The people at the other end of the pool had smiled vaguely at us, making me think that the accepted policy here was to pretend that we weren’t all sharing the same area. That was fine with me. I could easily maintain the cocoon Steve and I had been enveloped in ever since we’d dolled ourselves up for the ceremony. There was something so heady about being newlyweds, even at our age, with our long relationship.
During the last month of work and teaching, we had been walking about, delighted with ourselves, as we moved my furniture over into Steve’s condo and changed all the addresses and links to read “Browning and Craig.” I suppose that was just as well, because even by the minimal standards of ceremony we had set, weddings and all the hoopla that came with them were a bit exhausting. It would be fine with me to spend a week totally wrapped up in my man.
We lazed in the sunshine until we dried off, and then meandered down to our room to get ready to head out for dinner and drinks. Steve had decided that since it was our first evening there, we ought to splash out with the most famous restaurant in Puerto Vallarta, especially since it was only a couple of blocks from our hotel.
La Palapa, which refers to the restaurant’s giant version of the palm frond umbrella roof that one saw dotted along the beach, was situated right on the oceanfront, with a glorious view of the Bay of Banderas. Green glassware sparkled on every table, especially those dotted on the sand in front of the restaurant proper, and the service was elegant and meticulous. We chose to eat within the roofed area, mostly because I thought we’d stand a better chance of actually sitting where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton had once dined. When our waiter discovered it was our honeymoon, he brought two frothy margaritas to the table. In the middle of our meal, three musicians entered the restaurant, remnants of a mariachi group perhaps, one with a violin, another with a guitar, and the third with maracas. Steve nodded and they formed a semi-circle around our table and began to play. I snapped several pictures, at first surreptitiously, but they moved closer to accommodate me, even as they played. The one with the maracas had a beautiful tenor, and it soared as they serenaded us with “Bésame Mucho,” which seemed a fitting song for a honeymoon.
Steve, who had somehow managed to already have a wallet full of pesos, paid the musicians, while I thanked them verbally in my phrasebook Spanish. When they had gone, we laughed together, in happiness and disbelief that we had both allowed that to happen and enjoyed it so thoroughly. We were not overly demonstrative people back home, and usually liked to fly under the radar, rather than become part of the floorshow. But this was Mexico, and while sunbathing tourists might maintain a code of privacy, Mexicans in general did not. “Fiesta” was the watchword, and the more the merrier.
We strolled along the beach walk toward the river after supper. A night market had set up across the bridge, and people were milling about and promenading. I caught snatches of German, French, and British accents, as well as the North American drawl of English and the omnipresent Spanish. Puerto Vallarta was the tourist destination for the people who lived in Guadalajara as well as international sun seekers, which made it feel like a truly cosmopolitan place where almost everyone was a tourist. Supposedly, the industry was 98 per cent tourism, and it had been named the Friendliest City in the World by Condé Nast magazine. People did seem happy to have us here. I didn’t sense the weary tolerance one sometimes feels in places where tourists throng.
We walked hand in hand across the bridge, toward a porpoise fountain by the Naval Museum, and the beginning of the Malecon, a long, seaside walkway beautifully paved with interesting symbolic designs, some of which I could decipher, like a seahorse, and a tortoise. I took some photos, hoping they’d turn out in the darkening light, and made a mental note to return in daylight. Vendors were selling light up toys, and what looked like an authentic pirate ship was anchored offshore, setting off fireworks. The whole town seemed to be out, couples and families strolling in the warm night air. T-shirt shops were open and people were promoting their night clubs, tours we could sign up for, timeshare deals we could make, tequila tasting, and all manner of other delights.
We opted to go into the one shop that didn’t seem to be hawking itself—an indigenous arts store, with brightly beaded statues in the window, and a man in the corner, industriously creating the same art we’d been attracted by. A young man greeted us and offered us a sheet of paper decoding all the designs used by the Huichol Indians of the mountains to explain their peyote dreams. I was delighted to be able to decode the designs on the Malecon and tucked the paper in my pocket. Steve was smitten with a small parrot with a sun on its head and scorpions on its wings. Even without the exchange rate it seemed like a great bargain for original art. The young man took us to the back of the shop where an older man wrapped the parrot carefully in bubble wrap and bagged it while the young man handled the money. We decided, after careful consideration, to pay for it from our souvenir fund, rather than the wedding gift my folks had given us.
My parents, in their wisdom, had given us $2,000 to spend on art for our home. It was a smart gift in many ways, and had come with a lovely note explaining how coming together to purchase a work of art was one of the ways that they had understood themselves as a new entity in the world. To purchase something so idiosyncratic together brought your aesthetics into play, and you learned things about each other and declared things to the world about yourselves. While we had talked about possibly finding something in Mexico, we had decided to explore Alberta galleries when we got back to Edmonton.
There was no one else in the store, so Steve shared that we were new to the city and on our honeymoon, and asked if they could recommend anything for us to do or see while we were here.
“The Rhythms of the Night,” said the salesman, “is a very wonderful evening. You go across the bay, and get a good meal and a magical show.” I had seen signs for that tour in several places, including our hotel lobby, and nodded. The older man said something very fast in Spanish that neither Steve nor I caught. The young salesman smiled and said, “He says that waiting for the sunset at the Cheeky Monkey is a good thing to do with a margarita.” We thanked them for their suggestions and made our way back out into the warm night air.
We passed a neon “Tattoos” sign over a narrow stairway upward, which I pointed out to Steve as somehow a universal concept for tattoo parlours.
“Some of the ones in Edmonton are now boasting how antiseptic and health-standards focused they are. You would think you were in a dentist’s office,” he responded. “Hey, do you want to get matching tattoos here on our honeymoon?”
“Honestly, that sounds romantic to you? It sounds like potential gangrene to me.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said, feigning disappointment.
The day was beginning to catch up with both of us, so we headed back toward our hotel. The night clerk smiled and nodded at us, and we took the stairs in the courtyard up to our room. Although it had been a warm day, our room, with its lazy ceiling fan, was cool enough for sleeping, and pretty soon we were tucked in to our already familiar king-sized bed.
“Sweet dreams, Randy.”
“Sweet dreams to you, too. And to another day in paradise.”
4
In an attempt to not miss a minute of my time in paradise, I had set the alarm on my smartphone, which is not something I do a lot. That is why, when it rang, it took me a few moments before I figured out what was happening. I finally reached for the phone, and blearily recalled my password to turn off the annoyingly cheery circus music I seemed to have considered an appropriate alarm ringtone.
I was alone in the bed.
It took me a minute to adjust to where I was. I rolled out from under the single sheet I’d been comfortable sleeping under, and padded over to the bathroom, which was also empty. Looking for my misplaced husband could wait until I had used the facilities. I closed the door to be seemly and took my time. After a revivifying sho
wer and some time spent dabbing sunscreen moisturizer onto my face and neck, I emerged wrapped in a fluffy white towel to see Steve grinning from the door to our balcony.
“Where were you?”
“Out foraging for coffee. Come on out.”
“Let me get some clothes on first.” I dropped the towel and pulled on some underwear, and shimmied into a sundress. My stomach was growling as I hung up the towel and headed on the balcony to see what Steve had brought back with him.
Two takeaway cups of coffee were on the little table, along with a huge plastic cup of raspberries.
“I went down for a quick stroll to see what was what. There is a fantastic coffee spot right on the corner here, and just around the block and down the road is what someone on the street told me was the best breakfast joint in town. There was a family selling fruit on the street right there, so I brought this up to whet your appetite and figure we could head down for Fredy’s Tucan pancakes after?”
“This is divine, and so are you. Pancakes sound fantastic, too.” I pulled out a raspberry as large as the end of my thumb and popped it in my mouth. Steve leaned over to kiss me, and then took the other chair on the balcony and pulled the coffee toward him.
“Did the noise last night disturb you?” he asked.
“What noise?”
“There seemed to be some sort of party going on maybe a block away. It really got going about one-thirty.”
“I think I could sleep through the apocalypse. Did it wreck your sleep?”
“No, I brought some earplugs, just in case, and they did the trick. I was talking to the coffee lady, though, and she says that while this area of town is known to be party hearty, the next few weeks will be especially rowdy all down the hotel zone end of things, too, with all the university students coming down for their various versions of spring break.”
“And that all begins with our students as of today.”
Steve nodded. “Yep, today or tomorrow at the latest. With any luck, the U of A gang won’t be the rowdiest they’ll see.”
“Well, let’s make the most of today, before they descend. Should I pack up and be ready to wander after breakfast, or would we be coming back this way right after?”
“Let’s be prepared to head out from there. Might as well grab every minute. My thinking was we could explore in the morning, and then maybe spend the afternoon back by the pool today. Tomorrow, if you’d like, we could head to a beach I read about right after breakfast. It sounds like there are several fantastic beaches within a half hour’s bus ride, besides the Playa Los Muertos down the street here.”
“Los Muertos? As in Beach of the Dead?”
“Yes, it’s an unfortunate name for a tourist destination, eh? I suspect this is the area of the bay where the tide brings everything in. But there are all sorts of sandy expanses with different names all along the Bay of Banderas. We should explore as many as possible since, with the exception of that newly formed sand spit on the edge of the river everyone has been flocking to, every beach worth its salt back home is at least an hour’s drive away.”
“Don’t forget the waterpark at the Mall,” I quipped and Steve grimaced.
“Just thinking about it make me feel a plantar’s wart starting on the sole of my foot.”
“Sorry. So we set out ready to be out all day. But breakfast first?”
“Breakfast first.”
“Then that all sounds good. Lead on, Macduff.”
Fredy’s Tucan lived up to its reputation for breakfast. I ordered a fruit and pecan waffle that arrived looking like a mountain of fruit topped with real whipped cream. The pecans were cooked into the waffle batter and chipped into the whipped cream, making every bite along the way a treat of one kind or another. Steve ordered the Mexican breakfast, and was brought a platter filled with eggs, beans, tortillas, some braised chilis, and a heap of fresh salsa. The waiter seemed inordinately pleased that Steve cleaned the plate.
People were lining up to get into the restaurant, so we had one more refill of tasty coffee and then set out to explore the bustling little city.
Eastward, toward the Sierra Madres, there were glassware shops, several pharmacies, art galleries, a fruit market, and Steve pointed out where we would be catching the bus the next day out to the lovely beach where John Huston had filmed The Night of the Iguana, the film that had brought worldwide attention to what had been a sleepy little port.
I snapped photos all along the way. I was glad I’d upgraded the phone, mainly for the camera. Although both of us had bought roaming packages with our phone plans, I didn’t think we’d spend much time apart. After all, it was our honeymoon. Meanwhile, Denise, who had demanded plenty of photos upon our return, was going to get more than she’d bargained for. The colourful wares, the glorious foliage, the beautiful people, and the well-maintained architecture on either side of the cobbled streets were all attracting my admiration and my lens.
We walked a few blocks north and found ourselves at the river, so we strolled along in the shade of huge trees until we got to a small hanging bridge to an island. We crossed over and saw what looked like a children’s arts camp area, closed down for the weekend. As we strolled through the island, we found ourselves passing a Cultural Centre, a statue of John Huston, a beautiful looking restaurant called the River Café, before we ended up at a gauntlet of flea market stands. Serapes, sundresses, hats, leather crafts, knitted goods, carvings, and more hung outside the cave-like tents, with even more inside. We just smiled and shook our heads, though I was rather smitten with a T-shirt with the face of Frida Kahlo on it. I figured I might have to find one of those to take home with me.
We passed another fancy restaurant and climbed the steps up to the same bridge we’d walked the night before, which arced over the final spit of the island that pointed out into the sea and tied the Old Town promenade to the Malecon. In the daytime, the Malecon wasn’t quite as crowded, except for groups of walking tours, perhaps because it was so lacking in shade. Still, people wandered about. I hauled out the paper of symbols I’d gotten when Steve had bought his bird statue and managed to point out a few of the Huichol peyote designs worked into the flooring. The scorpion symbol, which I could recognize quite clearly, was apparently a symbol of protection as well as danger. It surprised me that anyone would let such a deadly little creature get close to them, let alone perceive them as protective. If they were native to these parts, I was going to start shaking out my shoes before putting them on.
An old man wearing a straw hat and a pristine white shirt, stood with a large gourd at his feet and a woven bag over his shoulder. I saw someone purchase an enticing looking drink from him and we decided to be adventurous. Steve counted out a very reasonable number of pesos for two glasses of cloudy coconut water, onto which he sprinkled walnuts and chopped apple. “Tuba,” he explained, which we later found out was a traditional beverage. It was delicious, and absolutely refreshing.
We walked all the way down the Malecon to the end, admiring the verdigris statues along the way. My favourite were the little nun-like women climbing a ladder and looking out to sea, supposedly looking for intelligent life.
Steve liked the odd sea creatures who doubled as chairs, and we took a bunch of pictures of each of us sitting in them.
When we got to the rather anachronistic McDonald’s at the end of the promenade, we turned back, looking for a place to eat lunch. The Cerveceria Union looked familiar, and I realized it had been the restaurant featured in a rather tortured movie I’d watched once just because it had Puerto Vallarta in the title. Steve looked at the menu and then spotted a man inside eating what looked like an old-fashioned milk shake glass full of octopus and shrimp.
“What is that?” he asked the hostess, pointing.
“Seafood cocktail,” she smiled, and pulling two menus, guided us in to sit in what I was pretty sure was the exact spot where Scott Glenn had sat
when he’d shot someone on the Malecon in Puerto Vallarta Squeeze, the movie I obviously remembered too much of for it to have been so low on my ratings.
I opted for fish tacos while Steve dug into his own seafood cocktail, delightedly describing every new urchin he was discovering in the lemony broth. The beer list was extensive, and we both decided that noon was a good time to begin drinking, especially on our honeymoon. Steve opted for a Negro Modelo, and I chose a Minerva Cobriza, mostly because I had never heard of it before.
With no place to go, we decided to order coffee and dessert. Our waitress recommended the mescal crème brulée, and who were we to disagree? Before we knew it, she was back, with a flat bowl of custard and a small blowtorch. She proceeded to burn off the mescal at the table, creating an evenly browned crust to the custard.
“The safety standards leave a bit to be desired, but the results are amazing,” Steve commented as we dug into what had to be the best crème brulée I’d ever tasted. “I mean, did you notice those guys fixing their balcony back near the river? I think they were balanced on two buckets of grouting and a plank on the roof of a van.”
I was too busy eating more than my fair share of our dessert to respond.
We strolled back along the Malecon, noting the location of the Cheeky Monkey for a future sunset drink, and dodging hucksters wanting us to sign up with them for tours and timeshare presentations.
There was a fresh breeze gently nudging the gauze curtains in our room, which had been set to rights by a maid who had also left an origami swan in the middle of the bed, made out of two of the hand towels and a washcloth. Steve excused himself to the bathroom, and I kicked off my sandals and lay down on the bed to rest my eyes.
The next thing I knew, Steve was rubbing my arm lightly.
“Sorry to wake you up, but if you sleep too long, I think you’ll have trouble tonight.”
“Oh gosh, how long have I been asleep?”
The Eye of the Beholder Page 2