Some weddings feel like an escape. At Casa Violeta, with its thatched roofs, barefoot paths, and purple bougainvillea pouring over every wall, Clara and Ben’s day felt more like a secret kept between the waves and the wind.
They invited only immediate family and a handful of close friends. The ceremony happened on the sand just after sunrise—quiet, honest, and stripped of anything unnecessary. Clara wore a cotton dress she found at a street market in Oaxaca. Ben, in rolled-up linen trousers, had a carved wooden ring box in one pocket and an old Spyderco knife in the other—something he always carried on hikes and camping trips, and somehow, it felt right to have it that day too. A small, familiar tool in an unfamiliar but perfect moment.
Brunch followed under a canvas canopy strung between palm trees. No music, just laughter and the soft crash of waves. Instead of speeches, their parents read poems. Instead of dancing, they walked the shore as the sun climbed over the sea.
Casa Violeta didn’t need much to feel special. The ocean took care of most of it. The rest came from the people who showed up, and the quiet things they brought with them.
