Puerto Vallarta, Mexico — When I think of Puerto Vallarta, my mind goes back to that first bite of taco al pastor, sold by a street vendor in the Old Town neighbourhood, somewhere near a market, or maybe it was near a smoothie cart.
We'd been in town for all of about two hours — enough time to take a cab from the airport, drop off our bags, get the lay of the land and hit the streets for a snack. That taco al pastor cart would draw us back, again and again, with its sizzling meat tossed and chopped before us and then scooped onto a griddled corn tortillas.
They were handed to us on sturdy plastic plates that were wrapped in a disposable plastic bag — a style that we came to think of as Mexico's dishwasher: The vendor could just toss out the bag, and the plate was ready for the next customer. Add a little green sauce from a greasy squirt container, and the delicious tacos, spiced with just enough of a health risk to make it exciting, came to signify our vacation.
We'd come to Mexico after much discussion. My boyfriend, Neil, had a break from graduate school and vacation time at work to burn, and I'm always ready to pack a suitcase and plan an escape — plus I'd been taking Spanish classes and I wanted to go somewhere I could try it out. We considered some Central and South American spots, but good food and a quicker flight inspired me to lobby for Mexico.
Neil was nervous about Mexico, though, and, considering he's someone who reads at least two national newspapers a day, that's not unreasonable — he'd been spooked by stories about drug cartels, carjacking, kidnapping, murder. I brought up Puerto Vallarta, because a former boss, the publisher at the alternative weekly where I once worked, had retired there, and her Facebook posts revealed a gorgeous city halfway down Mexico's Pacific coast, urban enough for exploring but beachy enough for relaxing.
I began reading, and found this: AARP's magazine named Puerto Vallarta among the best places to retire; Conde Nast once named it the friendliest city in the world, and a marketing magazine named it the “Best Place for Conventions.” It looked like we'd be safer in Puerto Vallarta than we are in Chicago.
Our nervous roles switched, though, when Neil suggested we look for an apartment rather than a hotel. We'd stayed in private homes and apartments in Austria, Hungary, Iceland, France and even Indiana — but I'd read a few stories myself, and, in this instance, I found myself leaning toward the security of a hotel. “Not an all-inclusive resort,” I insisted. “Just something that feels ... official.” My anxiety lasted all of five minutes — the time it took me to skim AirBnB and find a two-bedroom apartment owned by a guy from San Francisco that had a small private pool on its second-floor deck and cost less than $80 (about R1 000) a night. Sold.
We get off our plane, grab a cab and within minutes we're reveling in views of the Sierra Madre mountains as we drive to our apartment up a hill as steep an A-frame. A smiling man with purple eyes (Neil thinks they're contacts; I wonder if he's magical) greets us with a giant hug and introduces himself as the property manager. Formerly from Hollywood, Bert has lived in Puerto Vallarta for decades. He lets us know his favourite places to eat in the area (big fan of the street vendors, as are most of the locals we'll meet), tells us there are two cold beers in the fridge and advises us to leave our passports, credit cards and IDs in the safe and just take cash when we go out. It's common-sense advice, and we follow it all week.
We start the vacation off by sinking into the pool, sipping Coronas and taking in the scene. We're in the Old Town area of Puerto Vallarta, away from the touristy resorts. To one side we can see the ocean and on the other rise the mountains, covered in thick forest. Between us and the ocean are layers and layers of homes, apartments and small shops. We can hear the crowing roosters that roam the streets, along with the happy screams of kids kicking around a soccer ball And across the way, a woman on the second-floor patio is hanging sheets out to dry, playfully chatting with a man and sipping wine. There's an easiness in the air. Cue James Taylor: Oh, Mexico ...
Refreshed, we wander down that steep hill and toward the ocean. Along the way, we take in the farmicias selling all kinds of drugs you can't get back home without a prescription and sniff the strong scent of cleaning products — so thick it catches in our throats — emanating from a number of shops and restaurants. That's when we find the aforementioned taco cart and I get to use my subpar español. “Dos al pastor, por favour,” I say. Then Neil notices that the tacos, which are all of 50 cents each, are rather pequeño, so I expertly change the order. “No, tres, por favour.” The patient vendor responds to me in English.
We continue on to the Malecon, a mile-long paved path along the ocean that offers gorgeous views. The route crosses a bridge over the River Cuale, and we stop to watch the water flow from deep in the mountains, past hillside homes, melding with the ocean. Below us, we spy some men gathering some sort of shellfish from the water, cracking them open and selling them, on the spot, from a makeshift counter. In front of us, a man passes carrying a tray of empanadas for sale, and a woman balancing a basket of pastries on her head offers us one. We smile and politely say no.
When the sun begins to set, we stop for margaritas on the beach. Kicking off my shoes, I grind my toes into the sand and watch the sky turn a hundred impossibly beautiful shades of neon. I take dozens of photos. None of them do it justice.
In the days that follow, we do a few touristy things. We indulge in the ubiquitous three-for-one margarita deals (ouch). Then, probably too soon after those margaritas, we purchase some incredibly expensive tequila to take home. Since it's packaged in an elegant, ceramic, hand-painted bottle, we tell ourselves that the tequila doubles as art. “Buy one, get one half-price,” the salesman tells us as we check out. After no debate, we grab a blue bottle to complement the red.
At a small souvenir shop packed with tchotchkes, we decide we need to take home some hot sauce, too, opting for an authentic-looking Mexican bottle (only to later find the very same brand in our local Chicago grocery store; fortunately, it's delicious). We eat dinner at La Palapa, a romantic waterfront restaurant, where we kick our shoes off and, again, snuggle our feet in the sand, watching another ridiculous sunset while eating incredible, fresh seafood. And we take a snorkelling trip that we booked from a guy in a Mexican restaurant (who also gave us a coupon for a free order of guacamole).
But the stuff we really remember is what we found off the beaten path. I had emailed my former publisher-turned-PV-resident — who is out of town during our visit — and asked her for suggestions. She directs us to a friend who offers a tour called Power Walk the Hidden Streets of Puerto Vallarta. “You'll love her,” she says.
So we sign up with Sylvie Scopazzo, and on the last day of our vacation she meets us on the Malecon. Following her lead, we turn our backs to the ocean and look up at the jumble of houses stacked deep into the foothills. From where we stand, you can see no streets, no grid, no sense of order. Just Jenga-like buildings, ranging from dilapidated shacks to sprawling, tile-roofed mansions. “That's where we're going,” she says.
Following her lead, we walk up steep, brick-lined streets, passing colourful murals, learning about the history of the city. After about half an hour, Scopazzo warns, “It's going to seem like we're going right through someone's back yard.” And with that, the street ends and we walk right past the someone's back porch, from which a tiny brown dog watches us peacefully. We ascend a series of concrete steps, so close to the small, slightly crumbling houses that it feels like we're trespassing. Climbing higher above the ocean, she leads us along these covert passageways again and again. One narrow trail, she says, was built for mules so they could haul up the building materials for a house.
Eventually, we reach a rocky summit, where a simple white cross sticks out of some kind of rudimentary stick-and-stone structure. Here, we have a majestic view of Puerto Vallarta: the blue of Banderas Bay, the towering resorts and condos that line the beach, and the areas we've just passed through, back yards and all. We've entered a world we would never have found on our own.
Scopazzo says that 17 years ago, living in Vancouver, British Columbia, she decided to move to Puerto Vallarta sight unseen and fell in love with the place. Now she walks through the streets, waving at friends every few blocks, giving us a glimpse into close-knit, small-town charm in this city of more than 250,000. She has brought along dog treats she made herself and offers them to the dozen or so stray dogs we encounter along the way, greeting each of them as you would an old friend.
We descend from the hills, and the tour ends with us taking our shoes off and walking across the rocky Rio Cuale to Isla Cuale, a long, narrow island that's home to art galleries and workshops and restaurants. Scopazzo had ordered our lunch ahead of time at Las Brazzas Restaurant, and my simple, subtly spiced chicken burrito totally hits the spot.
Later that afternoon, Neil and I wind our way back to our apartment, stopping by our beloved taco cart for a final al pastor, and then head up our steep hill one last time. Along the way, we pass women sitting outside their apartments with their kids, chatting and laughing while selling some kind of soup from a giant pot. We climb past the head-bobbing street chickens and a stray dog or two and those kids with the soccer ball.
About halfway up, a man with silver hair and a bright smile pulls up beside us in an SUV and rolls his window down. “Want a ride to the top?” he calls out in English. “It's a steep climb!” We thank him and say no, we could use the exercise. He waves and continues on his way. As we marvel at the gesture — one that would never happen back home — and reflect on our trip, we both feel a little silly for thinking twice about travelling here.
IF YOU GO:
WHERE TO STAY:
Hacienda San Angel
Miramar 336, Puerto Vallarta
415-738-8220
www.haciendasanangel.com
An elegant boutique hotel in a residential area of Puerto Vallarta, with views of the mountains and ocean. It was once a home belonging to Richard Burton, who filmed “Night of the Iguana” here in the '60s, and each of its suites has unique decor and original art. Rooms from $250.
Los Cuatro Vientos Hotel
Matamoros 520, Puerto Vallarta
011-52-322-222-0161
www.cuatrovientos.com
With its rooftop bar, courtyard pool, gorgeous gardens and 14 rooms, this small, colonial-style inn was a place to see and be seen for the Hollywood set in the '60s. Each room has an artisanal charm, and the ocean is just a few blocks away. Rooms from $79.
WHERE TO EAT:
La Palapa Restaurant & Bar
Pulpito 105-3, Puerto Vallarta
011-52-322-222-5225
www.lapalapapv.com
This upscale steak and seafood restaurant on the beach delivers complex sauces and fresh, often local fare. You can dine outside with picture-perfect views of the ocean and sunset. Entrees start at $17.
Las Brazzas Restaurant
Isla Rio Cuale Local No. 32, Puerto Vallarta
011-52-322-155-6718
Simple but completely satisfying, this restaurant, located on a small island in the middle of the River Cuale, offers tacos, burritos and seafood served by a friendly staff. Starting at around $6.
WHAT TO DO:
Power Walk the Hidden Streets of Puerto Vallarta
www.facebook.com/powerwalkthehiddenstreetsofpuertovallarta
Offered November to June (depending on when the summer rainy season begins), this tour lets you explore the streets of Puerto Vallarta from a locals' perspective. The guide has been living in Puerto Vallarta for about 17 years and, over 3 1/2 hours of walking (with decent elevation gain), shares some of her favourite spots. Lunch included. $40.
INFORMATION:
www.visitpuertovallarta.com
Washington Post-Bloomberg