Driving into downtown Puerto Vallarta on Friday night I couldn’t help but smile as I cranked the 80s station, rolled down the window and howled out towards the ocean, a resounding cry of freedom having only months before ended a four-year relationship, my independence now feasting on this new sea of liberation laid out before me. Vallarta’s boardwalk or malecón seems to fuse two worlds into one. On one side is the vastness of water and sky, on the other, restaurants, bars and dance clubs pulse into the night to such an eclectic beat that recommending one over the other might be as disserving as trying to convince someone which ice cream is most delicious. There is an element of diversity which lends to the excitement of an international crowd melding into the Mexican; walking from block-to-block through this festival for the senses felt like tuning the radio where I only needed to select a station and step inside.
I walked along trying to decide where to start my evening. Looking into the window of La Cantina, an old-style Mexican bar with an almost European pub flair, I was drawn to an olive-skinned Mexican woman sitting at the bar. She was chatting with the barman, laughing, and as she threw her head back her jovial Castilian hair danced across her brow leaving only part of her face visible for me to appreciate the café and honey flavour in her iris that shone like a tiger’s eye agate. Inhaling I walked in and sat a couple of seats away, ordered a Bacardi and Squirt and pretended I hadn’t noticed her yet.
She was looking at me, I turned to see her and her easy gaze and smiling expression that reminded me of humanity and understanding and that in some precious moment of muted communication borders and cultural differences are being breached with only vulnerability present as silent witness. Now, was I imagining this? I had certainly been wrong in the past and it wouldn’t be a stretch to suggest I have an overly active creative imagination. Sweat was now beading my temple and as I chugged my entire drink in dizzy nervousness I am embarrassed to admit that, still having a dozen places to visit and in the same disappearing fashion as I have manifested so many times before, I bit my lip to what might have been, paid my tab, and saying adios to an unspoken conversation that seemed so much more substantial than words might afford, I left the bar and not looking back swallowed hard to ignore the encroaching lump-in-my-throat-feeling.
Clearing my head with the sea salt breeze I moved on to explore what this fishing community turned nightlife oasis might inspire. It is clear that Vallarta is symphonic in it’s atmosphere creating a certain harmony between the appreciation of nature and the celebration of life in this rhythmic, Latin way which makes us want to scream, “Viva Mexico!” Space no longer seems as important as the energy of the people around you, the tempo of the waves, the small town heartbeat of a beach village turned glamourous while still remaining grounded. From country to rock, piano and jazz, there is enough variety of place and sound to find what you’re looking for. Before anyone could say, “Mi casa es su casa,” I delved into the crowd of young Mexicans working the dance floor at Hilo, a trendy beach-front disco open to the ocean air and replete with a second-story balcony for a view of the fun. Equally impressive are bars like La Bodeguita del Medio where a more sophisticated group enjoys live Cuban music and dancing with a Bohemian feel.
As the night drew on I was happy. Not wanting the magic to end, I left the downtown malecón area to check out J & B’s, a real Mexican salsa club not as commonly frequented by the general tourist crowd. Climbing the stairs to the dance hall I winced at the thought of trying to move to anything even slightly choreographed, especially where, God forbid, the girl might want to do a turn causing me to completely fall out of rhythm, at which point she would kindly tell me, “Thanks,” and go back to her table. But as I reached the second floor I stopped still. There she was, the woman from La Cantina. She was standing in front of me, smiling. I wondered how anyone could smile so much without laughing and was about to ask when she took my hand and we walked out onto the dance floor. Our bodies moved in harmony, familiar and new. As I looked up from my dancing feet there were people watching us, or were they watching her? I didn’t care, I spun her around and got right back into step. We moved together in synchronicity, traversing boundaries with this international language we had developed in silence and then I spoke. “My name’s Jay,” I told her. “Hermoso Jay,” she said. Beautiful Jay. She held my hand and watched me. “Is this heaven?” I asked her. “No,” she giggled. “Just Mexico.”
