Old Vallarta (south of the river) is awash in whitewash. The sun glares down on these buildings all day and is reflected back in a brightness severe enough to warrant sunglasses at all times. It's brilliant, clean, Morocco-like . . . always reminds me of that scene in "Prick up Your Ears" where Joe Orton is fondling 3 or 4 arab boys on the sparkling rooftop overlooking the blue Atlantic.
In fact ... the very same thing (with Mexican tinge / hairy legs) can be found here at the Vallarta Cora Hotel. The orgy may not be on the roof (it's down in the shadows of the back garden during their famous Happy Hour), but it's in view of the blue Pacific and just as hot (some nights!).
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v1..._2005/cora.jpg
But I digress.
I didn't stay at the Cora this time, but at the much more quiet Hotel Mercurio ( http://www.hotel-mercurio.com/index.html ) with it's darling smile manager (Gabriel) and it's laid back ambience. 59 bucks (US / middle season) is not a bad deal in PV these days (prices have shot up enormously in the last 4 years) and I was happy for a quieter place this trip.
The Mercurio is just down the hill (off Olas Altos) from the Cora ... a few blocks further from the beach (on Francisca Rodr├нguez), but that still only means a seven minute walk.
From the outside it doesn't look much distinguishable from the surrounding businesses ~ and I wouldn't rent one of those rooms looking out onto this noisy street ~ but, as so many older hotels do in Vallarta, walk through the front alcove and one is greeted with a courtyard, breakfast area, and small pool.
Welcome is exhuburant depending on who's at the desk that time of day (at least one or 2 are a bit indifferent, but another 2 are terrific, and if you meet a short, rather balding young man, he'll yap away as long as you'll let him. Don't leave this dude until he shows you the way to the Paris Cafe for the most yummy pain au chocolat this side of a backstreet pattisserie in Avignon).
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Walk out of the Mercurio entrance, out onto St. Francisca Rodr├нguez, hide your eyes from the low setting sun, and this is the view you get looking straight down to the ocean. This is what Vallarta (old town) looks like everywhere: Cobbled streets, slightly sozzled gringos walking down the middle of the roads, muted colours, peaceful feelings, manana, coffee for hours, handsome boys (though by no means so ubiquitous as handsome Thais), know-it-all expats (who should be avoided like the plague), rainbow "I-Lve-Gay" stickers in almost every business window.
Olas Altos is one of the great small people-watching streets in the world ... with the gay sensibility sneaking slowly & quietly down the hill over the years so much so that now it owns half of south Olas Altos and is squeezing out towards the end of the street. Only 2 blocks to go!
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No lift here, but drag the bags up the wide flight of stairs to the top floor (the 3rd) gives you a relatively small room (the 59 dollar one), but it's totally adequate, totally spotless, totally tiled, and totally forever waiting for the hot water to also climb those heights (which it always does). But what the hell, it's beach time (or siesta time, or walking time, or sex time, or disco time, or eating time . . . but NOT work time, and what other point is there?
Yellow and blue accents (a strange reminder of that royal palace in Hua Hin) and a leaning rail to peer over and view the mix of whining Americans down at breakfast at any given time before 10:30am (see the photo below). One can decide what kind of a mood one's in first in order to choose the folks you'd like to evedrop on ... so loud is the conversation down there, and so lacking in thoughtfulness. If in an ironic mood then this is da place!! One could write a book!
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The lady who lives in this rather upscale place who's living room balcony juts out over the pool (!) I'm sure has seen some sights. The few times I found anyone sitting there it was an all-woman ensemble, and by their body language I surmised that lesbianism may well be afoot in Vallarta. Certainly the premier cocktail bar (talking of irony) south of the Cuale River is a place called Apaches and is lesbian-owned (but full of men!). And certainly the ladies had nearly taken over Mercurio by the time I left (2 tried sharing my airport-bound taxi on my leave-taking, but I pointed out to them that the taxi was small, and there bags were enormous and hugely plentifull ... as were they both, in body and manner. I declined peaceably, but got a sideways look from one of them that smelled of the unspoken accusation of dyke-fear.
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Ah the boys! This is the breakfast hangout of those whose conversations run to week-long dissections of terrible events happening (to themselves) in airports, and the best way to cure the Great Lakes of the pollution which the Canadians have apparently meted out to them over the decades. The untucked polo-shirt-which-covers-my-fat-so-poorly-that-it-leaves-a-vent-up-the-underside-large-enough-to-run-the-English-Channel-train-up crowd. The wear-short-shorts-to-breakfast group. The bad toupee soiree (I kid you not). The 350 pounder who brags about not walking more than half a block before hailing a taxi good-time boy.
They were all there this week. I had a blast! One poor sod dragged down his Mexican boyfriend (very handsome) every morning, but he was the only one who seemed to have a steady (or even un-steady) lover or kept-boy, or fuck buddy. If you wish sexual tension in the air ... get a room at the Cora! And take off 230 pounds or so as well. (This is not a negative for the Mercurio. I was happy to be in a quiet place for this trip. I was celibate ... no back-slidin' ... look don't touch ... I'm a happy man in love (and what's 8000 crumby miles got to do with it anyway?) and will not abandon the Beloved for such cheap thrills. (But this is another story ... saved for a short topic about the gay bars of Vallarta: coming up soon!)
So we breakfasted with the dandies of Minneapolis and Atlaaaaanta and Memphis (yep!!!) and St Louis, and ~ where else? ~ San Fran (whom I mistakenly expected to be more sophisticated) with their gold chains and god-awful conversations . . . and buried our heads in the fruit salad and the cheapest American newspaper available around the corner, the Miami Herald (!?), International Edition (???!!). Oh yeah ... there was one ghastly man from Vancooooover there as well: I pretended to be from the Scottish Outer Hebrides with little understanding of the colonial accent.
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CLEANING ONE'S UNDERWEAR (Felice Navidad!):
Took a photo (for your edification) of my patented "underwear Xmas Tree". This means, the drying of such ... after washing them down on the stone floor of the shower, pounding the hell out of them (after using hair shampoo as the soap of choice) and then pasting them up against one's back skin with the shower on full bore. It's an excellent way to save some money on laundry and you can have a shower at the same time. Give 'em a sniff to make sure they're clean and hang them up against the wall so that the full blast of the overhead fan strikes them squarely. They're dry in a matter of hours, and Bob's yer uncle.
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v1...nderwear-1.jpg
And then ... for all you shallow brand name cologne freaks, a new one I love and cherish (and received excellent reviews on, both by the Sniff-Kisser of Thailand ~ AKA Suphot the Beloved ~ and the Macho-Men of Mexico hanging around the rooftop bar at Paco Paco's): Armani "SENSI"
Grab it if you can find it ... the boys will go wild over you, Harry.
What could be more Xmas-y .... a blue Mexican pot, a native Pointsetta in every room, and the wiff of sex in air courtesy of Georgio.
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v1...5/armani-2.jpg
Cheers ...
