The very name, Puerto Vallarta, had a magic ring to it. I first came across it when we were looking for a house in San Jose. I learned it was the name of a resort in Mexico along the Pacific coast. Three decades later, I found myself in the real Puerto Vallarta. We had arrived to spend our Christmas holidays. Everyone had told us the beaches were fantastic and the sunsets were out of this world. So we had picked a hotel on the beach. I had been warned that there would not be much else to do besides savour the local cuisine in Viejo Puerto Vallarta. There won’t be much history or architecture to check out, unlike Cancun on the Caribbean Sea that we had visited two years ago. A guidebook noted that unlike Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta was not built for Americans. In other words, we were going to experience the real Mexico on this visit. We had dinner the first night at a Japanese restaurant, Mikado. It featured one of those layouts where eight people share a table and the chef cooks the food on a grill right in front of the table. On the table we were seated adjacent to a Mexican couple with two young kids. The father, 20 years younger than me, was Mexican and the mother was American. The family was fluent in both Spanish and English. I was envious of their linguistic duality and said to the father that I wish I could speak Spanish. He said all you need to do is have a Tequila, the language will flow automatically. I said, I don’t drink alcohol. For a moment he was stumped. Then he smiled, pursed his lips, looked me in the eye and said, you just have to break the glass. The food arrived. It was cooked with flash and aplomb and was tasty. The time just flew by as we talked about the weather in San Francisco, the treasures of Puerto Vallarta, and our prior visits to Cancun and Cabo. Over dessert we chatted about Donald Trump. In the days that followed we strolled along the beach, took in the gorgeous sunsets, visited the spa, lounged on the chairs that lay on the beach, and dozed off to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach, nature’s lullaby. In the evenings, we went to old town to savour the local cuisine. Service was polite but the kitchen was unusually slow because of Christmas. Our best meals were at the iconic El Dorado and La Palapa restaurants. Both had recently celebrated their 60th anniversaries. They were located across the street from each other, near the Playa Los Muertos pier, which stood some 100 feet out in the water. Its design resembled that of a sail. But, in my mind, with the planet Venus shining brightly above it in the night sky, it conjured up a swirling dervish. The drive through town was not easy. Traffic was chaotic and the roads were in poor shape. A five-mile drive could take an hour. Portions of the road were made of cobblestone making for a bumpy ride. Nevertheless, Puerto Vallarta remained a prime tourist destination, attracting massive cruise ships daily. Every evening, as we would be savouring dinner, the ships would head to their next port of call, all decked up with lights, resembling a bride on her wedding night. One day we visited the Botanic Garden. It was a slice of heaven featuring a cactus garden, hanging bougainvillea, a swinging bridge, and the biggest Lotus pond I have ever seen, bursting with colour. There was also a church on a hill and miles of hiking trails. Unfortunately, we ran out of time and did not do the trails. La Hacienda de Oro, located on the second floor of the visitor centre, was a great place to have lunch. Our table on the balcony provided an unimpeded view of the green mountains that loomed in the distance. One afternoon we visited the Parish of our Lady of Guadalupe in the central part of town. In addition to the spiritual benefits it provided the congregation that attended services there, it also provided solace to the traveller looking for a bit of culture and history. And it reminded me of the grade school our daughters attended which bore the same name. The building was crowned with a Renaissance-style Tower. The inside of the building was decorated with ornate paintings and intricately carved murals depicting the stations of the cross. Every time I see them, I am reminded of the scenes from the Mel Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ. The church was located in a part of town that had become congested with shops and eateries over time. Vendors were selling trinkets tinged with a religious touch. After buying a few, we decided to walk toward the waterfront that was just a hundred yards away. But in order to get there, we had to cross a busy roadway. It proved to be a game of chance since the traffic in neither direction was inclined to give the right of way to the pedestrians even on a cross walk. At some point, the traffic yielded and we crossed the road. In front of us lay an expansive boardwalk. It was lined with several eateries. Clowns were putting on a show. A naval museum was also located there but we did not have time to visit it. On the water, a person was parasailing, others were water skiing, and several were taking in the view of the bay in their catamarans. In the distance, along the arch of the bay, were the condominiums and hotels. As the days went by my curiosity arose as to who (or what) was Vallarta. No one seemed to know. I finally checked it on Google and found out that the town was named after Ignacio Vallarta, a former jurist who had also governed the state of Jalisco in which the town is located. If I ever find myself in Puerto Vallarta again, I would love to hike the trails in the Botanic Garden from which there is a fighting chance of spotting the elusive Jaguar. I will also check out the Naval Museum where, besides the memorabilia of war, there is narrated on the walls the history of the short-lived Mexican empire ruled by Maximillian, archduke of Austria, who met with a tragic end in front of a firing squad. The writer can be reached at ahmadfaruqui@gmail.com. He Tweets at @AhmadFaruqui