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of Tepic. The small highway south of Tepic snaked its way across what seemed like the entire Sierra Madre mountain chain. By the time I reached the coast, my Woody was going so slow through the little fishing towns that half-naked kids were able to hawk their fruit, dried shrimp, and macaroons as I drove. From the looks of all of these industrious eight-year-olds, this was no longer the virgin territory peddled by the guidebook I’d bought. Numerous other cars loaded with children were cruising that same provincial highway in search of a beach getaway. The ad hoc roadside commerce was merely a response to the new global economy: if there was something for sale, it was because someone else was buying.
    Passing through the town of Bucerias near the Jalisco state line, I caught my first glimpse of beautiful Banderas Bay. One of the largest bays in the world, it’s frequented by famous people like Cantinflas, Maria Felix, and the president himself, as well as some who aren’t so famous, like humpback whales, dolphins, and the odd tourist.
    Puerto Vallarta is located on the bay’s inner coastline. Houses spill across the green foothills as if they are tryingto reach the peak. But they never do. Only one or two make it even halfway to the top. Vallarta possesses not only natural beauty but the vernacular ambience of a stereotypical Mexican town, the kind foreigners like. The only thing missing is the Indian in a poncho and big sombrero leaning against a cactus.
    Of course, there aren’t any cacti in Puerto Vallarta. Quite the opposite. The vegetation is so thick and lush you wonder why God didn’t share it with the rest of the country. This just might be His favorite place. He gave it beaches, jungles, and beautiful women. I guess even God can be selfish.
    The main streets are cobblestone, the rest dirt. The urban layout is so simple a child could have designed it: three long streets run parallel to the beach, and the rest head straight to it. A few church steeples peer timidly out from between the red tile roofs and verdant treetops. Modern buildings of a respectable height stand out like mariachis in a jazz band. A decent airport is located a few miles out of town where visitors arrive in search of sun, sea, and cheap drinks.
    The locals hurry to escape the sun’s rays, seeking the shade of eaves, but the tourists can be easily identified by their beautiful ocher tones—the women by curves so pronounced they attract the attention of passersby like iron attracts magnets.
    If that same selfish God did create Adam and Eve, no doubt they’re in a hotel lobby here having a rum and Coke with lime.
    There are several convenient hotels, but most of the film workers were lodged in bungalows on the set. Even so, norooms were available. The place was swarming with US and Mexican journalists who’d congregated with their cameras in bars, hoping to get a cover shot for
Life
magazine. I hadn’t imagined the level of euphoria that Liz Taylor’s relationship with Richard Burton would cause. Everyone it seemed was completely obsessed with the couple. Since the filming of
Cleopatra
in Rome, everything seemed to revolve around these two, never mind the fact that both were still married. I guess infidelity is headline material these days.
    I finally secured a room at the Rio Hotel, though I had to give the manager a huge tip to inspire him to evict a noisy reporter from the
Excelsior
. I wanted to raise my expense quota.
    My room had a balcony that looked out onto the street, and when I threw the window open wide, I could see the Cuale River, which divided the city in half.
    I turned on the fan and ordered two rum and Cokes with plenty of ice from room service. The heat was so unbearable that even the palm trees were panting. All of them. Every single leaf. But it wasn’t the heat that got to you here, it was the humidity.
    I thought back to the old gringo from the bar in Mazatlán. Something wasn’t quite right, like the uneasy feeling