The night before we left was really quite lovely. Some of our siblings came out and saw us off in style with a couple of hours at a West Lincoln bar food/pub spot that replaced a lesser bar food/pub spot where Sally and I actually had a little bit of history. Of course the trade-off was a wrenching hangover the next day pour moi that I like to think was largely born of very little sleep— not the $25 shots of whiskey.
Though Houston was too stingy to cough up free access to our beloved intertubes, it was of little matter what with my recently-purchased four-disc Big Star anthology set and lovely, beautiful baby beside me (I don’t worry when my baby’s beside me all I know…). Having experienced something like this before I knew that soon the comfortable expectancy of English-speaking crowds and flight attendants would give way to a much more alien condition; in this case, the largely Spanish-speaking hustle and bustle of the Puerto Vallarta (that’s Mexico, y’all) International Airport. Fortunately, after some still-born transportation negotiations, that ol’ lost luggage feeling and a slightly overpriced taxi ride, we were calmly pressing cold, lemony towels to our faces and getting the dish on what to expect at the dreamy B&B, la Casa Amorita.
That's Maya and Huevos Divorciados junto con my baby.
I like to think that we fell in love with the place almost immediately, as over the course of the few Rey Peterson-sponsored days we were there (thanks, Daddy-o), la Casa was a refuge and place of great pleasure and leisure: a truly perfect place to begin the journey.
Despite the oppressive humidity of the place, we explored the cobblestone streets of the town, walked its long maleceón and bits of its beaches, and wined (well, “cocktailed”) and dined at both high-end and bargain-priced restaurants and bars. We were briefly entertained by a young Kansan exchange student and I practiced my Spanish on otherwise bothersome panderers and street vendors. No voyage into town was complete without a long dip in our rain-watered pool upon our return (the pool wall tile appeared to holler “PIG PIG PIG”!), and breakfasts at la Casa were worth setting the alarm on vacation for.
Indigenous design aesthetic my ass.
All told, we had our successes and (very) minor failures, but after a couple of day trips and just enough luxury, we were ready for some crappy, dubbed, bus-ride movies (I couldn’t have enjoyed Beverly Hills Chihuahua if it weren’t on a bus and in Spanish, but on a bus and in Spanish, I almost cried) on our way to GDL: Guadalajara (about six more a’s in that word and I think they might be onto something :\).
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