Outside my window, Banderas Bay shimmers with afternoon light while people fish off the concrete pier just down from my hotel and paragliders sail above it; a soft wind blows and cools the 80-degree plus day. Shortly, I will go for a walk, down to the Malecon, the mile-long boardwalk, where I have yet to go.
Unlike in Oaxaca and Mexico City, I have stayed close to my hotel, sitting quietly watching the water, reading endlessly about the chaos that is Brexit, fascinated as one is while watching a train wreck. Every day seems more unbelievable than the last in this saga but, then, so does every day in politics. Squeaky clean Trudeau is mired in a business scandal; Macron has his yellow vests, like yellow jackets swarming on his presidency, and we have Donald Trump, who doesn’t seem to know where his father was born. The man who has ruled Algeria for twenty years, Bouteflika,has resigned, I think. Did he go today or is he going later? Either way, the mobs that brought him down aren’t satisfied and won’t be until the powerful group around him is also gone. And, of course, there is Brexit, again and, seemingly, always.
Two nights ago, I went to The Iguana Restaurant and Tequila Bar, housed in what was once the villa of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, an incredible space with equally incredible food; I had sopa de lima and a pork rib so succulent it fell to my fork without a struggle, followed by a chocolate mousse and blueberries! Divine.
Less divine was the fact I sat alone in the middle of the room, as it was the only table for one available and everyone seemed to notice me, smiling nicely, if a little pityingly, as I ate alone, reading about, what else, Brexit.
When I ate alone in Oaxaca or in Mexico City I did not feel as on display as I did here in Puerto Vallarta – perhaps because this is a vacation town filled with couples and families, groups of friends. It took a day of self-therapy to bring me back to my sunny self, a day spent writing and reading and remembering I choose to travel, alone. If I waited for companions, I would probably still be sitting somewhere, waiting for schedules to align.
It is just that here, I felt a bit vulnerable; caught unaware, and a soupcon of self-pity slipped in unexpectedly and needed to be firmly wrestled back to the mat. My normal, sprightly self took a bit of a whack amidst all these merry mates. Perhaps, it is because it is a very gay town with lots of couples wandering along.
But I am human and, as Alexander Pope once said, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” So, being human, hope springs eternal. Resting on my bed, legs crossed, laptop in lap, watching boats skim Banderas Bay while outside horns bleep and laughter rises up to my balcony, I tap away, merrily. Somewhere, not too far away, I smell cannabis burning as a resort town plays, and I adjust.
Letter from the Vineyard 
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