Testimonials

The city’s long-distance bus station, called the “Nueva Central” of Guadalajara was my destination. I had left the IMAC Language school, where my parents were studying Spanish for the month. Since arriving in Mexico, I had been hoping to get to the Pacific coast eventually to get away from the overcrowded city of Guadalajara. I was excited about surfing and the possibility of catching some decent swells. The staff at the IMAC had given me a piece of paper with an address of the home I was to stay at in PV (Puerto Vallarta). They had also made arrangements for me to attend classes at the “Spanish Experience Center.” The decision to leave Guadalajara and set off for the west coast of Mexico would turn out to be one of the most rewarding adventures of my life.

 

The bus trip to PV was pleasant and comfortable. Fields of Agave flew by as I gazed out the window at the beautiful central highland landscape. The musty smell of the bus kept me from wanting sleep, but I felt good. After a few hours, rain began to pour down and pelt the bus windows. A magnificent lightening storm brightened the dark sky. Where was that peculiar cloud of anxiety that had bestowed itself upon me the first night in Guadalajara? I had temporarily shaken it off in the restaurant, but it had come back like a vague shadow, persistently lurking at my back. A realization came to me; I had successfully fled from that awkward anxiety that had clung to me in Guadalajara.  I had found that rare form of peace that often eluded me. Thrice was blaring on my iPod. As I was jamming out in my own little world, a man sitting across the isle from me said something and we struck up a conversation. He was very interested in what I was all about, as there were only four or five of us on the whole coach bus. Visiting his home country on vacation, he spoke of his family and life back in California. I couldn’t help but admire this hard working Mexican American. He was the real deal- somehow resembling the character known as “the most interesting man in the world,” or as I like to think of him, the “Dos Equis Spokesman.” It was a peculiarity that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. We talked for some time. He seemed to admire me in some way. Maybe it was the fact that I was on an adventure of sorts, heading out into the unknown, expecting the unexpected.

 

Three hours later I awoke as my head bumped against the window to my left. My eyes opened to see the bright lights of on-coming traffic passing by. It was late in the evening and we were maneuvering through the tight turns of the mountains to the east of PV. We arrived at the bus station about half an hour later. It was late at night, maybe 11:30. A taxi driver approached me inside the station, offering in Spanish to take me to my destination. I agreed, and attempted to converse with him the best I could. On our way, he questioned me about  my trip and where I was staying. He pointed out his church as we passed it. I remember thinking about how rough the road was because of all the vibration. The taxi driver had a very happy and lighthearted demeanor. I figured all the locals would probably be just as friendly and easy-going. I love beach towns, especially the history and culture of PV, which is contrasted in modern day by its huge tourism industry. As we pulled onto the street Candelaria, I looked for number 813, but it was too dark to see. Recognizing the yellowish face of the narrow three story building from a picture I had been given, I told the driver, “Estamos aqui.” He asked if I was sure as I opened the door and stepped out into the cobblestone street. It was a chilly clear night. I could see the matriarch of the family step out into the street. They had been waiting for me.

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Samuel S., USA