Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

After spending 23 of the last 24 hours in buses, I was sitting on a bench in the Puerto Vallarta bus station at 9 p.m., less than 150 pesos in my pocket, with no idea where I was going to sleep.

I knew there would be days like this.

Back on Monday morning, my plans for the day were still up in the air. I was determined to leave Hermosillo that evening, but I didn't know where I would go. A few days earlier, I had met a Croatian Couchsurfer named Maja (pronounced Maya) who lived in Guaymas, just a couple hours south of Hermosillo. I could call her and see if she could host me. I also had sent an e-mail the previous day to Jacky, a girl in Puerto Vallarta who, despite her English nickname, was Mexican and a friend of my host in Mexicali. I didn't have her phone number yet, but hopefully by the time I checked my e-mail, she would have sent it to me. I had no idea how long the bus ride would be to Puerto Vallarta; I only knew from every person I asked in Hermosillo that, "It's a loooong way."

Those were the plans. If I were traveling with a friend or a group of people, they would have killed me by now for my blasé attitude. But I was traveling alone, so it was okay.

My Hermosillo host, Rafael, dropped me off in the center of town, and I walked around until I found an internet café. Jacky had e-mailed me back, so I wrote down her phone number and address. In the afternoon, I met back up with Rafael and went to his house, where I called Maja first. She said it was too short of notice to host me that evening, since she already had plans. That was fine. I then called Jacky, and asked her if I could come Tuesday instead of Wednesday. She said that would be fine, and confirmed with me that I had no problem sleeping on the couch in the living room, since there wasn't an extra bedroom in her parents' house, where she lived. I said I had no problem with that.

So there I was, all confirmed to go to Puerto Vallarta. All I had to do was get there. At 5:30, Rafael took me to the bus station, where I found out just how arduous this ride was going to be. I bought a ticket for a 7 p.m. bus that would take me to Tepic by 1 p.m. Tuesday. From Tepic, the ticket lady said, I could take another bus to Puerto Vallarta, which would take a couple more hours. I bought a ticket for Tepic, which cost 780 pesos, or about $55. (Mexico, my friends, is a big and expensive place.)

The bus arrived in Hermosillo late, and finally started boarding at 7:30. I sat near the back, and was surprised to see a group of Americans in their 20s getting on the bus, all loading musical instruments into the bus's luggage compartment. I sat in the third row from the back, and they filled the two rows behind me. They were the first Americans I had seen in nearly a week, so I was curious to talk to them. They were a band based out of San Diego or Orange County; they didn't seem to have a straight answer. Either they were very tired of explaining themselves, or were not relieved to see a fellow countryman, or were just boring people, but they didn't seem very interested in a conversation, so I left them alone and read.

I hadn't been reading for long before the first movie came on. Nearly every bus I've been on in Mexico shows at least one movie, and this was no exception. The first was The Lookout, an uninspiring movie about crime and brain damage starring the kid from Third Rock from the Sun. It was in English, with Spanish subtitles. The movie was bad, but I lost my ability to read with noise in the background some time near the end of college, so I couldn't concentrate on my book. Forced to watch the movie, I practiced my Spanish by reading the subtitles and comparing it to what I was hearing in English.

The next movie was Daddy Day Camp, the sequel to Daddy Day Care. Not having seen the first one, I was still able to pick up the back story very quickly. I suppose that's one nice thing about formulaic movies. What was cool about this movie was that it was dubbed in Spanish, and I understood nearly all of it. Now, a movie like Daddy Day Care is obviously at a different language level than if I were to watch Schindler's List dubbed, but I was still impressed with my abilities. (After adding the links to IMDB, I just realized that the first movie had Eddie Murphy and Jeff Garlin, while the new one has Cuba Gooding, Jr. and some random flatulent white guy. But Eddie will do Nutty Professor II?)

The movies finally shut off at 11:30, but then they were back going at around 8 a.m. Before I got off at Tepic, we had watched The Lookout, Daddy Day Camp, Underdog (dubbed in Spanish, which I also understood well), Vitus (which was in German with Spanish sub-titles, so I was able to tune that out and read), and the first half of Stormbreaker (an action movie that completely slipped under my radar while I was in the Peace Corps).

What surprised me on the bus to Tepic was how odd I felt around the Americans that sat behind me. While in Moldova, I always operated under the principle that if someone spoke English in that part of the world, they were good people whom I could trust. That axiom never proved wrong, because the English speakers I met were Peace Corps volunteers, missionaries, Western Europeans there for development work, or Moldovans who were well-educated and friendly to Westerners. Everyone who spoke English in Moldova shared something with me more than just a language; they shared a reason to be in Moldova. In Mexico, few Americans come with the same intentions I do. As a people, we are known here as loudmouths and drunkards. I'm not saying that the Americans on the bus were bad people, but I am saying that here in Mexico, unlike in Eastern Europe, I don't like being lumped in with the gringos.

The bus, which was supposed to arrive in Tepic at 1 p.m., arrived at 3. After nearly 20 hours on the bus, I went immediately to the station's bathroom, where I rinsed my face, put on deodorant, and changed my socks, shirt and underwear. I bought a few tacos from a stand, and after eating, bought my ticket for Puerto Vallarta.

The bus left Tepic at 4 p.m., and took three and a half hours to get to Vallarta, rather than the three hours I had been told. Not a big deal. When I got off the bus, I went to use the bathroom, and then found a phone to call Jacky.

The first time I called her, there was no answer. The second time, no answer as well. I sat down in the station to wait a few minutes before calling again. I thought it was 7:50, but a time change I didn't know about meant that it was actually 8:50. I waited until 8:55 and called again. This time she answered, but the connection was bad and I couldn't hear her well. I understood well enough, however, to know that she was backing out of hosting me. It seems she hadn't checked it out very thoroughly with her parents, and once she talked it over with them, as I was already in transit to Vallarta, they said no. Slightly dejected, I said that it was okay, and after a few more absent-minded pleasantries, I hung up.

So now it was 9 p.m., and even though I thought it was 8, that didn't change the situation much. I had very little money, and I didn't have a place to stay. This wasn't good.

Then I remembered Pinja. Pinja was a Finnish Couchsurfer whom I had contacted weeks earlier, but when I had given her my original dates for Vallarta, she said she couldn't host me for those days. She had been more than happy to give me her number, in case I wanted to meet up during the day time with her and her Mexican boyfriend, Moises. I still had her number, and they were my last hope before having to pay for a hotel.

I dialed her number.

"Hola," came a voice on the other end.

"Hola, Pinja. Te habla Peter de Couchsurfing." She instantly remembered having sent e-mails back and forth with me. I continued in English. "I'm in a bit of a bad situation. I'm here in Vallarta and my host just told me that she can't host me. Do you think I could stay with you for the night?" I took a deep breath and hoped.

"Well, it would have to be just for tonight, because we have another surfer coming tomorrow night," she said. "Let me call my boyfriend and check with him. I'll call you back in about 10 or 15 minutes."

"Okay. I'm at a pay phone, so why don't I call you in 15 minutes?"

She agreed, and we hung up. One problem: my phone card had less than two pesos left, and I would need at least six to have a two-minute call with her. Most of the shops at the bus station were closed, but I was able to find one selling phone cards, and I bought the cheapest one possible, 30 pesos worth. This gave me a 30 peso phone card and 90 pesos in my pocket.

I sat in the station for the next 10 minutes, amusing myself by watching people from afar and guessing if they were Mexicans or Americans. You couldn't base it on skin color, I decided, except in the most extreme cases. No, it was better to base it off clothes and behavior. If they came close enough for you to listen, of course, it would be a dead giveaway. I concluded that the couple who looked like they were in their late teens or early 20s were probably Americans, based on the guy's Jamaica t-shirt and the girl not knowing which turnstile to go through for the bathroom when they were clearly labeled entrada and salida.

9:15 came around, and I called Pinja. She said it was no problem, and that she and Moises would meet me in the center of town, at the Oxxo at Hidalgo park. I could take the blue line bus there.

I hung up. Now I had to find a blue line bus. I asked a taxi driver and a bus station worker, and they directed me to two different places to pick up the bus. I followed the second one's directions, and walked a few blocks to the main avenue. After hailing the wrong bus twice, I decided to get a cab, even though it would probably take all the money I had left. I hailed one and asked the driver, a man in his early 50s with graying hair and a mustache, how much it would cost. He said 100 pesos, more than I had. Let the haggling begin. I low-balled him with 70, he gave a smile and said that that was just too little, and I smiled back and offered 80. "¿Lo hacemos?" I said. "Sí," he said. Safe, with 10 pesos to spare.

During the ride, Enrique and I talked about all the changes that had happened in the 12 years since I had last been to Puerto Vallarta. There had been lots of development, he said.

"Development for everyone, or just the tourists?" I asked.

"I think for everyone," he said.

We also talked about the drastic drop in spring break tourism this year.

"I talked with many students who are afraid of the drug wars," I said, putting a mocking emphasis at the end of my sentence to show that I thought it was a pathetic thing to be afraid of. "But I think the bigger reason is that no one in our country has money available right now with our economy. I'm no longer a student, but I think that when most students are at university, their money comes from their parents. Right now, their parents don't have money, so the students don't have spring vacations in Mexico." Enrique agreed that that made sense, and said he found it surprising that many university students in American don't work while in school. I said that students are working more and more these days, but that he was basically right.

We arrived at Hidalgo park, and I called Pinja from a pay phone again. She and Moises came to meet me, and we walked to their studio apartment a few blocks away. At that point, as I communicated in Spanglish, I was basically broken down. They offered me a shower and a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then we talked for a half hour, switching from Spanish to English and back again every couple minutes, and even venturing into Finnish from Pinja and Romanian from me. We then watched Hellboy II until we fell asleep.

Today, Wednesday, I'm sitting in an internet café in downtown Puerto Vallarta. I'm going to do my best to not do gringo things here, but we'll see what happens. Oh, and I still have to find a place to stay for tonight. That's one thing that hasn't changed from the day before.