The Wrong Turn We Still Talk About.

“Do we take our shoes off?” Rafael asked.

The woman at the pottery wheel looked at his sandals.

“Only if you want clay between your toes.”

Lucía lowered her beach bag.

Their daughter Inés put a hand over her mouth.

Rafael checked his phone.

“This is Casa del Sol?”

“Yes.”

He looked delighted.

“See? I told you.”

The woman smiled.

“What would you like to make?”

Rafael had announced that morning that he would handle the directions.

“Today,” he said, “you two relax.”

Lucía had heard this sentence before. It usually meant she would relax later, after locating Rafael.

Their hotel was somewhere along the Mexican coast. His booking confirmation contained its full address, a telephone number and a small map.

Rafael had used none of these.

He had typed the name into his phone, selected the first result and declared, “Perfect.”

Inés asked whether he wanted to check the address.

“The name is the address.”

“Interesting system,” she said.

At first, the courtyard had looked promising.

There were flowers. There was sunshine. Beyond the rooftops, the sea glittered.

Rafael spread his arms.

“Exactly like the pictures.”

“There were beds in the pictures,” said Lucía.

“Perhaps this is the reception.”

The woman introduced herself as Elena and offered him a clay bowl.

Rafael accepted it with the respectful seriousness of a man receiving a room key in an unfamiliar format.

“Do we return this at checkout?”

Inés turned away. Her shoulders began to shake.

Elena glanced at their bags.

“Are you looking for the hotel?”

Rafael brightened.

“Yes. Three nights.”

“This is Casa del Sol Ceramics.”

He looked down at the bowl.

“Ah.”

Lucía looked at him.

“Spacious room.”

Elena knew the hotel. It was a short drive away.

She also knew this was not the first time somebody had arrived carrying swimwear and unreasonable confidence.

“I can show you the address,” she said.

Rafael nodded briskly.

“A small technical misunderstanding.”

“Between a bed and a bowl,” said Inés.

They might have left immediately, but Elena had a beginner session starting, and Lucía was already examining a shelf of blue cups.

“We’re here,” she said. “Shall we make something?”

Rafael checked the time.

“We should really get to the hotel.”

“The one we booked,” Inés added helpfully.

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting at a pottery wheel.

Elena demonstrated how to center the clay.

“Gentle pressure.”

Rafael nodded.

“Of course.”

He applied the confident pressure of a man who had also centered their entire holiday on the first search result.

The clay leaned left.

He corrected right.

It leaned further left.

Lucía’s little bowl was taking shape beside him.

Inés was making something she called a souvenir.

Rafael’s creation looked like a hat that had received disappointing news.

“Abstract,” he said.

“Elena,” Lucía asked, “do beginners normally sweat this much?”

“Only the ones trying to win.”

Then the rim folded over.

Inés leaned closer.

“Dad. Your hotel has collapsed.”

When they finally reached the actual hotel, Rafael read the address aloud before getting out of the car.

Then he checked the street number.

Then he checked the name.

Lucía waited patiently.

“Would you like to inspect the mattress for clay?”

At reception, the clerk asked whether they had found the place easily.

Inés opened her mouth.

Rafael raised one finger.

“We enjoyed a scenic detour.”

That evening, they sat looking out at the water, still laughing about the bowl-shaped room key.

The next morning, Elena sent a photograph of their pieces, which would be fired and ready later in the week.

Lucía’s bowl looked lovely.

Inés had made a small plaque.

Rafael enlarged its photograph.

It read: CHECK THE ADDRESS.

“A little direct,” he said.

“For your desk,” said Inés.

By the time they went home, the plaque was wrapped carefully in his hand luggage.

Rafael’s bowl came too.

He kept it beside the front door for his keys.

“They always go here now,” he told visitors.

Lucía smiled.

“Wonderful. At last, something reaches the right destination.”