There's this new-to-me concept invented by some travel agent somewhere called a "babymoon": one last you-and-her escape before years of Griswold escapades. As a father-to-be, I seized on the idea, and landed on a place that any guy—expectant parent or not—should have in his speed-travel Rolodex: Tulum, Mexico, a small yoga commune on the Caribbean coast. Board a plane in the morning and you're on the beach by lunch. It's a compression of time and space that seems impossible, but it's as real as the beer in your hand and the half-finished crossword puzzle in hers. At the Encantada, ask for the Estrella suite, a second-story room with a wraparound deck and wraparound views of the private beach below. Come sunset, walk to Hartwood, an open-air grill run by Eric Werner, evangelist of all that's farm-fresh and wood-fired. Otherwise, move as little as possible. Read. Swim. Nap. Turns out a babymoon isn't so different from any other perfect vacation.—Michael Benoist

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