If it weren’t for the fact that to get to Paseo de Beso in Bucerias you have to steel yourself for the rigorous assault of the flea market, where I’m always tempted to wear a sandwich board around my neck that says, “NO, GRACIAS, I DON’T WANT MY NAME WRITTEN ON A GRAIN OF RICE NOR DO I WANT TO BUY A SOMBRERO,” I’d come by more often.

I like this little Alley of the Kiss. And since tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, I thought it seemed appropriate to visit. What I was hoping to do was snap a pic of some young lovers making out against one of the beso murals, and while there were, indeed, several couples who giggled and then smooched while leaning against the wall, taking their picture—or at least trying to—seemed a little too voyeuristic.

So I gave up on that idea and just took a couple of shots of my favorite murals. I like this El Beso del Amor, with the strange shape of the man’s head and the fact that he’s holding a hammer while she’s got a bunch of calla lilies in her hand.

Isn’t the calla lily a symbol of rebirth? So he’s got a hammer that symbolizes, what? Building something? For the future? (Let’s hope it’s that and not, “You’d better kiss me or I’m going to smash your face with this hammer.”) And she’s got a flower symbolizing rebirth. So maybe the fact that it’s a middle-aged couple means that this is a second romance for them and with their love they are building a new future together, being reborn.

I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do with that.

But my favorite beso mural is one of a young, unattractive girl at what looks to be her First Communion, El Beso de la Paloma—The Kiss of the Dove. The dove, of course, is Jesus. So when she receives the host for the first time, she will be wedded to Jesus. So sad. But looking at her (and those big ears), don’t you just see a nunnery in her future?

Anyway, kisses and love to all today on this, my last day in Mexico–at least for a few months. Next week it’s on to Waikiki. In search of aloha.

Until then, aloha. And adios. 

We’re all a big bundle of contradictions, don’t you think? Me most of all. For instance, I can’t stomach any sort of organized religion but I love churches. I like the drama of them. For me, walking into a church is like walking on to the set of a movie soundstage. Sure it’s all an illusion, but god it’s exciting.

All during lunch I’d snuck glances at San Sebastian’s colonial church with its bright white bell tower, topped with pale blue tiles, reaching dramatically up to touch the cerulean sky. Other than the bell tower, the church looked unremarkable; boxy with little ornamentation around the edges. But for me, it was like a Christmas present. The wrapping may have been simple but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something wonderful inside.

photos by David Lansing

So after lunch, The Girls went shopping and I went to visit the church. What a treat. Rustic paintings of angels and saints, in bright colors, dangled from ropes along the walls where you’d normally find the stations of the cross.

The walls and ceiling were beautifully painted in various shades of blue and purple. Three elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling (god, I would have loved to have seen those lit up at night) and above the altar was an Italian-inspired mural of the town’s patron saint, San Sebastian. The artist, whoever it was, had obviously borrowed from a similar Medieval painting by Bartolomeo di Giovanni, retaining the pose (though tilting the head in the other direction) and the backdrop of an Italian town while losing the archers.

Bartolomeo di Giovanni painting of St. Sebastian

Saint Sebastian was an interesting guy. The story goes that he was a Roman soldier who converted to Christianity, thus pissing off the Emperor who then ordered him to be tied to a post and slain by arrows. But damnit if he didn’t survive. When the Emperor found out he said, Fine. This time I say we stone him. And that did the trick.

For some odd reason (or maybe it’s not so odd) he is the patron saint of both athletes and gays. Since he managed to survive some rather nasty treatment by the Romans, you can see why athletes venerate him. The gay thing is a little more perplexing. Unless it has something to do with the way artists like Giovanni and Moreau have depicted him. Which is to say, effeminate, buff and mostly naked. 

For some reason I’ve always associated St. Sebastian with Valentine’s Day. After all, St. Valentine, despite the reputation, doesn’t exactly look like a hottie. No matter what your sexual persuasion. Unless he qualifies as a geeky looking aesthete. But St. Sebastian definitely looks more interesting, don’t you think?

The Girls were having a tough time figuring out where we should take our comida in San Sebastian. They were like Goldilocks—Los Arrayanes was too stuffy; Los Arcos too rustic. Meanwhile, I went back to the cantina across from the plaza and had a shot of raicilla with the borrachos.

photos by David Lansing

I’ve had raicilla on a couple of other occasions and every time I drink it I wonder why. This local Mexican moonshine, which, until just recently, was illegal, smells like kerosene and tastes even worse. There’s an old story that while John Huston and Richard Burton were filming The Night of the Iguana back in the early 60s, they got hammered on raicilla and Burton made the remark that he could feel the potent fermented mash coursing through every part of his intestines. Huston assured him that was just the cactus needles in the drink.

Here’s another one of my favorite dichos, this one particular to Sierra Madre towns, like San Sebastian del Oeste, Talpa, and Mascota, that have been making raicilla since before anyone had ever heard of tequila: Para todo mal, raicilla; y para todo bien tambien. Which means, For everything bad, raicilla; and for everything good too. (By the way, some readers have sent me some of their favorite dichos as well. This one comes from kendralis@yahoo.com: Tu eres como un pulpo en el garaje; You’re like an octopus in the garage, which means “You don’t fit in.”)

They say you can have a couple of shots of raicilla and you won’t notice any effect—until you try to stand up. I can testify to the truth of this.

Once The Girls had rescued me from my borracho friends and safely maneuvered me across the street to El Fortin, where they’d finally decided we’d have lunch, I immediately insisted on them sampling the homemade raicilla of Gabriel, the owner, if for no other reason than equaling the conversational playing field for me. Gabriel told The Girls that he had been working on inventing a new cocktail, to be called the El Fortin, using his raicilla and a passion fruit liqueur, both of which he makes and sells at the restaurant. The Girls ordered the drinks (I switched to cerveza in an effort to rediscover my tongue). The cocktail was okay—a mix of the raicilla and passion fruit liqueur topped up with sparkling water. But the color—“Gerber’s Yams” I’d call it if I had to give it a name—was wretched.

The Girls, however, were just thirsty enough from their exploration of the town that they downed the drinks rather quickly. And then ordered another. “Put a little more alcohol in it,” they urged Gabriel. “We could hardly taste it in the first one.”

He smiled. As did I. I think The Girls are going to catch up with me rather quickly.

While The Girls walked around San Sebastian looking for someplace suitable to eat, I had a shot of Gran Centenario reposado with the cowboys at a little bar across from the plaza. At one table, three fairly drunk vaqueros were arguing about the various virtues of a lucha libre wrestlers named Mistico. I tried to stay out of it. As we all know, Mistico sucks. 

photos by David Lansing

When The Girls hadn’t shown up by the time I’d finished my tequila (and concerned that the borrachos were going to challenge me to a wrestling match), I decided to take a look around the town myself.

Just across the street from the bar was a little tienda with a couple of bags of oranges on a counter and that was about it. Although the doors were open, there was no sign of life except for a little white mutt who seemed to be watching over things. I yelled hola a couple of times but other than making the dog anxious, nothing happened.

What interested me about this little store was a sign they’d posted outside saying they sold their own homemade panelas. Which is interesting because a panela in Mexico can be one of two things: Either a fresh cheese or a very raw form of smoky sugar. I like them both. And wondered which panela this shop was selling.

I’m guessing it was cheese. Queso panela is a cow milk cheese that, traditionally, is molded in a basket and looks like the back of someone who has been sitting bare-chested  all day in a lawn chair. It’s the sort of cheese that you usually find crumbled into a salad or on top of tacos or enchiladas.

The other type of panela (also called piloncillo) comes from the boiling and evaporation of sugarcane juice. It’s what gives café de olla that subtle smoky-sweet taste. The sugar you get in a typical Mexican store is good, but homemade panela made by some country woman stirring a big open pot out in the open—that’s special. 

Either way, it would have been interesting to try. But the tienda dog wasn’t talking. And I was getting hungry. 

The weather turned hot and sticky on Saturday. The Girls, anxious to get out of town, proposed a trip to San Sebastian del Oeste in the Sierra Madre mountains.

Although San Sebastian is only 40 miles from Puerto Vallarta, it used to be a four or five hour by horse and buggy. Okay, I’m exaggerating about the horse and buggy part, but it could take half the day, particularly during the rainy season.

Then a few years ago they paved the highway between PV and Guadalajara and suddenly you could get to San Sebastian in something like an hour and a half.

Of course, that required that you didn’t get lost. And I always manage to get a little lost, particularly when traveling with The Girls who may just be the worst map readers I’ve ever known.

We kept going into little villages and asking people on the street for directions. They’d point this way or that and we’d travel on for another 20 or 30 minutes before I’d announce, “I don’t think this is the right way.” And then we’d backtrack and take a different turn until, once again, we were totally lost. The only thing I was sure of was there was a big honking bridge somewhere between Las Palmas and Mascota, called El Progreso, and if we ever saw that, we’d be close.

photos by David Lansing

I’d pretty much resigned myself to the idea that we were going to be driving for the next six or seven hours and would suddenly be in Guadalajara—which would have been fine—when we came around a blind turn in the mountains and there it was—the rainbow bridge, El Progreso.

After that we only got lost once when I didn’t see the sign that had fallen over in La Estancia telling you where to turn to go east to San Sebastian. Fortunately, we came across a couple of bomberos (firemen) having a smoke along the side of the road (I know, the irony of it, right?). The Girls got out (I think the bomberos thought it was their lucky day), gave the boys a big smile, and next thing you know, we were headed up the right road.

Twenty minutes later, we were in San Sebastian. Just as everyone was shutting down for comida. Oh well. We’d made it. And the restaurants around the plaza were still open. So we joined the rest of the locals and looked for someplace to have a meal.

The whale watching trips out of Punta Mita generally run about three hours, so if you go out in the morning, you get back around 1 and are starving. And thirsty.

Fortunately, there are several nearby solutions to this problem. While there are no great surfing beaches in Punta Mita, there are several close by. Like El Faro and Buros. And wherever you have surfing beaches, you have surfers. And surf shops. And tattoo stores. And places to get street food that is cheap and full of beans and rice and cheese. This is true of Punta Mita as well.

If you’re feeling like something a little more classy, then you walk down to Tino’s and you get his justly famous pescado zarandeado, which is a whole red snapper, marinated in chiles and lime and soy sauce and then grilled so that the skin is charred (and delicious) and the meat is sweet and juicy.

photos by David Lansing

I love this for dinner, when you can dress up a bit and take advantage of the sunset. But it always feels a bit extravagant for lunch (particularly when I’m in flip-flops and wet swim trunks). So I prefer to go next door to El Dorado, a typical Mexican beach restaurant where people sit on yellow sling chairs right on the sand and tend to spend two or three hours ordering pitchers of margaritas and bowls of thick guacamole while staring at the ocean and loosing track of time.

At least, that’s what I do.

And I don’t think I’m alone. When I went there earlier this week, there were three young hipsters zoned out in the sling chairs next to me and mid-way through my first margarita a young bearded dude who, no doubt, is the lead singer in one of those sensitivo male bands, like Bon Iver or Fleet Foxes, turned to me and said, “Señor”, (I love that–a gringo calling another gringo Señor), “¿Cuándo es?”

When I told him it was a little after two, he sat up straight in his sling chair (sort of) and said, “Shit! We’ve been here for four hours? I think I was supposed to get together with Dog for lunch.”

And then his two female companions (one of whom, I think, was sound asleep, though it was hard to tell for sure because of the dark sunglasses), giggled.

“We should get our tab and head back,” said Mr. Sensitivo.

There was a pause. And then the prettier of the two yawned and said, “Screw Dog. I say we order another pitcher of margaritas.”

A girl of my own tastes. 

Ty and I weren’t the only ones on the Punta Mita Expedition’s panga. There was also Carlos, the captain, who had an uncanny sense of knowing where the big boys would be coming up to breech well before we even knew there were any whales around. And there was a family from Michigan, staying at the nearby Four Seasons Resort, that nearly drove me crazy. Actually, the two little girls—Jackie and Natalie—were fine. And Nancy, the mom was very cool as well. It was Dad I wanted to toss from the panga (and I don’t think I was the only one).

photos by David Lansing

Okay, he said he was from Michigan but I’d be willing to bet a case of Coronas that he was originally from New Jersey. Just the accent alone screamed Jersey. And I heard a lot of it because the guy would not stop talking. I could probably tell you his whole life history if I hadn’t stopped listening shortly after Carlos lifted anchor and gunned the boat towards the Marieta Islands. And then he started asking me a million questions—where was I from, what did I do, where was I staying.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. What really drove me crazy is the way he kept yelling at his two girls. “Jackie…JACK-ie. Ovah heah. You’re missin’ it…one just jumped. Jackie, you’re missin’ it.”

Non-stop. As if it were even possible to miss seeing a 50-foot whale launch itself out of the water maybe 20 feet in front of you.

At one point we got into the middle of a giant school of acrobatic pantropical spotted dolphins. I mean like hundreds of them. There were dozens running in front of the panga. There were hundreds on either side of us. It was a friggin’ river of dolphins. They’d leap way out of the water. They’d do flips. I mean it was a circus show out in the Bay of Banderas.

There was nowhere to look where you wouldn’t see a dolphin, even if you tried. Yet here was Jersey Dad screaming, “Natalie…NAT-a-lie. Ovah heah! A dolphin just jumped. You’re missin’ it, Nat. Look! Look ovah heah!”

The guy was crazy. But Natalie and Jackie, who were like 7 and 8 years old, were very cool about things. They just totally ignored their dad. Like they never even heard him. Which, believe me, was impossible.

Finally, I think everyone—the humpbacks, the dolphins, even the frigate birds—got sick of Dad because they all cleared out. Leaving us with nothing but a calm sea. At which point Jersey Dad took a nap and Carlos headed us back towards Punta Mita.

And I swear, I have no idea how the rope to the anchor got twisted around Jersey Dad’s leg. I guess it’s just lucky one of the girls spotted it before Carlos threw it over. But don’t you think it’s odd his wife didn’t notice it? Especially since she was sitting right next to him on the panga?

Crickey! That’s the word that comes to mind when a 50-foot humpback whale weighing something like 40 tons comes flying out of the water right in front of you. Actually, I think crickey is the word Ty used. I said something more along the lines of Holy Shit!

I’ve spotted whales all over the world, from Maui to New Zealand, but I’ve never seen anything like the performance put on yesterday morning by a pod of tail-slapping, spy-hopping, lob-tailing males off Punta Mita in the Bay of Banderas.

photos by David Lansing

According to Ty, who is both a naturalist working for Punta Mita Expeditions and a professional nature photographer (check out some of her amazing shots of breeching humpbacks, spinning dolphins, and flying manta rays at Drifting Seas), we were in the middle of what is known as a competitive group of males fighting for the attention of a single female (who, as far as I could tell, was unimpressed by the boy’s theatrics).

These big ol’ bulls charged each other and you’d swear you could hear their massive bodies slamming into one another just beneath the surface. Sometimes a pair of big ol’ boys would come up out of the water together, their bodies wrapped around each other like football lineman right after the snap.

And the sounds they made. Not beautiful lilting sounds but more of a belligerent sound of underwater horns preparing for some great battle. Like this:  whale1

It was fascinating but also a little scary. I mean it was like being in the middle of a rugby scrum. I could only hope that while they were slamming into each other all around us that they were at least somewhat aware of the presence of our panga.

Very brutal in some ways. But god what a show they put on. 

From my condo it’s about a 45 minute walk along the beach to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle. For years, La Cruz was little more than a place for the local fishermen to haul out their pangas. But then a couple of years ago the Mexican government built a big first-class marina here. It hasn’t really caught on yet. Most of the dock space is still empty. Yachties I know who have docked here say it’s not really worth it. You pay the same as you would for a slip space in the Puerto Vallarta marina but there are fewer services nearby. Still, several 4-star resorts have recently opened just up the coast (including the St. Regis) and maybe in 20 or 30 years it will become the Mexican Cannes.

Or not.

There are, however, a couple of interesting places to eat. One is called Tacos on the Street because…well, they put tables and chairs out on the street and that’s where you eat. It’s a family run place, owned by Jorge and his wife Raquel. Jorge cooks up the rib eye steaks that are chopped up for the tacos and Raquel is in charge of making the fresh corn tortillas and salsa.

This is their home and the restaurant side of the business is only open three nights a week—Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. They don’t have a liquor license but they don’t mind at all if you buy a beer or two at the market on the corner. Or even bring your own wine if you want.

The rib-eye tacos are amazing. The last time I ate there, I had six of them. And only stopped ordering because I thought I was making a pig of myself.

Then there’s Ana Bananas which you could say faces the marina if there was a view of the water, which there isn’t. There used to be. But when they built the marina they dumped earth in front of the outdoor patio and now it’s just a four-foot berm obliterating the view. Ana says they promised they would come back one day and remove the mound of earth and rocks but she isn’t holding her breath.

So, instead, she had some shade cloth painted with a scene of what the beach looked like before the marina was built. And this shade hangs on some PVC poles on the patio in front of the berm. So you can, you know, sort of imagine what the view would be like without the hideous mound of earth.

I’m not going to say the food is great at Ana Bananas because it’s not. It’s basically the sort of crap that yachties always seem to want—cheeseburgers, club sandwiches, nachos. But nobody comes here for the food (or the view). They come here on weekend evenings for the cheap beers and live music—the Banana Jam, as it’s called.

You never know who is going to be playing. As the white board in front of Ana’s says, the Rock of Ages band is made up of “friends and singers from far and near.” Which means whoever happens to be in the area and feels like jamming. Sometimes the music is awful. Sometimes it’s extraordinary. But it’s always interesting. 

Here’s an amazing thing: if you drink Manhattans when you’re in Mexico, as I do, you won’t be able to find bourbon—any bourbon—let alone maraschino cherries. Instead, you have to bring your own from the States.

However, the trade-off is that you can buy freshly-made, still-warm tortillas just about anywhere. And no matter where you get them, they will be better than anything you can buy in the States.

photos by David Lansing

When I’m in Sayulita, I get my tortillas, after a morning at the beach, at this little market called Alas Blancas (White Wings). It’s easy to find because it’s got a giant tequila bottle and a huge beer can on the roof.

It’s like a little 7-11 except where a 7-11 stocks 20 facings of 50 products, a Mexican market carries 10 facings of 300 products. They do it by not devoting a huge amount of space to the big-margin items like Coke and potato chips. Yes, you can buy Coke and chips at a Mexican market, but you won’t find a whole aisle devoted to that crap.

Instead, you get an end-aisle with 15 different types of hot sauce! Even though it’s hard to make much money selling hot sauce. And then there will be two or three plastic coolers, usually close to the cash register, filled with still-steaming corn tortillas. Three dozen will cost you less than a buck. So obviously they’re not making much money here either. But, hey, in Mexico, this is what the people want—hot sauce and tortillas. Not 20 different types of tortilla chips (in fact, in Mexico, people think you’re stupid to buy tortilla chips. They say, “My friend, why don’t you just make your own?” Because obviously if you buy three dozen fresh corn tortillas every day, which almost everyone does, you’re going to have some left over. So why not fry them in a little oil yourself? Not only do you save yourself $3.99 by not buying Doritos but they taste better.)

Do you know about Mexican dichos? They are like our proverbs. One of my favorite dichos goes like this: Sin dinero no baila el perro. Which means, Without money the dog doesn’t dance.

So if you want the dog to dance, make your own damn tortilla chips. That’s a Lansing dicho.