Channing: How We Found San Pancho

San Carlos, Sonora, was my introduction to living in Mexico. Situated on the Sea of Cortez, on mainland Mexico, the tiny town casts a lure: sport fishing, boating, scuba diving. My husband and I loved the slow pace, opportunity to practice Spanish, the proximity to Guaymas, a working town that does not inveigle tourism. In 2002 we invested in San Carlos; we bought a condominium unit on the beach.

It was paradise. Dolphins frolicked and pelicans preened a seashell’s throw from our patio. Each sunrise and sunset broke the gasp-o-meter. But a burgeoning band of developers thought it paradise as well. By our third winter in San Carlos the view had changed: new hotels and condos designed for North American retirees began to crawl along the beach. Gated communities sprawled beyond the town into Sonoran desert. Mid-price homes resembled dandelions gone to seed.

We watched, with growing dismay, San Carlos morph into a Tucson bedroom community. Time to move on, we told ourselves. Look for a more authentic Mexican experience. In March 2005 we hit the road. Sonora, Sinaloa, Nayarit. On day four we stumbled into Sayulita, a beach town less than an hour north of Puerto Vallarta.
Sayulita was charm personified: cobblestone streets, town square flanked by a quaint church, gazebo, artisans dressed in native costume. The streets thrummed with chatter. We were enthralled.
For two days we peered at posters plastered in local real estate windows. Homes were enticing. But prices were not. For $300,000 U.S. we could buy a little fixer-upper a mile from the beach. For $500,000 U.S. the fixer-upper might have a peek-a-view.
Sayulita was beyond budget.

Disappointed, we decided to move on. Loath to leave, I took a last look around: street carts heaped with fruit, kiosks ajumble with CDs, blenders, well-worn tools. A fish market, a hole-in-the-wall grocery, an ice cream shop. I watched a green and white bus crank open its doors, spew passengers dusty from their ride.
A North American woman disembarked, approached.
"Excuse me," she said, "do you have the time?"
A dialogue ensued. She was selling her home in Sayulita, had purchased another in Puerto Vallarta, a better locale for a middle-age single woman. I mentioned this part of Mexico might be too expensive for a second home. She said not necessarily. "Americans are buying and building in San Pancho now. You might want to take a look. Just a few miles north of here." She pointed, made sure I understood the direction. "It’s actually a much nicer village," she said. "Especially for retirees." She shrugged. "Sayulita is not as nice as it used to be."
Next day we drove three miles north to the pueblo of San Pancho. Crossed a cobblestone bridge, braked for a horse and rider, moved over to accommodate a produce cart. We liked the simplicity of this village, life for locals.

"Let’s talk with a real estate agent," I said. "Just see what’s happening here. No commitment." My husband was willing to assuage my curiosity.
The inventory was low, explained the real estate agent. We leafed through his book of photos. Two houses looked okay, but…but what was this? Lush foliage, plunge pool, four palapas, a terraced garden that led to an outdoor living room.

"I would like to see this," I said, stabbing the photo. I loved the look of the place.
"It’s a restaurant," he said.
"Could we live in it?"
"Not a problem. There’s a kitchen, of course, one bedroom, one bathroom."
We toured the property. Weighed the pros, overlooked the cons. Price was right. Might need a little work.
Dear Reader, we bought it.

It has been three winters since we made the move to San Pancho. The restaurant required more work than anticipated to make it a comfortable home. We continue to repair, upgrade and install basic amenities. But the sweat has sweet reward: bougainvillea, lilies, coconut palms, bird-of-paradise, a wild and wonderful tropicana Henri Rouseau might only imagine.

In addition to its visual charm, our restaurant-cum-winter retreat has proved an oasis. It is several degrees cooler than the street above us; palo santo, banana trees, jungle vines shelter us from mid-day heat. A low concrete entry wall muffles sound. But we keep the rustic wooden gate propped open. The street is alive; we don’t want to miss the cacophony: vendors, trucks in death rattle, neighbors about their daily business.
At least once a week someone enters the gate, calls out, "Hola? Are you open today?" The restaurant had a good reputation. Visitors come to dine. With regret I tell them this is now a home. A home in which we intend to stay.