"Every day is special in Mexico"
Trip Start
Nov 23, 2011
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Trip End
Nov 30, 2011
Where I stayed
Villa del Palmar Flamingos Nuevo Vallarta (aka. Villa Del Palmar Flamingos Beach Resort And Spa)
Read my review - 5/5 stars
Read my review - 5/5 stars
Puerto Vallarta, Pacific Coast, Mexico
Saturday, November 26, 2011
“Chu like Tecate?” A Mexican man asked, as he saw me grab them from the fridge, and I nodded. “Corona ees better.” He said under his breath, as he walked past us to the checkout counter. Joanna and I exchanged a look of confusion after his unwarranted comment.
“This bus is much nicer than I imagined.” Joanna remarked, after we sat down in an air conditioned bus that was comparable to a cheap version of a Coach bus. “I guess I was expecting to see a goat or something in here, and hay all along the aisle.” The bus ride didn’t stay normal for too long. A man dressed head-to-toe in a white mariachi suit boarded with his daughter, followed by a hustling young man with a dirty shirt and a guitar. I paid no mind as he walked by us with his guitar, and didn’t think anything of it when I heard a couple of tune-checking strums. Then, he went off.
“Albur de amor me gustó yo lo jugué!” He let his pipes ring from the seat right by Joanna.
We couldn’t help but giggle uncontrollably, and it was made even funnier by the fact that no one else on the bus so much as flinched. The old man in front of us continued his empty stare out the window. The old caballero to our left lowered his straw hat and brushed his moustache. The lady behind us stayed clutching her purse and looking blankly ahead at the front of the bus. It’s like he wasn’t even there. We were supposed to get off and board another, smaller bus taking us to the city center (aka “Malecon”, not to be confused with “maricón”, a derogatory term for homosexuals). Of course, we boarded a bus facing the wrong direction, because we saw another American couple boarding; mob mentality gone inconveniently wrong.
“Do you guys know if this bus is going the wrong way?” I asked them, who both shook their heads in return. The battered bus was a far cry from the moderately upscale bus we’d just experience. The destinations were written on the windshield in chalk, and all I could discern was “Malecon”, so it seemed like a good idea. That good idea evaporated as rapidly as the sweat and urine smells arrived. The bus was comparable to a sweat shop, and looked like a bus one would take on an Amazonian safari where passengers pack the aisles and cling to the bus’ roof. Riders were cooling themselves by waving papers in their faces like a southern gospel church service. Our bus driver was contorting his body in amazing fashion as he jerked the age-old stick shift to and fro. There must have been a new gear for every three feet we traveled. The sweltering conditions were taking their toll on us as we contemplated whether or not to get off the bus. I looked out the window and saw that the driver of the car next to us was texting for a while without looking at the road.
“I see that safety here is a top priority.” I remarked sarcastically to Joanna. Then, I looked a little closer and noticed the half-empty Corona bottle sandwiched between his legs. “Annnnnd he’s drinking and driving. That’s dandy.” We departed the bus in search of a bathroom for Joanna, and we found Señor Frogs. The non-English-speaking gentleman behind the counter directed us out back to a sketchy alley, and he pointed to a green door.
“Alli (over there)” He stuck out his index finger, leaving us with about 30 yards of inner city Mexico alleyway to conquer. The bathroom was surprisingly nice for the conditions, and we would soon discover a Mexican rule of thumb there: instead of flushing your toilet paper, throw it in the trash can. Yeah, that’s only slightly gross. Or, in the words of the sign we saw: “PLEASE DEPOSIT PAPER TOILET IN WASTE BASKET.”
After finally arriving in downtown Puerto Vallarta, we stopped for tacos and margaritas right along the boardwalk, where everyone spoke English relatively proficiently. The beach and cobblestone setting made for a romantic stroll, and everyone appeared to be in a delightful mood, embodying the simple pleasures on which Mexicans get by. We ventured off onto one of the side streets, where I felt like I had finally seen the real Mexico. Everything looked more nostalgic and true-to-culture, reflecting in the flesh the Latin ethnicity and designs Americans try so hard to emulate. Flea markets had spread out into the streets, and everyone had something to sell that was “just what we needed.” Suddenly, no one spoke English anymore, which made it tough to shoo away an annoying salesman. The man at the jewelry store was no exception. He stood outside, smoking a cigarette as almost to make a fashion statement, with the ashes protruding out almost an inch from the filter. As soon as we walked into his establishment, he tossed the cigarette aside, and ran around us.
“Hola, amigos!” He welcomed us, flashing his greasy smile. The stench of his tweed jacket made it uncomfortable for us, especially because he remained hovering less than twelve inches behind us.
“Thees one is lovely, just like Señorita.” He shifted his smile to Joanna. No matter what we picked up, he was quick to let us know how nice that piece of jewelry was, and how it came with a good price. We found a necklace that matched well with the ring we had bought Joanna the day before.
“Ay que guapa!” He complimented Joanna. The more we mulled over buying it, the more he dropped the price, and on our way out, he shouted that the new price was $700 pesos. A steal at that point, we bought it, and he handed me his business card. “Any time chu need property here in Mey-hee-co Señor, chu come see Javiér. Beeg dinero to be made, Señor.” I shook his hand and left. Two kids outside on his stoop were playing with Pogs, that old game where you slam down a circular object (about the size of an old silver dollar) onto another circular object (about the size of a 50-cent piece) with the aim of accruing points.
“Kids still play with those?” I looked over in disbelief at Joanna with raised eyebrows. “Only in Mexico.” That became a common motto throughout our week. “Now, let us celebrate this occasion with a couple cervezas.” I went into a nearby souvenir market with a fridge full of Coronas clearly visible from the street. When I went to pay for the beers, I realized that there was no cash in my wallet, but remembered that I had stashed a couple of $20 USD bills in my sock. I began doing this after experiencing two attempted robberies in foreign countries. Having to take off my shoe to reach the money, the lady put her hands on her hips and shot me a look similar to the one Lucille Ball used to give Ricky Ricardo when he’d come home late. I’m sure she wished she’d had a pair of tweezers with which to grab the money that I was already embarrassed to give her. The sunset was particularly stunning so we watched that while sipping piña coladas on the beach.
“Free margarita for the lady, Señor?” A man stopped us along the boardwalk, pointing to the 2-for-1 margarita sign. This was becoming a common theme in restaurants. Everyone’s English suddenly got better in what I call the “nightclub zone”.
“What are you gonna do?” I shrugged my shoulders with no reasonable defense. Sold. He gave us the premiere table in the house which was at the front of the restaurant overlooking the action on the boardwalk through the open bay doors. Joanna and I were wondering why there was a surplus of people outside sitting on the walls, all eagerly anticipating something.
“Hoy es un día importante?” I asked our server if today was an important day.
“Every day is special in México, Señor!” He shouted over the thunderous music. All the restaurant staff seemed to go outside for a bit and dance in the entryway when a convoy of Mexicans on horseback paraded down the boardwalk. Trumpets were blaring and rhythmic drumming was keeping the trained horses’ feet stomping in celebration. These “vaqueros” (cowboys) were bouncing up and down on these bucking horses, all the while trying not to spill their Modelo Especial beers. One little guy who I surmised was under 10 years old rode through on a mini horse. Very apropos. The atmosphere felt as if the Mexicans had just been granted their independence from Spain. Una fiesta loca. When I tipped our server 20%, he came back to the table after grabbing the check and taking a few steps, letting me know that I tipped him too much. When does that ever happen? I once had a guest who I waited on tip me $200. You think I chased after that guy?
Joanna spotted a restaurant located on an upper balcony across the street. We were greeted warmly and were instantly notified that if we ordered a dinner meal, we would be rewarded with unlimited margaritas.
“Bottomless margaritas por los dos?” The mesero (server) safely assumed. He told us about how most states in Mexico have their own special sauces and flavors, and the one for Jalisco (where Puerto Vallarta is located) is called Ajillo sauce. His dish description sounded savory, and Joanna was sold, and he reeled me in to the chicken with mole sauce. Introducing himself as Edwin ('aid-ween”), he gave us all sorts of ideas for how to best spend the evening downtown, and even gave us a business card of a taxi driver who would give us a much cheaper faire back to the resort. Towards the end of the meal, he slipped me a yellow card attached to the bill, and insisted we show it to business and club owners because it indicated that we were “friends of Mexicans”.
“Now that’s what I call traditional, Mexican hospitality.” I clashed my margarita glass against Joanna’s in celebration. “Es de México, Edwin?” I asked him.
“Guatemala City, actually.” He responded, half-smiling at my assumption that his generosity was traditional Mexican. “Señor,” he continued, “do you know how I know that you’ve had too many Margaritas?” His question (and near-perfect English) caught me off guard.
“Well don’t call me out just yet, Edwin!” I scoffed and leaned back in my chair, cheeks blushing red. He smiled and pointed to the ground beside my chair. I looked down, and sure enough, there was my wallet, ajar and ready for the effortless picking. All I could say was “Ay, Dios mio.” After wiping the embarrassment off my face, we walked over to a nightclub he recommended called “Roo”. Initially, the bouncer at the door was not letting us in the club, spouting off some excuses in Spanish. I remembered the “Friends of Mexicans” yellow card that Edwin had given me, and, not knowing what to do, pulled it slowly out of my pocket. Before I could even ask him what this meant, he called someone over to man his post at the door. Suddenly, he could speak English after all.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Señor!” He seemed very remorseful and embarrassed, as he dropped everything and ushered us immediately to the best table in the VIP section. “Please let us know whatever we can do for you, Señor.” I’m not exactly a frequenter of nightclubs, but I can say that we had a terrific time dancing to early 90s favorites like House of Pain’s Jump Around. I couldn’t stop laughing because, every five minutes or so, a man would get on the microphone, and in a thick Mexican accent would whisper “ROO NIGHTCLUB” in a really raspy, creepy tone. Exhausted and satisfied with a crazy, Mexican noche, we cabbed it home and Joanna mistook the cab for the bed.
Comments
Twas a wonderful journey through the Mexican sun. Feels nice to close my eyes, picture the beads of sweat running down my back, the bark of restless street dogs, and that perfect moment when a cold light beer hits your lips.
I told V sitting up in bed, "We need a vacation."
"YOU need a vacation" she replied sarcastically.
"Yeah" I said. "And a margarita..........and a palm tree."