August 18, 2024, Mexico. Before heading south to Puerto Vallarta, I drove 10 minutes north through the jungle to San Francisco, a quaint town which had been recommended to me. Essentially, it was Sayulita 10 or 20 years ago. Much quieter, laid back, and mostly frequented by Europeans rather than Americans, San Francisco was a lovely place. I walked out to the main beach and spent 20 minutes exploring the town. I decided that next time, I’d like to stay there instead. At least for a few nights.

I decided to drive the coastal road south to PV. People had been full of praise for Punta Mita. I was very disappointed. It looked like what a giant cruise ship might look like to a river boatman. Huge hotels, 10 plus stories high, were set off from the road by a giant cement wall. Looks like they’d cut down every tree and bush for miles. What a shame. As Joni Mitchell quipped, pave paradise, put up a parking lot.

I had booked a room at Hotel Blue Home Vallarta. It seemed like a quaint place from the description and I hoped it would be quiet. It was advertised as being in a residential neighborhood outside the bustle of tourist PV. The hotel was true to its word. I hauled in my gear, and decided to walk to the touristy part of town. It was fun seeing how people lived. I passed a few places that looked worth checking out: a small bakery, heladeria, and cafe were now on my radar.

I hadn’t been to Puerto Vallarta since 1972. I was 10, and had been body surfing when I got slammed hard by a wave. I’ll never forget the fear I felt as I tried to get air. I don’t remember where my parents were. When I hear people amazed that I travel alone, I think about how growing up fast and learning to fend for oneself often engenders independence and resourcefulness. I’m often anxious before I leave on a trip. I guess courage is acting in the face of fear.

I liked the old part of town. Sadly, not much remains. A beautiful theater, an old church, and the main square were the places most beautiful to me. There’s a nice promenade along the malecon, and I walked to the Zona Romantica. I must hand it to gay men. That’s a really nice part of town.

I hung out till dark and then made my way back. It was nice to have a fan in the room, and I collapsed in exhaustion. I had a corner room and enjoyed looking out the window at the view of the outskirts of town and the mountains.

August 19. I wandered back down to the heart of town, then headed up Rio Cuale to the small island with a playground and beautiful community center, Centro Cultural Cuale. The center is dedicated to recreational, artistic, and educational events, workshops, and classes. It appeared to be a great resource for kids and teens.

I past the island and continue walking up the river and through the local neighborhoods. It was a strange mix of wealth expats on the hill above the river (Gringo Gulch), and local neighborhoods with less wealth and more pollution. I was curious about Arte VallARTa Museo, but it was closed, so I continued walking till I got to La Rivera/Manantial street. I walked through Paso Ancho and Colonia Paso del Molino.

Looked like no tourists came here, at least not on foot. I was now in Mexico, not expat central. It was fun to be in a real part of town, but hard to walk along the busy street. Eventually I turned back, and at one point had to outrun an aggressive dog. I wasn’t interested in finding out whether his bark was worse than his bite.

I headed back to the main promenade and narrow band of town until I ran out of place to walk along the water. Ominous rain clouds had been threatening all day. They let loose around 7pm. Within 30 minutes, the streets were flooded. I couldn’t cross a lot of streets without walking calf deep in water. I gave up and plunged in, trying to find the best way back to the hotel. I wasn’t up for a swim.

I saw some people eating tacos on one corner. An entrepreneurial woman had set up a stand and was cooking them a la plancha. I ordered and sat on the plastic chair. We watched cars ploughing through the intersection, looking like boats carving their way through the water. Finally my food was ready and I ate. It was wild seeing how the Mexicans took this in stride. I was to see that many times on the trip ahead.

August 20. This was my last day in PV. I was heading toward Lake Chapala and Ajijic to visit a friend. But first, I decided to drive down the coast to La Quebrada, where I would catch a boat to Yalapa for a day trip. I’d heard so much about this magical coastal town that used to only be accessible by boat. Now locals take tourists into the town from Highway 200 on ATVs.

The drive south the La Quebrada was lovely. There were a lot of fancy homes and villas along the stretch of road. When I got to La Quebrada, I parked and headed to the marina. Got in line for a boat, and in 20 minutes was on the water. I think it was 45 minutes to Yalapa, and I loved the boat trip. Once there, I explored the tiny village, noting the hurricane damage on the north part of the cove. A few hotels had been reduced to a pile of rubble. I walked inland a bit along the ATV trail, but it was really muddy from the deluge, and I almost got run over a few times.

I walked along a precipitous cliff rather than paying to get a lift across the river mouth. I noticed locals crossing upstream at a shallow point in the river. That’s what I’d do on the way back. I found a small trail through the jungle right along the ocean which led to several secluded boutique hotels that looked like forest lodges. l met a woman who had been house sitting for a friend on the point in a whimsical artistic house for a few years. Sign me up.

I stayed for a few hours, but was a bit worried about getting stranded for the night. There were 2 marinas where you could wait for a boat, much like a bus stop. But they had different time tables listed, which made me nervous. I walked out to a remote dock north of the village, and after waiting a while, decided to walk to the other, since it seemed I was in the middle of nowhere. This dock was built next to the hotels that had been decimated by the hurricane, so maybe boats don’t even stop here anymore.

I rushed to the other side of the bay, and had a short wait. I wandered around looking at the beautiful mosaics people had made with shattered tile. I love creativity. The boat arrived around 5pm, and I reveled in the cooling wind. It’s hot and humid here, so any chance to cool off is welcome.

I got back to the car and drove inland toward on Hwy 244, not sure where I was heading for the night. I’d read a blog recommending a few pueblo magicos along that route. It had warned that until recently, narcos used to hold drivers up along the route. I’d reached to the blogger, an American now living in Guadalajara, to find out if that was still true. He seemed to think it was safe now.

It was starting to get dark. I’d been driving 1 1/2 hours when I saw a sign for San Sebastián del Oeste. This was one of the towns that had been recommended, so I turned off the highway and made my way up the gravel road into the mountains. When I hit the small town, I drove on, then stopped at a house and inquired about rooms. A guy was smoking and it seemed that the room was next to his TV. Not ideal. He told me the price and I agreed, but decided to head to the main square.

There I found a beautiful casa grande, Hotel El Pabellon Mexicano. I inquired about rooms and found out they were cheaper than the smoke-riddled room up the road, offering an enormous room with a king size bed and 20 foot ceilings. This place had so much history. It was built in the 1850s as the counting house for San Sebastián’s silver mine. The courtyard was lovely and planted with natives. The well was original and still contained water. This place was my dream come true. I moved into the ample room and went back to the first house I’d accepted, thanking them.

Back at the main square, a group of folks were gathered around an outdoor grill. Turned out to be excellent fare. I ordered a chicken dish, and sat down to a sumptuous meal. After eating, I wandered a bit out of town, though every house seemed to have vigilant dogs in their yard. Having been bit by a mastiff and threatened by dogs every day in Panama, I turned around. I withdrew money from the one ATM in town and was shocked at the fee: $10 for each (foreign) transaction.