For many years when I was a kid, every Spring my father would take the family (my stepmother, step brother and step sister and my brother and me) down to Sayulita, Mexico. This was in the 70s and Sayulita was a sleepy little town with cobblestone streets, and a restaurant on the beach where we'd drink orange Fantas and try and work the locals for a connection for fireworks. The house we stayed in was my step grandmother's and it was a mile from town, on the opposite side of the long sandy beach. The house had no electricity, but it had running water, and a propane stove and fridge. We lit our way at night with kerosene lanterns. The entire place was open on one side to the ocean, so we'd fall asleep listening to the waves crash onto the shore. It was like a very happy dream.
Years later I went with my friend Wayne back to Sayulita and while the town had grown considerably, it hadn't lost an ounce of its charm. I went one other time, with my daughter when she was about 7 and we had a blast. The town - like lots of Mexican villages I suppose - has a little cadre of dogs who may or not be stray. They pretty much keep to themselves, not afraid of people, but not exactly craving affection from them either. So I took my Holga and shot a bunch of pictures on that last trip of some of the local perritos. They represent one of the happiest places on earth for me.