Los Arcos Restaurant, San Pancho, 1999The decision that eventually led us to San Pancho started with a “fly-and-buy” vacation to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico in 1993. That’s what sales people in resort timeshares call a low-priced stay that includes airfare. Neither my husband Skip nor I had been to Puerto Vallarta, and it seemed like a good choice. The package was cheap, the weather was warm, and we wanted a break from New England slush and snow.
The chemistry between Mexico and us was instant. Our fantasy of a tropical paradise had come to life. Swaying palms, manicured gardens, vistas of the ocean, and -- the perfect touch -- peacocks strolling the grounds. Both of us were fascinated by the swim-up bar, the first we’d ever seen. “How decadent!” I thought. “How fabulous!” Skip made the practical observation, “If a guy falls off the barstool, he won’t get hurt.”
Seduced by the carefully constructed setting, we were perfect targets for the timeshare sales pitch. No lists of pros and cons for us. No analysis of whether it made financial sense. On the day after our arrival we bought a wildly over-priced 25-year timeshare contract.
Our week at the timeshare was a respite for five years from boring jobs and bad weather. We knew Spanish words for food and money – that was it – and we felt comfortable in the resort’s protected, bilingual setting. The bus ride into downtown Puerto Vallarta was as close as we got to everyday life in Mexico. To us that trip was high adventure: a rickety school bus repainted vibrant blue, raucous music, ball fringe and images of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the windshield, a mariachi singing for tips. This sure beat gloomy New Haven, Connecticut in February!
By the sixth year the resort’s pre-packaged Mexican setting seemed less alluring. We had learned more Spanish and we were less timid. “Next year let’s find a place to stay in the real Mexico,” we said. We didn’t know what we meant by that phrase, but it had a ring to it, even a sense of superiority. “We won’t just lounge by the pool like those other gringos. We’ll have a more authentic experience.” And so we went looking, stopping at towns on the route from PuertoVallarta to the north.
The first town was too close to the highway and had a commercial feel. A traveling circus had set up on the main street in the next town, and the place was chaotic. But San Pancho was immediately appealing. Quiet, small, right on the beach. Our first impression was that the large number of dogs napping peacefully on the main street looked healthy. As dog lovers, we took that to be a good sign. We made inquiries about rentals, and the next February we spent our vacation week at a house in the village.
San Pancho was a new world to our ears and eyes. As lifelong city-dwellers, Skip and I had never heard roosters crow. We discovered that they really say “cock-a-doodle-do,” and that they say it all the time, not just at dawn. Daily life was accompanied by music. Ranchera tunes from construction sites, karaoke from the neighbor’s yard, and hymns from the church all poured through our windows. We marveled at the long-tailed magpie jays swooping through the palms and we counted geckos clustered around the porch light at night.
The local people were easy-going and friendly. Even if we didn’t know them, they greeted us on the street. They found no fault with our halting Spanish and appreciated any attempt to have a conversation. Life here had a simpler, communal quality. We felt at ease. If we had been infatuated with Mexico at the timeshare, we were falling in love now.
We ate many meals at Los Arcos, a restaurant owned by an American, Dar Peters, and his Mexican wife Angela. Dar had been living and building houses in San Pancho for 20 years. The town’s unofficial Mayor, he was the “go-to” guy for both gringos and Mexicans in the village. We’d seen his houses, we liked his design style, and we instinctively trusted him. If we were thinking of buying land and building a house, we should do it soon, Dar said, because prices would only increase. A year and a half after that conversation, we owned a house that Dar had built for us in the middle of San Pancho.
When I am asked, “How did you decide to live in San Pancho?” I give the long answer, if I think people will listen. To me it’s like the story of how a relationship progresses from a first date to marriage. “It started with a ‘fly-and-buy’ vacation to Puerto Vallarta,” I say, “and it happened step by step.”
The chemistry between Mexico and us was instant. Our fantasy of a tropical paradise had come to life. Swaying palms, manicured gardens, vistas of the ocean, and -- the perfect touch -- peacocks strolling the grounds. Both of us were fascinated by the swim-up bar, the first we’d ever seen. “How decadent!” I thought. “How fabulous!” Skip made the practical observation, “If a guy falls off the barstool, he won’t get hurt.”
Seduced by the carefully constructed setting, we were perfect targets for the timeshare sales pitch. No lists of pros and cons for us. No analysis of whether it made financial sense. On the day after our arrival we bought a wildly over-priced 25-year timeshare contract.
Our week at the timeshare was a respite for five years from boring jobs and bad weather. We knew Spanish words for food and money – that was it – and we felt comfortable in the resort’s protected, bilingual setting. The bus ride into downtown Puerto Vallarta was as close as we got to everyday life in Mexico. To us that trip was high adventure: a rickety school bus repainted vibrant blue, raucous music, ball fringe and images of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the windshield, a mariachi singing for tips. This sure beat gloomy New Haven, Connecticut in February!
By the sixth year the resort’s pre-packaged Mexican setting seemed less alluring. We had learned more Spanish and we were less timid. “Next year let’s find a place to stay in the real Mexico,” we said. We didn’t know what we meant by that phrase, but it had a ring to it, even a sense of superiority. “We won’t just lounge by the pool like those other gringos. We’ll have a more authentic experience.” And so we went looking, stopping at towns on the route from PuertoVallarta to the north.
The first town was too close to the highway and had a commercial feel. A traveling circus had set up on the main street in the next town, and the place was chaotic. But San Pancho was immediately appealing. Quiet, small, right on the beach. Our first impression was that the large number of dogs napping peacefully on the main street looked healthy. As dog lovers, we took that to be a good sign. We made inquiries about rentals, and the next February we spent our vacation week at a house in the village.
San Pancho was a new world to our ears and eyes. As lifelong city-dwellers, Skip and I had never heard roosters crow. We discovered that they really say “cock-a-doodle-do,” and that they say it all the time, not just at dawn. Daily life was accompanied by music. Ranchera tunes from construction sites, karaoke from the neighbor’s yard, and hymns from the church all poured through our windows. We marveled at the long-tailed magpie jays swooping through the palms and we counted geckos clustered around the porch light at night.
The local people were easy-going and friendly. Even if we didn’t know them, they greeted us on the street. They found no fault with our halting Spanish and appreciated any attempt to have a conversation. Life here had a simpler, communal quality. We felt at ease. If we had been infatuated with Mexico at the timeshare, we were falling in love now.
We ate many meals at Los Arcos, a restaurant owned by an American, Dar Peters, and his Mexican wife Angela. Dar had been living and building houses in San Pancho for 20 years. The town’s unofficial Mayor, he was the “go-to” guy for both gringos and Mexicans in the village. We’d seen his houses, we liked his design style, and we instinctively trusted him. If we were thinking of buying land and building a house, we should do it soon, Dar said, because prices would only increase. A year and a half after that conversation, we owned a house that Dar had built for us in the middle of San Pancho.
When I am asked, “How did you decide to live in San Pancho?” I give the long answer, if I think people will listen. To me it’s like the story of how a relationship progresses from a first date to marriage. “It started with a ‘fly-and-buy’ vacation to Puerto Vallarta,” I say, “and it happened step by step.”
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