The Eye of the Beholder Read online

  “A couple of hours.”

  “I’m sorry, I just meant to rest my eyes for a minute.”

  “That’s okay, Randy. This is our vacation—we’re supposed to be relaxing.”

  “Well, technically it is our honeymoon, and we’re supposed to be enjoying it together. And you wanted to go to the pool.”

  “No worries. I caught some sun from our patio, looked through the hotel materials, and read my book.” He motioned to the Lee Child paperback he had picked up at the airport. “If you feel like it, we could clean up and head out to watch the sunset from that bar on the Malecon, and then decide where we might want to eat.”

  “That sounds lovely.” I heaved myself off the bed, and headed for the bathroom. “I guess this is what happens when you honeymoon in middle age.”

  “What?” Steve smiled.

  “You end up spending a lot of time in your hotel room … napping.”

  Steve laughed. “Oh, I think we can give the young ones a run for their money this week.”

  I shimmied in mock seduction down the side of the bathroom doorway.

  “Rrrrrr,” I growled, and then went to have a shower and wash the sleep drool off my cheek.

  5

  In Mexico, it’s customary to close down business for three or four hours in the afternoon for a siesta, a time to rest, nap, or regroup in the shade, during from the hottest part of the day. Of course, in a tourist mecca such as Puerto Vallarta, most of the stores and restaurants didn’t close, but I was betting it would be easier to get a plumber or electrician out at five p.m. than at two p.m.

  Now, freshened up and wearing my pretty black sundress with the huge cabbage roses dotted on it, my black strappy sandals, and my Sophia Loren sunglasses, I felt like the whole town was laid out for me, a shiny new bride. Steve, even out of his uniform, turned heads, and both men and women eyed his strong, tall frame. His arms and legs visible now, as he wore a plaid short-sleeved shirt and cargo shorts, weren’t as burnished as some of the people we passed, but he wasn’t as glowingly white as some due to his Black Irish ancestry. The ropiness of his arms and strong muscles in his calves made up for the leathery tropical tan of long-term visitors or the natural glow of the Mexican nationals.

  Steve tanned easily, but I was going to have to watch myself, because as time went on, I had become more and more sun sensitive. It would be a fine thing to come back from a honeymoon in paradise with a horrible rash all over my arms and legs.

  We found the Cheeky Monkey, and told the hostess that we had come to celebrate the sunset. She nodded enthusiastically and led us to a table by the open air window, where a waiter immediately came to offer us a selection of margaritas, and left menus to tempt us to stay for supper. Shortly after our drinks arrived and our order for fish tacos went in, the music level rose from background to dominant, and “Con te partiro” by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman began to play.

  The sun was nearing the ocean, and as the music swelled, it sank into the sea. The song ended and the whole restaurant erupted in applause, as if the sun had performed exclusively for our benefit. I found it charming, though that might have been the margaritas talking.

  We wandered back to our hotel in the old part of town, passing night clubs open to the Malecon, and their electronic music, girls on swings, pulsing lights, and the promise of foam parties.

  “I have no doubt those will be even hotter spots come tomorrow,” Steve noted, ever the cop. I was too busy watching a little girl seriously choosing a coloured wand from a street vendor while her mother and father looked on happily. Everyone we saw was focused on having a pleasant holiday and the staff at every venue, including the street and beach hawkers, seemed to wish the same thing for their visitors.

  We decided to take the beach walk once we were back in Old Town, and as we rounded the corner, we heard the unmistakable sound of mariachi music. There was a full band playing in a restaurant, resplendent in maroon costumes with silver starbursts down the sides of their trousers. We asked the hostess if we could come in for just a drink and she smiled and nodded, pointing us toward the bar at the far end of the open room.

  We settled in, after ordering strawberry margaritas, to hear the music. There were eight of them, a guitar player, two violinists, two trumpeters, a fellow playing a mini guitar called a vihuela that was about twice the size of a ukulele, a large man with an even larger guitar called a guitaron, and a singer. I took a few snaps, and vowed to buy some mariachi CDs when I got home.

  They played all my favourites from my mother’s old Mariachi Vargas records: “Cielito Lindo,” “Guadalajara,” “La Bikina,” “Jalisco,” “La Bamba,” and a new song to me, “Mariachi Loco.” After a few more songs I didn’t recognize, they bowed and took a break.

  “According to the magazine in the room,” Steve said, “Jalisco—the state we’re in—is famous for several things: mariachi and ranchera music, tequila, rodeos, and sombreros.”

  “So, in other words, most of what we foreigners think about when we think of Mexico?”

  “Yep. Did you know there is a Mariachi Music Festival yearly in Guadalajara?”

  “That sounds like a wonderful vacation all on its own!”

  “Maybe as an anniversary trip, Ms. Craig?”

  “You’re on, Mr. Browning.”

  After paying for our drinks, we wandered another block down the beach walk to the street that led up to our hotel, and I felt as if weights were sliding off my shoulders. It had been a busy time, teaching and simultaneously planning the logistics of the wedding, sorting out all the bureaucratic changes that were going to have to happen, as well as the hassles of moving and combining households. Steve had been right to suggest we do all that before the wedding, though, because now we could truly relax and indulge ourselves.

  That was one of the best parts of being married, I was finding—having two heads when it came to deciding things. I smiled to myself as we climbed the stairs to our room. How long was that going to seem like a benefit in married life?

  The next morning I began to realize that Steve really had been busy while I had napped the day before. He nudged me awake, telling me the shower was all mine, but we should hop down to breakfast pretty quick because we had a walking tour booked that started at ten o’clock.

  “What sort of walking tour?” I called from the bathroom.

  “A food tour,” he called back.

  “So I have to hurry up and eat before heading off to eat?”

  “What can I tell you? This is paradise,” he laughed. I turned on the shower and shook my head at myself in the mirror. It was a good thing we’d be doing a lot of walking or I’d be purchasing a whole new wardrobe after the honeymoon. Come to think of it, it was a good thing my bathing suits had elastic shirring on them right here and now.

  After a quick shower, I toweled my hair dry and braided it back, and scrambled into capris and a T-shirt. Deciding it was better to be prepared, I popped my tiny toothpaste and toothbrush into the small inner pocket of my beach bag purse, along with my Alison Brown banjo cap. I sprayed sunscreen on my neck, arms, and legs, and spread SPF moisturizer on my face. If Steve wanted to head to the tour’s meeting spot straight from breakfast, I was set. My watch, sunglasses, and phone were by the bed, and I popped the watch on my wrist, sunglasses on top of my head, and slid my phone into its little pocket in my purse.

  My puffy-soled slip-on runners would probably be my best bet for the uneven pavements of the city. I slid into them and stood in my best Wonder Woman pose. I had accomplished all this in less than ten minutes.

  Steve looked up from reading something on his phone in the corner where the Wi-fi seemed the best. “Ready? Let’s go.”

  We considered trying somewhere else for about ten seconds, but both decided to head back to Fredy’s Tucan, and were soon downing terrific Mexican coffee and digging into a shared order of fruit covered p
ancakes, my concession to the thought that we would be nibbling all over town later that morning. “I’m not sure what more I need to discover on this food tour, to tell you the truth,” I said, wiping some whipped cream from the side of my mouth.

  “I know, but Mark in Cyber Crimes was telling me about this tour, and said we really should do it early into our visit, because there were some places off the beaten track that were worth finding. Apparently, we get a taste everywhere we go, and a lot of history and local info while we’re walking along. They let about eight or ten people on per tour.”

  “Sounds fun. Where are we supposed to meet up?”

  “By that statue of the little nuns on the ladder.”

  “My favourite!”

  “Yes, I figured it was a good omen. That, by the way, is the work of a local artist Sergio Bustamante, who has a gallery here in town. If you’re that taken with that statue, we should maybe check out the rest of his stuff. That might be where we could start scouting to spend your parents’ art wedding money. He’s famous for silver jewellery, but also for painting and sculpture.”

  “How long was I asleep yesterday? You sound as if you know everything about Puerto Vallarta!”

  Steve laughed. “Not really. That’s a very good magazine there in the hotel, and I did some research before we came.”

  “Of course you did. I would have, if I’d had the time, but honestly, it seems as if I’ve been playing catch up ever since the whole alumni reunion thing.”

  “I would say you had your hands full recovering from that, and packing up your place to move, and planning the greatest wedding ever.”

  “It was nice, wasn’t it?” I reached over and squeezed the top of his large, firm hand. “I’m so happy, you know.”

  “So am I, Randy. This is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and until now I thought I had a pretty good life going there. This eclipses it all.”

  “Sorry to interrupt you honeymooners, but would you care for more coffee?” Our little waiter smiled as we untangled hands and allowed him to refill our mugs.

  “Do you think he was just teasing us, or do we exude newlywed status?”

  “Would it matter?” Steve smiled and stirred cream into his coffee.

  “Not at all, I’m just impressed with his powers of observation. Of course, they likely do see a lot of honeymooners here.”

  “And they likely shine on a lot of older couples by calling them that … all fresh and new and in love.” Steve took a look at the bill, and reached for his wallet. “Everyone wants to be thought to look young and in love, right?”

  “I don’t know. To me, it’s the older couples who still walk hand in hand, or dance together on the floor like they’ve danced together all their lives, that really display the true meaning of love.”

  “Well, we have a shot at that, at least we do if we get me some dance lessons!” I laughed at him, and excused myself to let him pay up while I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I wiped the lovely ceramic basin with my damp paper towel and pulled on my baseball cap, yanking my braid through the hole in the back to tether it on my head.

  When I got back to the table, Steve was just leaving a tip under his saucer, and ready to roll. We turned right out of the restaurant and headed back toward the beach bridge, which was already a cooler walk than the bridge two blocks inland. Without the breeze from the sea, the sun was crazy hot. I was glad I’d brought my hat.

  As we crossed the bridge over the end of the island in the Cuale River, that we’d explored the day before, I stopped to take photos of the bay sparkling in the morning light. The water was clear all the way out to what I assumed was Las Caletas at the far end of the bay. I leaned out to get a shot of Vallarta to the right. I spied a girl below who had already staked out her sun tanning area right at the end of the spit of sand at the end of the island in the river. She had a woven mat laid out with an orangey-red beach towel on top. She herself was in a red bathing suit, with a large white and yellow straw hat covering her face.

  It was odd to see the solitary sunbather there, rather than in front of one of the hotels, but perhaps that was where we off-beach hotel dwellers were supposed to go. I took a photo of her, mostly for the odd tableau composition of her and her belongings fanned out around her, with the wide ocean as a backdrop, so solitary in the midst of so many people. Tourism Puerto Vallarta might pay me for the image, proving you could get away from it all, so close to such a vibrant, busy city.

  A man asking us if we had booked our tours yet startled me out of my reveries and we hurried along to meet up with our foodie group by my favourite statue.

  6

  Our tour guide was a very cosmopolitan fellow named Philip, who was originally from Puerto Vallarta, but had travelled widely, including schooling in San Francisco and some time running a business in Spain, before returning to his home town. He emanated a calm, mellow, good-humour, and was adept at herding twelve awkward gringos through the streets from one delicious stop to the next.

  We ate at a street taco restaurant that was apparently famous among the workmen of Vallarta, who loaded up on the birria for breakfast before starting their labours.

  We then went to a lovely open restaurant on a sunny corner that was touted as the best in town for ceviche by Philip, noting that the family who owned the restaurant also owned several fishing boats and kept all the best of each catch for their restaurant. There was a large table set up for us here, where we all got to introduce ourselves and mention where we were from.

  We weren’t the only honeymooners, as it turned out. Alison and Simon from England were about half our age, and completely intertwined. She was a physiotherapist, but I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying, so I just smiled and nodded whenever he spoke, which wasn’t often. Alison seemed to be their designated speaker. We learned that they were staying at the Fiesta Americana, and she raved about the fiesta night the hotel had put on the night before.

  “There was a fella standing on horseback doing rope tricks, which were absolutely brill. So was the dancing and of course all the mariachis. And Si didn’t mind the tequila flowing freely.” She laughed and Simon nodded in support, as she leaned her shoulder happily into his. I allowed as to how our hotel likely couldn’t accommodate a horse, and she smiled sympathetically. I saw Steve suppress a laugh. I had a feeling these two weren’t going to become our vacation buddies. Neither would the mother and daughter from Saskatoon, who were the least adventurous of the lot of us when it came to trying things.

  There was another couple from Edmonton, making us feel like it was a very small world. They introduced themselves as David Rivers and Alessandra Delahaya.

  “Alexandra?” I asked, not quite sure from her soft voice.

  “Alessandra,” she pronounced, sternly. “The Spanish version of the name.”

  “Are you from Mexico?” I asked, trying to make up for the faux pas of her name.

  “My parents were from Mexico City. I grew up in Toronto, where I met David. His art interests have brought me closer to my heritage in the past several years, and we’ve done quite a lot of touring in Mexico, but this is our first time in Puerto Vallarta. My cousin owns some pharmacies here, and suggested we come to visit.”

  I turned to her husband.

  “Are you an artist?”

  “Yes, in fact, I was the artist-in-residence at the University of Alberta last year, and am continuing on this year, covering for a professor on sabbatical.”

  I mentioned that I worked at Grant MacEwan University, which didn’t seem to interest him at all, so we then turned to chat with the family of four from New York who were utterly delighted with ceviche, the dish of raw fish “cooked” in lime juice that we’d just been introduced to.

  Elaine and Murray Reines were holidaying with their teenaged boys, who sounded as if they were on the food tour by sufferance, and relishing the thought of
a snorkeling tour the next day.

  Elaine and I exchanged email addresses after discovering that she was an adjunct English professor in Albany. It sounded as if the sessional lecturer situation was no better in the States than it was in Canada, but neither of us wanted to spoil our vacations discussing the depressing state of affairs.

  Murray and Steve hit it off, too, and I was thinking we might connect with them again during the vacation, perhaps without their rambunctious progeny.

  The mother and daughter duo refused to eat the ceviche, to Philip’s consternation, but Steve gallantly offered to take a second portion, so we left enough empty plates not to cause an international embarrassment.

  We watched tortillas being made at a local factory on our way to taste iced tamarind juice with chicken mole at Gaby’s, an amazing restaurant up the street from the iconic crowned church in the middle of town. Philip mentioned that they projected old Mexican movies on the adjacent wall during the evening for their guests’ entertainment, and Steve and I shared a wordless agreement to try to return later in the week.

  Coconut meat seasoned with chili and lime juice from a street vendor kept us munching happily on our way to a candy factory, where we were exhorted to try another coconut confection. Alessandra waved off the candy, which was probably how she remained so chic and slender, but Elaine and I, her boys, and the British newlyweds dived in with gusto. Mucho gusto.

  I bought some candy to take back to Denise, and Steve thanked Philip and tipped him generously for his time. The folks from Saskatoon seemed intent on purchasing a bit of everything in the candy store, so we left them to it. We waved to our new friends from New York, Alison and Simon, and the arty couple from Edmonton, and dispersed from the candy factory to do some more shopping in the downtown area.

  “So, what should we do for dinner?” Steve asked, deadpan.

  I hooted. “Explode? My god, I don’t think I’ve eaten so much over the course of three hours in my life. And it was all so good!”