Layla’s voice is a background, like the rush of waves, quoting Rumi to the guests, who listen with rapt attention. “Flowers open every night across the sky, a breathing peace and sudden flame catching.” Meanwhile, Wendell is talking—probably about sea turtles—to the Norwegian women, who are nodding emphatically. I look at each of the rosy, glistening faces of the backpackers around the fire, watching Layla spout Rumi. “We are the night ocean filled with glints of light. We are the space between the fish and the moon, while we sit here together.” People murmur and nod and stare at the sky, then the ocean, then back at Layla. She’s found her calling, the perfect, ever-changing community for herself. The kinds of people who choose to stay at a place like Cabañas Magia del Mar all have bits of Layla inside them. They’re obviously enchanted to be here with her, with each other. A gathering of strangers who, in a short break from their realities, play and laugh and sing and swim and do yoga and explore the mysteries of existence, with Layla as the Rumi-quoting guide.
