth, what I’m most excited about is a shaved coconut ice dessert. Maybe it’s the chilled treat in the humid night air, or maybe it’s the mezcal, but either way I’m obsessed.

There is no air-conditioning at the solar-powered property. Instead, the hotel’s structures were built to run parallel to the coast with openings for the sea breeze to flow freely throughout." layout="wide" credit="Photo by Jaime Navarro" photoUserId=""/>

Thursday

7:15 a.m.: I wake up refreshed and head up to my terrace before the day’s heat overwhelms. Even though the property is pulled back from the beach, it’s close enough that I can hear (and see) the waves crashing from my perch. Alternating between the low daybed and hammock strung between brick walls, I begin one of my favorite luxuries: a slow morning with a cup of coffee and a good book.

10:15 a.m.: After a beach walk and a quick-but-much-needed swim (the sun is already potent), I head to Terrestre’s restaurant for breakfast. The dining area comprises a wood-slatted pergola with steel beams that extends above a large concrete patch in the sand. (Of course, a requisite disco ball hangs from one corner.) It feels low-key compared to the property’s other more imposing silhouettes. I opt for yogurt with fruit and a glass of fresh orange juice from the buffet. There’s an array of pastries and, ever the sugar fiend, I select a piece of sourdough slathered in a thick layer of butter and sprinkled with sugar. Absolutely no regrets on that one.

11 a.m.: Terrestre’s concierge communicates via WhatsApp (while service is spotty, the Wi-Fi is steady), and we’ve been exchanging messages to coordinate my departure. This afternoon I’m heading down the road for a tour of Casa Wabi, and they graciously allow me to keep my things in my room for the day since no one is checking in after me.

1:45 p.m.: I grab one of the hotel’s complimentary bikes and pedal about 10 minutes down the dirt road to the nondescript Casa Wabi campus, which includes an artist residency, rotating exhibitions, and installations embedded throughout the landscape by architects including Ando, Kalach, Kengo Kuma, and Álvaro Siza. If this site was the impetus for Puerto Escondido’s high-design boom, its masterfully poured concrete walls and shifting sight lines make a good case for the surrounding architectural vernacular.

Top photo by Jaime Navarro, courtesy Hotel Terrestre

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