I can’t possibly imagine walking into a Gap in Chicago and having a conversation like this:

ME: How much is this long-sleeved T-Shirt?

GAP CLERK: $19.95.

ME: Hmmm… That’s too bad. I really like it, but I’ve only got $9 on me.

GAP CLERK: That is too bad, because if you could find an extra $5, I’d let you have it.

ME: (rummaging through my pockets): I’ve got $11.

GAP CLERK: I’ve got to feed my kids. I can’t just give you this merchandise.

ME: (putting my $11 back in my pocket): I understand. I’m going to go across the street to Abercrombie then, because they told me that they’d give me a long-sleeved T-shirt for $11. Bye.

GAP CLERK: Bye.

(brief pause as I start to walk away)

GAP CLERK: (a little desperate) How about $12? It’ll save you all that walking.

ME: I only have $11.

GAP CLERK: (softly) Okay, fine. $11, just don’t tell anyone about this.

However, while this would never happen anywhere in the states save for the fashion district in Manhattan, just about every exchange I have with a vendor in Puerto Vallarta transpires like this. My only question about the whole affair, which Brady and I later talk about, is how much the customer is being ripped-off to start with. If a soccer jersey is priced at $40 and I can talk you down to $18 and you readily accept, how much are you paying for that jersey in the first place?

Worse yet is the fact that after I talk the price of two soccer jerseys down to $18 a piece, on my way out of the store, another employee who is unaware that I’ve actually purchased anything offers me the same jerseys for $14 a piece. That cuts to the quick.

Jennifer and I keep walking down the Path of Palms passed a restaurant called El Negro (that has what could be the most offensive sign in town) and finally hit the boardwalk. When we get to the meat of downtown and the boardwalk, she tells me that this is where the festival had their outdoor showing of the Night of the Iguana the night before. Moved from the courtyard on the Isla Cuale to the very epicenter of downtown Puerto Vallarta, I can only imagine how pleasant it must have been to have seen the movie on the big screen with the Bay of Banderas in the back ground, immediately upon conclusion of the day’s beautiful sunset.

We head over to Isla Cuale and see only one cat on the island… a place I have previously designated as the mangy cat capitol of the universe. It’s getting close to 6:00 so we grab a cab and head back to the mall, a roughly 5-6 mile journey that costs us four dollars, one dollar less than my 100 yard trip the day before.

On the cab ride back to the Plaza Caralcos, we get stuck at an intersection where a car is attempting to parallel park in a spot that probably is too small for it. Though there is a policeman in a police car no more than a few feet from our cab, our driver keeps honking his horn at the parking car. Finally, after an excessive amount of honking, the policeman gets on his PA system and says something in Spanish. Our driver smiles and waves at the cop. I turn to Jennifer, who speaks some Spanish, and ask her to ask the driver what the cop said. She does. The driver turns around and explains that the policeman was telling the parking driver to stop being stupid and to move his car because he was blocking traffic.

There is a certain and distinct joy to being in the back of a cab in Puerto Vallarta. This may hold true for other spots in Mexico too, but having never been anywhere but the Puerto Vallarta area, I can’t speak for them. Driving in Puerto Vallarta–at least in a car–is like playing a constant game of chicken… except in cars that no one minds getting dinged up. While this might initially seem scary, the cars themselves are so flimsy and in such poor repair, it’s hard to get upset about the prospect of an accident. It’d be like being afraid of crashing a 50cc go-cart at 15 miles an hour; it’s just not that hairy of a thought. And, despite driving patterns that would get you pulled over for reckless driving in the states, I have never seen an accident of any type in Puerto Vallarta. Impressive when you consider that most drivers in Puerto Vallarta view traffic signs as suggestions.

On the way to the airport for my flight back to Chicago, my driver is in a hurry (though I’m not) and utilizes a unique technique to pick up time: he goes into the left turn lane whenever he can and, when the arrow turns to green, he simply drives straight through the intersection. He is also smoking and talking on his cell phone while blowing through these red lights. There is nothing comparable to this in the states.

Jennifer and I head in the Plaza Caralcos doors, walk roughly the length of the shopping center and bump into Elisabeth, an extremely attractive member of the festival’s Mexico City promotional team. "I am so glad you are here," she says. "We were worried that we were going to have to leave without you." Given that it’s 6:10 and we were told to show up at 6:30, this is an interesting development. The important part of it is that we’re back though.

We ride back to the hotel and have to quickly change into suitable dinner attire in order to make it to a concert that five-time Grammy nominee Maria Muldauer is giving at another hotel in Nuevo Vallarta, Playa del Sol. Neither Jennifer, Heather or I have heard of Muldauer, something Brady says belies our young ages. I was planning on wearing shorts to the event until I see Brady in the lobby with a white dinner jacket on. It’s time for a quick upgrade to a button down and jeans.

The Playa del Sol is a beautiful, classy hotel with an exquisite outdoor setting that has as its centerpiece a smoothly contoured swimming pool surrounded by palm trees. The Playa del Sol has attached small lights just underneath the palm fronds of the trees and the atmosphere of the evening is quite romantic: it’s dark, but you can easily see your food and what is going on around you. It is the type of setting you’d see in a glossy Jennifer Aniston romantic-comedy. Since the event offers dinner along with the concert, roughly 25 tables, covered in the highest quality white tablecloths have been placed around the pool area. In places the tables are no more than two feet from the pool and I am hoping that someone (other than me) gets drunk enough so that they stumble and fall into the water. Unfortunately, as the evening passes by, I am the only person who even comes close to achieving this goal when I later catch the toe of my sandal on a crack in the sidewalk and lurch forward, before righting myself.

An aside: when I travel, I like to travel light. As it happens, I do this all too well at times… often when I’m not planning to. I’m not sure why I can only pack way too many things or way too few, but this is the way it breaks down. The last year I was in Puerto Vallarta for the film festival, I brought a number of pairs of shoes for the different types of occasions I was told to prepare for. Then I made use of only two of the pairs I brought. In Mexico, the terms ‘business casual’ and ‘dinner wear’ have entirely different meanings than they do in the states. In Mexico both designations mean that you can wear shorts and sandals. So when packing this year, I bring one pair of long pants, the jeans that I am wearing at the concert, and two pairs of shoes, my sandals and my running shoes. This means that to every function, save one, I show up wearing my Birkenstocks… even when rock climbing on the beach.

The dinner is excellent, the first meal I’ve had on the trip where I can make this statement and soon after the buffet closes, Muldauer’s band takes the stage. In an interesting change of pace, the band members perform a song or two before Muldauer herself comes out onto stage, in essence opening the show for themselves.

When Muldauer begins singing it strikes me that there is a distinct reason that I don’t know of her: she is a blues singer and I hate the blues. Muldauer seems to be performing that rare style of blues that people assume everyone in Chicago listens to (because, in every movie set in Chicago, it’s all that people listen to) that, in reality, almost no one listens to. Muldauer is a talent to be sure and has a great voice, it’s just unfortunate that she’s using it to sing the blues. As she begins a series of three songs where she covers some Bob Dylan songs, I smile remembering that several of the Mexican organizers sold me on Muldauer’s vocal stylings by comparing them to those of Sarah Brightman.

Fred Willard, Chris Messina (the male lead in the festival’s closing night film, Ira & Abby) and Roger Corman are all in attendance. Interestingly, I cannot look at Willard without being reminded of his brief performance in Silver Streak. Fred is wearing aquamarine pants, a dark shirt, an orange-ish jacket and white shoes. Only he and my father could pull this look off.

Not having any luck in getting bottled water at this hotel either, I order a grapefruit juice and vodka and have instantly found my new drink. Actually, I initially try to order something with rum, but our table’s waiter doesn’t grasp my order. Not only can’t I understand the list of drinks he’s giving me, but when I tell him to just bring me something, he doesn’t comprehend what I mean there either. Jennifer finally steps up and orders me something in Spanish, hence I get grapefruit juice and vodka. When it arrives, it is good.

Just after Muldauer’s first set finishes (and she tells the audience "not to going anywhere"), Sean tells me that the bus is leaving to take us back to the hotel. A fresh grapefruit juice and vodka has been placed on my table for me, but, sensing that that will not be enough for the bus ride, I head over to the bar to order one for the road. And out I exit the Playa del Sol’s pool area with a drink in each hand. When I get to the hotel lobby one of the most surprising things on my trip happens: a staff member tells me that I have to put my drinks into a plastic cup in order to leave; I can’t leave with glass containers.

I frown at the staffer and ask him if he’s kidding. He isn’t. "In Mexico?" I question. He nods and tells me that they don’t want me to drop the glass and break it. "In Mexico?" I question again. In order to prove that I won’t drop the glass, I toss it in the air and catch it. I assure the man that I’m not going to drop it and, what’s more, I’m heading to a bus that is about 100 feet and three very negotiable steps away from me. "I’m sorry, senor," he tells me. "You need a ‘go’ cup." "In Mexico?" I question one last time. I pound one of my drinks, start in on the next and realize that there’s no way I’m getting through it and reluctantly pour it into the plastic cup and leave. In Mexico.

Recapping: in Mexico, where the streets don’t have lane lines, where killing animals or watching them go at each other (think cock, dog or bull fighting) is considered high entertainment, where there is no drinking age, where there are currently two different people under the assumption that they are the country’s rightful president, where it’s actually hard not to get weed and where I have to tell people to stop propositioning me with drugs, where people walk around drinking out of beer bottles and occasionally pass out drunk on the sidewalk, where mange ridden dogs romp in the streets with impunity, where one of the country’s most notable exports is a song about a cockroach, where ranchero music is king and where bloodied, bullet-riddled bodies are displa.html>spla.html>spla.html>spla.html>splayed prominently on the front pages of the newspapers, I am not allowed to take a beverage out of a hotel in a glass.

In Mexico.

Jennifer pulls me away before the drink I’ve just downed can take effect and I can ratchet up the level of my venom at the staffer and we head onto the bus. When we get back to the Hotel Riu it’s about midnight and about the only place we can go is to the disco. When we get there, only four other people are in the club. A very unhappy looking 50-ish couple is sitting at the bar and a well-dressed 20-something couple is on the dance floor grooving by themselves.

Sean and I are on one side of the bar and Heather and Jennifer are on the other. The pace of the club picks up noticeably when several members of the Mexican contingent affiliated with the festival shows up. In no time at all, they are on the dance floor and call for us to join them. My spirits fueled by grapefruit juice and vodka, I immediately head out to put my spin on some Rick Astley song that’s playing. I cannot dance, but I make up for my lack of talent with effort and passion. At one point, the dance floor stops to watch me as I gyrate and, uh, dance. When the song ends, I get several ‘thumbs up’ from the Spanish speaking women. I keep working my magic through another couple of songs.

When I head back to the bar sweating profusely, Alice and Melina come over to me to compliment my lack of fear on the dance floor. I attempt to say Melina’s name with the appropriate Spanish accent and fail miserable (I can’t roll my ‘R’s when I’m sober; I don’t even try this drunk, I know I’ll just end up spitting on someone). Melina puts her arm around me and tells me that she likes me because I’m smart, which is surprising because I don’t think I’ve said more than ten words to her on the trip thus far; frankly, I didn’t even know that she spoke English. She palms my head and tells me, "Smart is sexy." She then invites me to play volleyball with her the next morning. When I explain to her that I really suck at volleyball, she explains to me that she’ll help me. When she takes a step back, eyeballs me and informs me that I definitely have the body for it, I tell her that I’ll see what I can do.

After more dancing, Heather and I decide to go swimming. We change, meet in the outdoor area and learn that the pool is cold and closed. Only one of those facts impacts our decision to instead head over to the ocean. Jennifer and Sean join us and together we walk to the beach and I dive into the water. It is very, very warm. The only problem we had with swimming in the ocean at that hour was that because it was so dark we had a very hard time seeing when the waves were breaking and, as a result of this, are often smacked uncomfortably in the back by incoming waves. The experiment lasted for about fifteen minutes before we called it a night. I go back to my room, shower and fall asleep in my towel a little after three.