This reading break, I was lucky enough to have the chance to fly south to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. A classic, right? American and Canadian tourists have been escaping their native winters for years by fleeing to warmer climates, chasing tropical dreams.
I had never taken part in this great migration before, and was excited to join the hunt for the typical Corona commercial. And when I got there, it was beautiful: golden sand beaches, 28 degrees, not a single cloud in the sky. Perfect.
The glimmers of the Mexican culture I saw were beautiful: women forgoing strollers and instead carrying their children in their arms, tiny dogs — most of them chihuahuas — the rough cobblestone streets and ascending apartment buildings, accessible sometimes only by steep, winding staircases.
If you go to the Wikipedia page for Puerto Vallarta, you’ll learn that it’s termed a “Mexican balneario resort city.” Following the link to “balneario,” you find that the word is a term for a “Latin American seaside resort town [. . .] characterized by being flooded by masses of tourists during the summer seasons.”
Flooded. Masses. I knew that Vallarta was a tourist town, but I have never before experienced a place that was so proficient in tourism.
And we tourists were everywhere. Ordering ceviche tostadas in beach restaurants on the Malecon boardwalk. Bartering ineffectively in the tequila shops. Capturing that elusive Corona commercial moment on the beach. Speaking the few canned phrases, in horribly accented Spanish, learned for the occasion: “¡Hola!” “¿Como esta?” “¡Una cerveza, por favor!” “¡Gracias!” and the all-important “No, gracias.”
I can’t count the number of times I said that ultimate phrase over the five days I spent in Puerto Vallarta. Because the curious, albeit unsurprising thing was that much of the city seemed to have adapted to profit from and envelope those sunburnt, English-speaking visitors.
Along the Malecon, there was a sea of vendors and promotional workers, inviting you in for a free margarita, for “the best tacos in the city,” to take a look at the trinkets they were selling for “the best prices.” We went to a bar that had a live donkey in it that you could ride for a few pesos; the only music they seemed to play was 60s American classics. A writhing mass of aging American tourists swayed drunkenly to the songs of their youth.
In the flea market neighbourhood — blocks and blocks of small shops packed with knickknacks — you could find stereotypical Mexican wares, blankets, silver jewellery, leather bags, and brightly painted pottery. You could also find these objects disjointedly Americanized: painted skull figurines with NFL team logos spanning their craniums.
As tourists in the city, as easy to spot as if we were wearing bullseyes, we were constantly being asked to buy: jewellery from a suitcase, hats from a precariously balanced stack, meat on a stick. Walking past those flea market stores, we were beckoned to come in insistently. On the street, taxis would slow down and flicker their lights, calling at us to come for a ride.
My disillusionment can be boiled down to one moment. One night, as I hesitated in front of the door to an ATM, a small Mexican boy ran up and put his hand on the handle, speaking and looking up at me expectantly. He couldn’t have been more than seven years old, only reaching my sternum but still managing to be an imposing figure, and he held the door shut in front of me. I apologized in my broken Spanish for not understanding, and he responded, “Dinero.”
“Money.” Clear enough.
