I speak only a few words of Spanish. Only now, as I grip my phrase book, do I recall that Mexico is the world’s largest Spanish-speaking country. It’s too late to wish I’d brushed up on the local lingo.

We’ve just landed in Cancun International Airport, on a 10-hour direct flight from Frankfurt with Condor, a low-cost German airline.

My final destination: the seaside town of Playa Del Carmen.

The guidebook tells me the locals abbreviate the name to ‘Playa’, which my trusty phrase book translates to beach.

Playa is in the middle of the Riviera Maya, on the eastern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula, an area littered with beaches and resort towns. If I need help, I can’t just ask for the beach, can I? But I’m determined to speak some Spanish.

I manage to ask for directions to Playa and I’m sent to the airport’s ADO bus station. I’m travelling with my fiancé, James. Our criterion was to find a piece of paradise for an affordable price.

We know we want to bypass Cancun entirely. It’s famous as a spring break hotspot, but that doesn’t exactly spell romantic.

From the bus I can see that Cancun is built up, a place of high rises, established resorts and concrete.

Playa del Carmen isn’t as well known, but it’s thought to have an equally beautiful coastline and, despite the tourists, Mexican culture still holds strong.

Playa del Carmen isn’t as well known as Cancun, but it’s thought to have an equally beautiful coastline

An hour after leaving the airport, the bus drops us in the middle of town. It’s hard not to be daunted in a strange city, but at least I’ve obtained a local map. I’m pleased to find that the streets are easy to navigate, set in a New York-style grid pattern.

It’s about a 45-minute walk from one end to the other. How do I know?

You guessed it. Our hotel is on the other side of town. Since we’ve been sitting so long, we don’t hail a taxi; it’s midday and it feels nice and safe, so we walk.

The air is balmy. I sweat as I wheel my heavy suitcase, but I hardly notice.

There’s a discernable buzz around me and the main street, Avenida del Quinta (Fifth Avenue) is pedestrian only. I’m distracted by the activity around me.

The locals are friendly, calling out to us as we pass. My concern about communicating in Spanish evaporates as I realise they don’t just speak English, they’re multilingual, swapping between English, Russian and German greetings in an attempt to engage us.

I stupidly pause and examine a pair of five-dollar sunglasses. Prices are in both US dollars and Mexican pesos.

It’s about 14 pesos to the dollar and US currency is preferred.

The sunglasses are bagged before I realise I don’t really like them. Somehow I’ve become a customer. The hawker also insists my whole family would like an ‘I love Playa’ T-shirt.

He goes the extra mile, promises an amazing price, if I’ll only buy five. I’ve suddenly become a wallet on legs.

Do I dare barter?

The safest option is to leave. I’m now inside the souvenir shop. I can’t remember how we even got in here. As we exit, we politely refute offers for free tequila tasting. I’m sure we’ll get into that later.

Back on Fifth Avenue, we pause as we inspect our map. Something catches my attention, a dark reptilian eye, right near my head.

I jump in fright. A swarthy Mexican laughs at my reaction. He’s wearing a metre-long lizard on his head like a hat.

“Like a photo?” he asks.

The lizard is alive. It stares dully at me. I decide it’s probably been drugged. I notice another man nearby holding a jaguar cub.

The beautiful, leopard-like creature tugs at my heart strings. For a baby, the jaguar is disturbingly still.

The man with the cat watches intently, just in case I’m keen to model with an exotic animal. My heart slowly breaks.

I refuse to buy photographs. These creatures are wild and should be running free.

We push on, strolling past a bewildering array of bars and restaurants serving all sorts of cuisines, not just Mexican but also Italian, Thai, Japanese, French, as well as fine dining restaurants and steakhouses.

Waiters beckon us to inviting tables with crisp white tablecloths while my fiancé eyes the cigar lounges.

We love fine dining and it’s lunch time, but we also try the local food wherever possible.

After a brief discussion, we step off the touristy Fifth Avenue to find an authentic cantina (lunch spot).

In Playa, the back streets aren’t well maintained. Unlike the main strip, the décor here is rustic; battered plastic chairs are the norm. Electricity wires hang loosely.

We watch our step, for the pavement has missing tiles. Some buildings are deserted, development clearly halted midway.

We find a quaint restaurant called El Epazote, situated on Calle 26 Norte and Tenth Avenue (one block back from Fifth Avenue). A manicurist from the other side of the street walks inside, so we follow.

She joins a table with friends. We’re not stalking her. We want to go where the locals go, to taste real Mexican food.

Fronting El Epazote is Mama and her teenage children. I’m guessing Papa cooks out back. The service isn’t exceptionally fast, but that’s not unusual in this part of the world.

Finally we’re offered the menu. Most mains are 25 pesos (€1.50).

I order a beef quesadilla, accompanied by home-made salsa. My fiancé orders the plate of the day: a piece of spiced chicken, salad and a fruit drink.

Our food arrives promptly and we’re pleased: the aromas have been making our mouths water. Tortilla flatbreads appear on our table, just in case we have space.

Mama cooks large portions and the food is perfectly spiced. It’s so delicious we’re tempted to lick the plates.

We feel rejuvenated and with a burst of energy we make a beeline for our hotel: the Hacienda Paradise.

It has the perfect location, close to the famous temples of Chichen Itza, within striking distance of three eco-adventure parks and the Tulum Mayan ruins

Even though Playa is filled with all-inclusive resorts, we’ve opted for something more boutique. The hotel has a prime location, two blocks from the beach and its price is affordable, just €56 per night, including buffet breakfast. Our room even has a view of the gorgeous hotel pool.

At the hotel reception we’re informed that we cannot check in for a couple more hours, but the clerk takes the opportunity to offer us a vast array of day trips.

Playa has the perfect location, he says, close to the famous temples of Chichen Itza and within striking distance of three eco-adventure parks. If we’d like to snorkel with sea turtles, Akumal is nearby.

But I’m most intrigued by the Mayan ruins of Tulum. I sigh as I learn the tour has no afternoon departure.

A gleam in the receptionist’s eye accompanies an alternative, travelling by local colectivo. He can even watch our bags while we’re gone. As we consider, his next words help us decide when he suggests we take our swimsuits. Swimsuits? To Mayan ruins? How could we not go?

We give him a tip and soon we’re sitting on a small, eight-seater van. The van makes haphazard stops along Highway 307 as passengers alert the driver by tapping the roof.

The transfer should take an hour. Panic sets in, for we don’t know where to stop.

I lean toward the driver and say: “Tulum?”

He grins and keeps driving. I wish I knew more Spanish.

Finally the bus slows and the driver turns to me, pointing to a heaving craft market.

Distant structures of crumbling stone come into view. I feel giddy with relief to see a sign with ticket prices: 57 pesos (around €4) per person. I thank the driver, who smiles and nods. Mexicans are friendly.

Inside the site, the ruins are impressive, crowning 12-metre cliffs above the Caribbean Sea. There’s something eerie about the stepped temples and stone altars; I’m definitely somewhere different.

I wander in the blazing sun, climbing pyramid-shaped structures whose purpose I can only guess at.

Reaching the cliffs, I gaze down at the water and decide I'll finish my explorations first, then cool off in the sea like all the other tourists. Every ruin should have a swimming spot, I decide.

The ruins are impressive, but the site is conveniently small. Soon I’m navigating the steps down the cliff, then sighing with pleasure as I slink into the sea. It’s quite magical to look back at the cliffs and view the Mayan temples from a different vantage point.

We arrive back at the hotel by five in the afternoon. The helpful receptionist has already taken our bags to our room.

Tomorrow I'm going to ask about another of his suggestions: visiting a local cenotes. A cenote is a freshwater, subterranean cavern – another tourist attraction with swimming. Perfect.

Since we’re not staying on the beach, we’re keen to catch the sunset over the water, for we haven’t yet seen Playa’s beach. We ignore the countless happy hour specials on Fifth Avenue and head straight for the beach bars.

We settle for Zenzi lounge bar, built right on the Caribbean Sea. I’m too busy gawking at the view to listen to the waitress.

I grin like an idiot as the sun sets over clear, aquamarine water and waves lap at the long white beach. They’re not waves that dunk and roll but the gentle sort, encouraging water sports and swimming.

Fishing boats are banked and sporting equipment is neatly packed, waiting for tourists to hire the next day.

Hundreds of footprints mark the shoreline and I see a bride and her new husband both laugh in the distance.

They’re having their wedding photographs taken. Seated beside my fiancé, I can’t help but feel a twinge of excitement as I watch the photography session.

We both order a Margarita, which comes with unexpected tortilla chips and spicy salsa, reminding me of Spain. After my first few sips, I realise they’re not skimping on the booze. These drinks are potent. We are in tequila country.

I feel a thrill as I soak up the view. I know exactly what we’re going do tomorrow. It involves leaping into that magical water.

If that’s all I do, I’ll consider this holiday a success. I’m not sure if one week in Playa is going to be enough to experience everything.

I lick the salt from the side of the glass and nod to the waitress for a second round. She frowns with incomprehension. I reach for my trusty phrasebook.

“Dos Margaritas por favor?” Can I have two Margaritas please?

The waitress understands me because she smiles and arrived with more drinks. I put my phrasebook back in my handbag.

If nothing else, I’m certain to master at least one Spanish phrase.