The statues spaced evenly along the promenade were a revelation: gods and goddesses swirling in a maelstrom towards the palms, twisting in the midst of physical transformation, looking down upon their thrones, and ordering their monks to build them a ladder to the heavens. The synthesis of these sights and sounds created the atmosphere you crave when traveling southward. If you want history and refinement, if you want the waltz, go to Europe. But if you want creativity and vitality, the samba, the salsa, or the tango, go to a place like Puerto Vallarta. As the sunset waned and spread it’s pinks and oranges across the horizon, we passed the Cathedral of Our Lady Guadalupe that towered over the town, turned left along the brine river where children were still playing, and walked through a faintly lit open market shaded by banyan trees. Finally, we crossed the river and curved back towards El Malecon.
Then, the dream unraveled. The very last building on this paradise corridor was in fact a Hooters.
Now, I’m a red-blooded American male. In certain situations, I might be willing to listen to arguments that Hooters itself is paradise. But not here. Not now. Not in the middle of the “Romantic Zone,” two hundred yards from the Virgin Guadalupe‘s cathedral, in the village of Puerto Vallarta, in the state of Jalisco, in the nation of Mexico. Our visions of salsa and tango were eclipsed, and in their place we could see the insidious bumping and grinding of drunken college kids.
And then as quickly as it had appeared, the nightmare faded. We found ourselves on the streets running parallel to El Malecon, amidst restaurants of all styles and art galleries filled with daring and intriguing work. We walked past gift shops filled with regional crafts, scrawling down names and addresses so we could return the next day. Struck by that overwhelming desire for food brought on by a few sunset margaritas, we continued up the hill, eventually passing out of this suddenly discovered art district. It seemed as if we had been transported from Mexico to Myrtle Beach, and then to Chelsea, and then to Mexico once more. We were diving through wave after wave of varying culture, having to travel no further than a block or two for something new.
