The story behind the PV Pitch begins with a list of notes, since I sense that’s what authors do, except perhaps Steinbeck who tended to organize his plots cerebrally. Peruse Fitzgerald’s notebooks as an example of written ideas and character snapshots that can be inserted into a narrative, a revelation of observed details about the quirkiness of humans. My notes instead direct this memoir, leaving the descriptions to be made on the spot. So, let’s have a go: “ PV – Look for house that steps up a hill, above the river and market, where we spent our last vacation with Mickey.” My best friend had died more than a decade earlier, but he and his partner had gone back to Puerto Vallarta with us one last time while he was losing his health because we spent a few fine vacations there, when we could rarely afford exotic trips. This time around, I wanted to “eat tacos on the street” again, taste the quick flash of soft shells slathered with onions and carnitas, while sauntering our way to the beach at the south end of the bay, where the boys once played — Tom and Jess who first connected us to a rental up Gringo Gulch at the end of the 70s were dead, too. (Too many friends had died of AIDS, so this was a memorial trip of sorts, a time when we could revisit the food stalls, houses, and streets we had roamed, without their untimely deaths derailing the experience.) Buy a “Cuban for Luke” my compadre at work. “Go to northern towns, away from the resorts of the near shore of the bay.” That was the last instruction on my first page of things to do, my trip notes. The shill at the airport suggested Sayulita, a surfing hideaway that had attracted the tourist crowd during the last year, after a road had been built through the jungle to connect this town to PV.
Let me back up, reader. We had been to Puerto Vallarta in 1979, 1980, 1984, and 1990. We encountered it when it was busting wide open with places that have since become franchises like Senor Frog’s. You thought those places originally spread across America in the late twentieth century, suburb to suburb, Mexican-gringo joints where strip-mall addicts stuff their jowly mugs. They started in PV or Mazatlan, and we were there, but we didn’t visit those places then and we don’t eat there now. Our clubbin’ friends would hit these Glendale-style meat markets for margaritas each evening, then dance the night away doing poppers at the discos in town. Most nights, we stayed in our rental, drinking Tecates and cooking dishes like Turtle Diane after shopping the markets. For lunch, we ate tacos on the streets; or purchased huachinango on sticks from the beach vendors. Not much of that this time around, but Jimmy in the Hawaiian shirt, one of our last stops on the resort sales pitch from hell, had us pegged after he rhetorically remarked, “You don’t like to stay at resorts.” We may enjoy restaurants these days — we live in Baker and can afford frequent night outs, albeit we try to make Happy Hour for the specials — but there was little chance that we could be cajoled into buying a time-share, regardless of how many times we were told that it was not a time-share. The condos took the place of the good times franchised Mexican food emporiums we initially avoided — that word perfectly describes the shopping center mentality of the ribald high class purchased at affordable prices. We aren’t Old Navy clothes shoppers!
It all starts at the airport, where we are ushered to a counter to talk to a fellow about our plans in PV. Diving, snorkeling, kayaking — why, we are oldsters on vacation in Mexico. We are back to feeling good about each other, after seeing a therapist the week before, who turned out to be a great gal. Saying we are in love again is a bit of a stretch; still we arrive at the airport enjoying each other’s company. So we listen patiently to this joking agent, who quickly sizes us up as having a few bucks. We like him well enough to listen, but days later, after the resort pitch, we wonder how he could have so mistaken us as genuine candidates for a posh resort experience. All Rae talks about is street food, markets, and public busses. Not exactly the fare of the rich and famous. Nonetheless, after alerting us to the best boats and trips for all those water sports we want to pursue on this Fall break, Pedro informs us that he will cut the price in half to 150 American if we attend a short seminar on a new resort north of town. He will pick us up and deliver us, where we will only be required to spend ninety minutes, including a breakfast spread, listening to the shtick. We are both apprehensive, but I’m a new man, the “yes man” ready to clap my hands and say yeah, so I say “allrightey” instead, harboring an undercurrent of a sneer. We will see Pedro in the morning, “bring an appetite,” he tells us, but don’t mention this to your hotel concierge, because he might try to get credit for my coyote — those are my words, not his.
We are staying at an old hotel, at the top of the hill above Puerto Vallarta, central and six blocks from El Malecon, a perfect spot with a pool, lots of hand carved wood, even the elevator doors, but not exactly a resort. Why Pedro is concerned about revealing our appointment, we are never quite sure. But the rules he adheres to should have alerted us to the levels of intrigue that surround this resort pitch. But he gets us a cab to our hotel, and we proceed to eat our fill and drink Reposada through the evening. We go for a walk and find the pension on the hill where we had last vacationed with Mickey and Will, above the river and a noisy fish restaurant, but the wrought-iron gate is locked, so we can’t walk up the steps to this nostalgic hideaway. We eat tacos at a stand, savoring those carnitas sauced up with homegrown salsa. With our wakeup call the next morning, we expect a taxi at our door. But there is Pedro, walking up the street to greet us. He had left the taxi down the hill, to secrete us away.
One reason that we had consented was his mention of the fact that this wonderful resort was Mexican owned; so we were helping the economy. There is money for cabbies, and money for agents at the airport, and money for the resort, and money for the families of the pitchmen whom we come to know so well. They all seem personable to start. (After the pitch, we learn that Puerto Vallarta intends to shut down the shills at the airport; how would anyone make money then?) In the cab, Pedro tells us that he wanted to ski in Colorado, where we live, that he had never seen snow. He delivers us to the front desk of the resort, where we met Elena, who offers us demitasse coffee and checks our credit card and driver’s licenses — only the substantial are invited to a seminar. Why, “we had made it,” soon to become targets of con men and grifters. We gleam with pride over our status, while at the same time we woefully eye our luxurious surroundings: the indoor fountains, gleaming tile floors, and flora always kept at its peak. The brick ceilings arch in cathedral whorls, studied by architects worldwide we are told. Not exactly the vacation experience we find alluring — we trend towards historic and offbeat environments. (We had first moved as a couple in 1979 to a duplex in Denver’s Baker, a neighborhood bordering on blighted where first time homebuyers received subsidies from the FHA — mostly urbanites including many gay men moved in. Tom and Jess owned the duplex and rented the other half to us, offering their own subsidy in sweat equity, as we painted walls dark blue and sanded pine floors and exposed red brick walls.) We are introduced to Juan, who will be our main man during most of the tour.
Juan is tall, no doubt chosen to match me in height, as we come to learn the significance of presentation to these sharks who tow us under in waves. He comes off as stiff, his dorsal exposed, dressed in a blazer and khakis, with one child, and a wife who is American, and he hopes to return to Washington State someday, where he had met his wife and spent three years in college. He has a three year old, and takes out a worn picture of this bambino when he was but one. Å family man Juan professes to be, but only one picture of a baby from two years earlier? This impresses us, after the fact, as one of those things that doesn’t add up. Juan makes small talk while we eat breakfast, before launching into myriad stupid jokes. We are served the typical American tourist buffet: bacon, eggs, potatoes, but with the added cultural condiments of chorizo, chili, and salsas, plus tortillas, and fruit for dessert. Before he tours us about the complex of buildings situated on the creamy north shore of the Bay of Banderas, he stands up and shouts to this floor of salesmen and potential investors, “On Tour Now”. These people broadcast their every move, as if we are undertaking an ocean journey on the QEII — all aboard for our odyssey with Juan. If only we had plugged our ears with beeswax and sailed past his smoke on the water.
Walking past the pool, with swim-up bar attended by a bevy of oldsters and norte-americanos, Juan insists that we call it an “ool” because “there is no pee in our pool.” He mentions “OPM” using other people’s money to finance a vacation or a purchase of a timeshare. “BAD” represents the reasons to buy insurance, because houses burn, accidents happen, and then of course we die. Buying a piece of this resort pie will enable us to always take a vacation, because other people will be knocking on our door, ready to rent our rights to live the Miller high life in Puerto Vallarta — this place is the champagne of Mexican bottled beers. We will immediately profit from our investment. Juan points out the airport located just across the entry drive to the resort, beaming with pride at its proximity. (We had erroneously considered airport noise a detriment to rest and recreation.) The apartments feature an array of arrangements, studios combined with one and two bedrooms, featuring clamshell motifs above the beds, as if every occupant can daily rise a Venus. Sectional couches, the finest the color of gold, invite cocktails and conversations from the new owner occupants. The last thing I remember about Juan is that his wife is a teacher, just like me. In fact, Juan tells me that I will get a gold star if I choose to invest. I assume she teaches elementary school, since that is not how I entice my high schoolers — they get good grades for hard work and intelligence. Juan has already forgotten that we have a son; I suppose he may have misplaced our single-child mission in life. The gold sectionals don’t impress us as family friendly. We suppose the more bedrooms, the more friends a person has, the more rentals that can be arranged. He is too preoccupied shticking to the script.
After breakfast, but before Juan sits us down to give up the program on the resort, he calls out, “Manager Assistance Now”. Miguel joins us, quickly checks our credentials and application for the pitch, and approves us for the “courtesy tour” of the complex. Here is yet another gatekeeper, our fourth of the day. We don’t realize that we are only halfway through our journey of self-discovery, where we will fight battles with monsters bent on blood money, lotus eaters who will welcome us to taste the luxury that will make us forget our simple home. If we contest the protocol or pitch, we are skewered with new faces and facts. Rae wants to shout out to a doddering blue hair arrivee across the room to abandon ship. An elevation drawing of a cruise ship posted on the wall behind Juan captures my distracted gaze. A pretty gal spends the hour in a day care room plumping teddy bears for the anticipated hordes of children who will require her assistance while their dumbfounded parents tour the complex. Juan fails to put the bite on us, so we are introduced to a new captain, the Glengarry Glen Ross gorgon of sales, Lester Lake.
“Cadillacs and kids!” he shouts in our face when we ask how he broke his wrist. He is short, blonde-to-grey, wearing a pink shirt and scarlet tie with nondescript medallions; I had already noticed him at breakfast, a boisterous bloke. No explanation for his comment; everything Lester tells us is beyond repute, according to Lester. He thinks of himself as a philanthropist, giving back to the community by providing jobs, and invites us to join him. He has volunteered to build hospitals and schools. His parents are designers and teachers. Coincidentally, so are Rae and I. His father died in a car wreck, but not before Lester had followed the Baja 1000 with him. Coincidentally, we had been in the Baja to dive, just a year ago. “Educate, don’t speculate,” he cautions us. Look at the data, look at the owners posing with El Presidente. He congratulates me on being one of the few people to ever recognize the president. Rae tells Lester, “you’re good,” and he motions with a smile and smirk that he knows it. “Blanco Libro” and “Bring the White Book” Lester shouts across the room. Here are testimonials to his power of persuasion. The front and back covers of this binder display letters lavishing praise on hero Lester. The New York Times has recommended this innovative timeshare scheme. Finally Rae facetiously yet sincerely proffers that she prefers tours of the hill countries of Southeast Asia, sleeping in huts on dirt floors, squatting at toilets. Lester assures her that such a tour is available on the ecotours for which we could trade our timeshare. He lets on that his grandmother used to plow the streets of Boulder when there were boardwalks, back in 1970. Rae tells him she lived there in 1970, and never saw a boardwalk. Lester pushes on, telling us that poor Juan has to make 2 million in sales this year, or he will be fired. If he sells 2.2 million, the owners of the resort give him a car as a bonus. That’s how close they cut it. So, the future of Juan’s child and his improved mobility are tied to our purchase. (How have we arrived at this Loch Ness quandary after originally finding the Bay of Banderas to be a comfortable getaway back in the day?)
Rae and I had begun to roll our eyes an hour before this, but watching Lester in action is a lesson in showmanship, PT Barnum style. He jibs and jabs, matching our every question and query with an advantage to be gleaned. My notes quote him as saying, “Smart travelers invest.” The price moves down from $180K to $12K, at last count, but we won’t budge. Juan’s new car is a total wreck! We may have become substantial, but apparently not so smart. At one point, Lester tries to shame us by pointing out the “CT” on our application — we had only been approved for the “courtesy tour.” I surmise that we had been marked down from our assumed status of substantial. So they call in their boss, to release us from custody, to allow us to leave after three hours. We are looking forward to the beach, and this scam scene is making the sand and water that much more desirable. Their boss is clear on one point — we had wasted their time and money. “We spent 600 pesos on you,” and I’m sure he wants to append, pendejo.
The truth is, they had spent considerably more, counting three taxi rides, half our snorkeling, diving, and kayaking costs, and breakfast. But the pitch was interminable, and we aren’t surfing yet. Next we see Jimmy, the nicely-fatted, American laid-back Deadhead in the Hawaiian shirt, who checks us out and concludes that we don’t like resorts (for some odd reason). He had spent two years in Breckenridge. Talk to me about a mountain town that sold its soul to tourism, all those San Francisco painted ladies posing as houses and retail shops. He shunts us off to Melinda, who is trying her best to authorize our prizes — those valuable coupons and reservations for boats the next two days — but she says that Pedro, the first shill at the airport, was sorely mistaken about the boats he had recommended. We are going to Las Marietas islands two days in a row, and there is no need to do that. And the boat we had booked for the second day, the Geronimo, usually only has two kayaks, so we will never get a chance to paddle about. It will be better if we spend the day at the resort, and use their kayaks, and the management will gladly pay our entire bill for diving. Just like at the airport, Rae says, “It’s up to you,” and although I was now the “yes man,” I hesitated, backed off, and refused. We were booked, we are looking forward to the boat ride both days, and I see little benefit in letting them pay us off entirely. If we agree, we will no doubt be at their mercy the whole day on the beach. Pedro will hire a cab for us, Juan will set us up with drinks, Lester will take another shot at us after lunch, and Melinda will insist that she can offer us kayaks only if we invest.
The hack lets us off at a staging area for busses north. It is the Wal-Mart stop, which everyone in Puerto Vallarta knows to recommend to tourists, because that’s where norte-americanos shop. We spend a leisurely hour on the bus, watching the jungle engulf us, before we land in Sayulita, which has all the markings of becoming the next Breckenridge. It has an alternative style population of folks wearing dreads, gallery owners who don’t care if they sell because it’s about the art and atmosphere, and restaurateurs who close when they want, but tourist families are moving in. We’re glad that we’re there in the beginning, and see a Sayulita that is still accessible, still a bit sleepy, and still more about surfing than tourists. It reminds us of the Puerto Vallarta we knew when we first visited, twice without a kid in tow, twice with a young son first three and then ten, who got to spend time on the beach with his godfather Mickey, all of us driving to Las Hadas in a VW black bug, which the three year old called the Darth Vader car. We were family before AIDS and its metaphors struck, before condo commercialization replaced days on the beach eating fish on a stick and drinking Coronas con limón. Sayulita makes us think there’s a new generation discovering its resort in the jungle, living easy, marking sun time with friends.
We spend the next two days boating out to the islands, on two boats entirely different: a dive boat where we are entertained Karaoke style on the way back, and a snorkeling boat with just a handful of guests, plenty of kayaks, and lunch and drinks and a music mix of salsa and reggae that leaves a nice taste in our mouths. The wider side of Puerto Vallarta proves worth the effort. The two dinners we enjoy in a family restaurant down the hill from our hotel are delightful. So we get our kicks both close in town, and far, far away. I buy a cigar for my friend Luke at the airport. We had enough of the pitch and role-playing of tourist vendors, but must admit, they told a good story. The story we heartily-departed missed was wandering with Mickey the neighborhood streets across Gringo Gulch tripping through the night; closing down the Revolución bar before stumbling into the bus station for one more for the road; getting burnt on the beach with Tom and Jess and Will and Mickey, before melanoma advised against extreme tanning; funning with a young blonde son on a big wave beach the locals enrapt with his DA hair; driving in the Darth Vader car to Las Hadas for two free nights and only staying for one because it was too American, too much like the golden resort on the north shore of the Bay of Banderas where we could one day share luxury time with our substantial friends. If only we were smart, and not so superior.
(most photos by Drae)