Puerto Vallarta: Returning to an Old Friend
- Arnold Plotnick
- 2 hours ago
- 19 min read
A couple of weeks ago, I returned from a week in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
Normally, retirement time isn’t hard to fill, but over the past few months I’d been restless. Mark’s work schedule has largely curtailed visits to our little upstate country house. His vacation days for 2026 are already spoken for—Amsterdam in August (I'm there right now, as I type this) and Egypt in October—so there won’t be much traveling until then.
Meanwhile, my street photography had started to feel stale. I found myself walking the same streets, photographing the same corners, and hoping something new would magically happen. I needed a change of scenery: sunshine, sand between my toes, and a chance to recharge my batteries.
So, it was off to Puerto Vallarta.
Again.
This was my ninth visit since 2014, making Puerto Vallarta second only to Amsterdam in the number of times I’ve returned to a foreign destination.
Which raises an obvious question:
What is it about Puerto Vallarta that keeps calling me back?
***
Puerto Vallarta has long been known as one of the most gay‑friendly destinations in Mexico. The Zona Romántica, arguably the best neighborhood to stay in, is home to more than thirty gay bars and clubs. At my age I’m no longer especially interested in partying until two in the morning, but I still like knowing the option is there.
Mark and I first visited in 2014, and its gay‑friendly reputation was definitely part of the appeal. We stayed at Casa Cupula, a hotel that caters primarily to gay travelers.
The hotel organized day trips and group activities, and we decided to do something completely out of character: zip‑line through the Mexican jungle with a group of fellow guests.
To our surprise, it was a blast.
The group bonded almost immediately; by the end of the day it felt as though we’d known one another for years.
We did all the things first‑time visitors are supposed to do: visited the beaches, checked off the popular attractions, and spent evenings strolling along the Malecón, Puerto Vallarta’s seaside promenade, watching the sun disappear into Banderas Bay.
The food was fantastic—after all, who doesn’t love Mexican food? We particularly liked Margarita Grill, with their huge frozen margaritas and their fresh guacamole that's made right at the table.
The weather was nearly perfect. And there were enough stray cats wandering around to satisfy my feline cravings.
At the time, I was just beginning to develop an interest in photography and had very few skills to speak of. Still, I came home with a handful of photographs I was rather proud of.
***
Two years later, we were back.
Again, we stayed at Casa Cupula, which in hindsight was probably a mistake. One of the perennial Puerto Vallarta debates is where to stay. Do you want to be near Playa Los Muertos, the city’s famous gay beach, where you’ll likely spend much of your day? Or deeper in the Zona Romántica, closer to restaurants, shops, bars, and nightlife?
Now that we were familiar with the beach, the bars, and many of the local restaurants, we probably should have chosen a hotel closer to the action rather than one perched halfway up what felt like a mountain. That hill seemed a lot steeper on the way back after a few margaritas.
This trip, we leaned harder into the gay‑tourist experience. We signed up for a gay bar crawl and spent a day on a cruise visiting small islands and secluded beaches around Banderas Bay.
The bar crawl was surprisingly fun. For one reasonable price, we hit six or seven popular bars and received drink tickets at each stop. Some of the venues had long lines, but because we were with the tour, we bypassed them and walked right in. It felt very VIP, even if only for an evening.
The day cruise was equally enjoyable. We swam, explored little beaches, and soaked up the sun. The boat was staffed by a team of impossibly attractive young Mexican men whose primary job seemed to be making sure everyone had a good time. One of them—a muscular guy with braces—had me completely smitten.
By this point, we had settled into a Puerto Vallarta routine. Breakfast was usually at Fredy’s Tucan or The Pancake House. Afternoons often involved enormous frozen margaritas at Margarita Grill. We knew exactly which section of Playa Los Muertos we preferred and where to plant ourselves for the day.
Puerto Vallarta was no longer an experiment; it was becoming a tradition. Photography took a back seat on this visit. I spent less time looking through a viewfinder and more time simply enjoying myself.
***
A year later, we were back again, this time in a lovely Airbnb in the heart of town.
Our visit happened to coincide with Puerto Vallarta’s Pride Week. On paper that sounded like excellent planning. In retrospect, perhaps not.
One of the things that first drew us to Puerto Vallarta was its unique balance. It was undeniably gay‑friendly, but also unmistakably Mexican. You could spend the morning on a beach packed with gay tourists and the afternoon wandering neighborhoods where daily life continued exactly as it always had.
During Pride Week, the balance shifted dramatically.
As George Costanza once observed, everything became completely “steeped in gayness.”
To be fair, we had fun. We watched the parade, attended a few parties, spent plenty of time at the beach, and joined the celebrations. For many visitors, Pride Week is probably the perfect time to go.
For us, something unexpected happened.
We found ourselves increasingly drawn away from the festivities and deeper into the city’s residential neighborhoods. Away from the bars, crowds, and tourists, Puerto Vallarta revealed a different side. We wandered through markets overflowing with fruits, vegetables, spices, and ingredients neither of us could identify. Mark, whose interest in cooking borders on obsession, was in heaven. By the end of the trip, our suitcases contained an assortment of Mexican spices and dry goods that had somehow become essential.
Those excursions remain some of my favorite memories from that visit.
Back in the Zona Romántica, Pride continued at full volume. Back in the neighborhoods, life went on as usual. Looking back, I think that was the trip when I realized that what compelled me to keep coming back to Puerto Vallarta wasn’t just the beach, the weather, or even the gay‑friendly atmosphere.
It was the city itself. It's cute. It's real. It's low-key. It's authentic. The perfect mix.
We’d certainly return. Just probably not during Pride Week.
***
I should probably clarify something.
Mark and I may have decided that Pride Week wasn’t our ideal time to visit, but that didn’t mean I was totally done with it. When I told my best friend Robb how much fun it had been, he suggested we go together.
Mark was perfectly happy with this arrangement. Having accompanied me to Puerto Vallarta three times in four years, he was ready for a break. Robb, meanwhile, was eager for an adventure.
Robb and I have known each other forever.
We met in Baltimore in 1997 and have been close friends ever since. On paper, we don’t actually have all that much in common. He’s far more athletic than I am, and our interests often diverge. I like indie films; he likes Pokemon. I like punk rock. He likes cheesy karaoke. But he’s easygoing, loves animals (a key requirement), treats his friends and family well, and possesses the rare ability to find fun almost anywhere. He’s simply one of those people who makes life a lot more fun.
Before the trip we researched Pride events and found what looked like the centerpiece of the festivities: a massive dance party at a club near the beach. We bought tickets immediately. Robb embraced the assignment with enthusiasm, stocking up on glow sticks and assorted party accessories. Having a travel companion who was genuinely excited about every aspect of the trip was infectious.
On our first night in town, we wandered into an outdoor Pride festival on one of the main streets in the Zona Romántica. Within minutes, Robb spotted a handsome guy. Not one to be shy when it comes to things like that, he made a beeline straight toward him.
And that was basically that.
Robb and Julio were inseparable for the rest of the week.
Fortunately, Julio turned out to be a genuinely great guy, so I never felt like a third wheel. In fact, he seemed determined to make sure I didn’t. He introduced us to the owner of Blondie’s, one of the area’s most popular bars, and somehow managed to secure discounted drinks for us along the way.
The dance party was every bit as entertaining as promised and remains one of my strongest memories of that trip.
Our trip ended, but Robb and Julio stayed in touch. A few months later, Julio came to New York. While Robb was at work, Julio and I wandered around SoHo, shopping, talking, and becoming friends in our own right.
The story didn’t end there.
Julio is an enthusiastic traveler, and over the years he has rented my Amsterdam apartment nearly every summer for Amsterdam Pride. By now he’s such a regular visitor that he’s left a hair dryer and his own pillow there for future trips. How cool is that?
***
The following year, 2019, brought what was probably our most memorable Puerto Vallarta trip—though not for the reasons we’d hoped.
I’ve always admired people who travel with groups of friends. Whenever I see photos of six or eight people vacationing together, they always seem to be having the time of their lives. Sure, you sacrifice a little independence, but in return you get companionship, shared experiences, and hopefully a lot of laughter.
About twenty years earlier, I had met a couple from Texas on a gay cruise. Let’s call them Foster and Damian. (Definitely not their real names.) We’d stayed in touch through Facebook, and when they visited New York for Pride one year, Mark and I met them for drinks and had a genuinely enjoyable evening.
Since they were also fans of Puerto Vallarta, it seemed reasonable to suggest a vacation together.
They agreed, and Damian found a beautiful Airbnb perched high in the hills above town. The climb was not for the faint of heart, but the place was cute and the views were spectacular.
The view of the sunset from the balcony was amazing.
For the first few days, everything went smoothly. We each pursued our own interests during the day, occasionally met at the beach, and usually regrouped for dinner.
Then, midway through the trip, things took an unexpected turn.
One afternoon, Foster and Damian got into a heated argument that was stunning in its savagery. Mark and I retreated to our room while the disagreement escalated far beyond anything we’d anticipated. Voices were raised. Extremely harsh words were exchanged. At one point, a drinking glass met an unfortunate end on the floor, the sound of it shattering now permanently filed in my mental archives.
Eventually, Damian stormed out, and when the apartment finally fell silent, Mark and I quietly slipped into town, feeling more than a little rattled.
Couples sometimes disagree. It happens. But it was the intensity that threw us. You don’t expect an argument to turn into a spectator sport—especially one involving flying glass.
The next day, Foster and Damian behaved as though nothing had happened.
Mark and I, however, had decided to steer clear of them as much as possible for the rest of the trip.
Fortunately, Puerto Vallarta is an easy place to disappear into. We spent more time exploring on our own, enjoying long walks, good meals, and plenty of beach time. Of course, I found my kitties, and we particularly enjoyed all of the anti-Trump merch that vendors were selling.
The vacation recovered, but the experience taught us something valuable.
Since then, we’ve vacationed with friends many times in the Caribbean paradise of Anguilla, and those trips have been wonderful and drama‑free. But Puerto Vallarta convinced us that not every friendship needs to be tested by sharing an Airbnb for a week.
***
A year and a half later, the world had changed.
Covid had settled over the United States like a heavy blanket. Mark was working from home. Restaurants were closed, social lives had largely evaporated, and most of us spent more time staring at the same four walls than we ever thought possible. To make matters worse, New York seemed trapped in an endless cycle of rain, clouds, and gloom.
I was getting restless.
Actually, “restless” is too mild. I had a serious case of cabin fever. I craved sunshine, sand, fresh air, and a change of scenery. I mentioned this to Mark, and wonderful husband that he is, he immediately understood. Being retired, I had the freedom to travel, and he encouraged me to take advantage of it.
So, I booked a flight to good old Puerto Vallarta.
My plan was simple: find an Airbnb near the beach, sit in the sun, and roast myself like a rotisserie chicken for a week.
At first, everything went according to plan. The weather was glorious. (It always is.) The beach was exactly where I’d left it. The mango margaritas were cold.
Then something unexpected happened.
I was lonely.
Not bored. Not unhappy. Just…alone.
I’ve traveled solo many times and generally enjoy it. These days I visit Amsterdam by myself every year and happily spend weeks wandering museums, loitering in cafés, and biking around neighborhoods at my own pace. Solitude has never bothered me.
For some reason, though, this trip felt different.
Around that same time, my college roommate Barry (aka Dweezle, aka The Dweez) was going through an incredibly difficult period. His wife, Therese, who had already beaten cancer twice, was facing some serious new medical issues that were beginning to affect her cognition. Life at home had become stressful and emotionally exhausting.
My Airbnb had a fold‑out couch.
Barry lived in Atlanta.
An idea occurred to me.
I texted him and half‑seriously suggested that if he wanted to escape for a few days, he was welcome to claim the couch. I fully expected him to decline. Given everything happening at home, it seemed like a long shot.
He initially brushed off the idea. Then there was a pause. I could almost hear the gears turning. "Hmmm....lemme think for a minute", he said. Then he mentioned that his son Zach, a skilled nurse, had a few days off. Perhaps Zach could look after Therese? After another pause, I could practically feel his mood change through the phone: “I think I can do this, Arn!!”
Before I knew it, Barry was on a flight to Puerto Vallarta.
The next three days were terrific. We went to the beach every day. The only beach I really knew was the gay beach, which Barry took in stride.
We wandered around town, took photographs, watched the sunset, browsed shops, and ate at some of my favorite restaurants. (Not that the restaurant choices mattered much; no matter where we went, Barry ordered shrimp fajitas. Every single time.)
Mostly, we did what we’ve always done best together: laughed our heads off.
My photography was improving, as well. Puerto Vallarta always inspires that, and having someone like Barry, who likes and appreciates photography definitely helped. Here are some of my better shots from this trip:
With work, family obligations, and the stresses of life in general, uninterrupted time with Barry had become increasingly rare to obtain. Under the circumstances, those few days felt especially meaningful. I knew he needed a break, and I was grateful that I—and Puerto Vallarta—could provide one.
Sadly, Therese passed away not long afterward.
Looking back, I’m thankful Barry and I had those carefree days when we did. What began as an attempt to cure my own cabin fever ended up becoming one of the most meaningful trips I’ve ever taken to Puerto Vallarta.
***
A year and a half later, in December 2022, Mark and I were back.
We had a little free time, and I suggested a quick getaway. Mark responded with a familiar argument: if we’re going to Mexico, shouldn’t we try someplace new? Tulum. San Miguel de Allende. Oaxaca. Mexico is a big country, after all.
I told him I was perfectly willing to go somewhere else.
There was just one catch.
I had absolutely no interest in researching destinations, comparing hotels, reading reviews, or planning an itinerary. That sort of thing takes time and effort, and I wasn’t in the mood. I wanted something easy, familiar, and relaxing.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go wherever you want. You just have to plan it.”
We ended up in Puerto Vallarta.
One reason Mark and I work well as a couple is that we’ve developed an effective division of labor. He’s the big‑picture guy. I’m the detail person. He often comes up with the idea; I usually figure out how to make it happen.
In this case, I quietly suspected that if I handed him the responsibility for planning an entirely new destination, we’d somehow find ourselves back in Puerto Vallarta.
Apparently, I know my husband.
This time we stayed in a studio apartment in a slightly odd location. It wasn’t quite in the heart of the tourist district, but it wasn’t near the beach either. It sat on a busy street corner in a more local part of town. It was noisier than we typically prefer, but the location had an unexpected advantage: it placed us much closer to everyday Puerto Vallarta.
We spent more time exploring residential neighborhoods, markets, and local businesses than ever before. We wandered through produce markets and souvenir shops, browsed art galleries, sampled street food, and generally spent less time being tourists and more time being curious.
For someone who had initially resisted yet another trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mark settled in remarkably quickly. He became fascinated by the markets and shops, happily poking through stalls while I wandered with my camera.
We still did the classic Puerto Vallarta things, of course: plenty of beach time, strolls along the Malecón, more tuba (a fermented drink with apples and walnuts sold by vendors on the Malecón) than was probably necessary, spectacular sunsets, and very good meals.
But something felt different.
It was as though we’d finally stopped asking whether Puerto Vallarta was the right destination and simply accepted that we loved the place.
By then, my photography had improved considerably, and Puerto Vallarta proved fertile ground for street work. The city offers a wonderful mix of color, character, architecture, and everyday life. I came home with some of my favorite images from any of our visits.
There were cats and dogs everywhere, which, as far as I’m concerned, improves any travel experience.
After this trip, the ritual objections largely disappeared. When I suggested Puerto Vallarta in the future, there were no longer long debates about alternative destinations. Much as it took Mark a few years to fully appreciate Amsterdam, Puerto Vallarta had simply just worked its way into our lives.
Why fight it?
Some places earn your affection immediately. Others win you over slowly, one visit at a time.
***
My eighth visit came two years later, in 2024.
By this point, there was no debate about trying someplace new. No talk of Tulum or Oaxaca. We both knew exactly what kind of vacation we wanted.
We wanted Puerto Vallarta.
Since our previous trip had placed us deeper in town, this time we stayed closer to the beach. The apartment was lovely, but there was one significant drawback. Directly across the street stood a large beachfront hotel that seemed determined to soundtrack our vacation with an endless playlist of thumping dance music.
One thing that has always puzzled me about Airbnb reviews is how relentlessly positive they are. Apparently, it’s considered poor form to mention minor inconveniences, which seems counterproductive when the whole point of a review is to help future travelers. I still don’t understand how nobody thought to mention the daily dance‑club soundtrack.
To be fair, the music stopped promptly at 10:00 p.m., so it never interfered with sleeping. But quiet afternoons in the apartment were less relaxing than we’d hoped.
Fortunately, our building had a rooftop deck and pool.
This wasn’t our first rental with a rooftop pool, but until then I had never fully appreciated the appeal. Historically, we’ve gravitated toward the beach. Playa Los Muertos has everything: sunshine, sand, food and drinks delivered to your chair, and a friendly, social atmosphere.
What it also has is vendors.
Lots of vendors.
Every forty‑five seconds, it seems, someone approaches asking if you’d like to buy sunglasses, jewelry, hats, statues, rugs, or something else you didn’t know existed until that moment.
I genuinely feel for these people. Making a living by trudging through deep sand in ninety‑degree heat while carrying armloads of merchandise cannot be easy. But after several hours, it’s hard to relax when you’re constantly being asked to make purchasing decisions.
The rooftop pool, by contrast, offered something almost unimaginable: silence. No sales pitches. No negotiations. No rugs, no trinkets. It was bliss.
One afternoon by the pool we met another gay couple staying in the building. They turned out to be friendly, easygoing guys who shared several restaurant recommendations that proved absolutely spot‑on. Thanks to them, we enjoyed some of the best meals we’ve had in Puerto Vallarta.
By now our routine was finely tuned. We split our time between beach and rooftop...
...wandered galleries and souvenir shops...
....strolled the Malecón and drank coconut water on the streets
and, as always, spent plenty of time exploring neighborhoods beyond the tourist district. Those quieter, more authentically Mexican parts of the city had become some of our favorite places to wander
Of course, every cat and dog caught my eye, and I took tons of photos of them.
I was particularly fond of a very sweet dog I met on the beach.
One afternoon I posted on Facebook that we were in town. A short while later, my phone buzzed. It was Julio. He’d seen the post and informed me that he was also in Puerto Vallarta. Before long, Mark and I were sitting with him at Blondie’s, catching up over drinks. It was one of those completely unexpected travel moments that feel disproportionately special. The older I get, the more I appreciate surprises like that. Even in a city nearly 2,500 miles from home, you’re never quite as far from your friends as you think.
Photographically, the trip was particularly rewarding. Puerto Vallarta continued to provide an endless supply of interesting subjects, colorful scenes, and unexpected moments.
***
Which brings me back to my most recent visit. My ninth trip to Puerto Vallarta—but certainly not my last.
This time, I came alone. By early summer I’d begun to feel a little restless in New York. I was craving sunshine, sand, ocean air, and a change of scenery. I would have loved for Mark to join me, but his vacation time was already spoken for. So I packed my bags and headed south.
Naturally, things got off to a less‑than‑perfect start.
At four in the morning, I woke to discover that American Airlines had delayed my flight just enough to make me miss my connection in Houston. Faced with a choice between arriving a day late or starting over, I opted for a refund and frantically searched for alternatives. Miraculously, United had a flight leaving at nearly the same time and arriving almost exactly when I’d originally planned.
Disaster averted.
The Airbnb presented its own challenges. The check‑in instructions mentioned a “lockbox,” which turned out to be misleading. After wrestling unsuccessfully with the actual lockbox, a building employee discovered that the real entry method was a hidden digital keypad built into the door handle.
Once inside, I discovered that the apartment’s water had been turned off. You’d think that, having reserved the place four weeks earlier, they might have remembered to turn it back on.
No such luck. After a few grumbly texts to the owner, the water was restored a few hours later.
It was one of those travel days when all you can do is complain, and remind yourself that someday it will become a good story.
Fortunately, the apartment itself was excellent—especially the rooftop deck and pool.
Previous visits had taught me that I no longer need to spend every afternoon on the beach. The beach still has its charms, but it also comes with that endless parade of vendors. The rooftop deck offered something increasingly precious: uninterrupted quiet.
Most afternoons, I had the pool entirely to myself.
There was another bonus. The building piped a steady stream of ambient electronic music through discreet Bose speakers. Normally I’m picky about music, but somehow the soundtrack felt perfectly suited to long, solitary afternoons in the sun. Before long, I was reaching for Shazam every few minutes to identify songs for a playlist I would make when I got back home.
Despite the beautiful weather and relaxing surroundings, I experienced something that had also happened on my previous solo visit: I felt a little lonely.
I wasn’t unhappy, and I can’t say I was bored. But I was very aware that so many of my memories of Puerto Vallarta involve Mark. The city and our relationship have become intertwined over the years, and experiencing one without the other felt slightly incomplete. I missed him terribly.
Still, I settled into a comfortable routine.
Each morning began with breakfast at Fredy’s or The Pancake House, followed by several hours of wandering with my camera.
I hunted down my favorite t-shirt vendor (I couldn't remember at first where his little store was), and then bought two new designs.
Naturally, the dogs and cats caught my eye and of course, they didn't escape my camera.
Some days I stayed near the Malecón. There were pelicans everywhere on the beach, and I went a little crazy with the pelican photos.
It wasn't just pelicans. It was birds in general. Their silhouettes interested me, and I experimented with various bird shots.
Other days I drifted through residential neighborhoods, markets, and side streets. I made a point of avoiding the same route twice. After so many visits, I still wanted to discover new corners.
I also created my own unofficial version of Puerto Vallarta’s ArtWalk, visiting galleries throughout town and spending afternoons admiring the work of Mexican artists. I even had my teeth professionally whitened because I heard I could get it done for a fraction of the cost of New York.
The results were excellent. My teeth were whiter than a Trump rally.
Afternoons belonged to the rooftop pool. Evenings belonged to the waning sun. I’d stroll the Malecón, buy a cup of tuba, watch the crowds gather, and eventually claim a spot to watch another stunning sunset. Then dinner, a little writing or photo editing, and bed.
Simple. Comfortable. Familiar.
This trip was really all about photography. I needed some photographic inspiration, and I got it in Puerto Vallarta. So this final section of this post is mostly a gallery of some of my best shots.
On my final morning, I walked down to the beach one last time.
It was early. The crowds hadn’t arrived yet. Waves rolled quietly onto the sand. Pelicans glided overhead before plunging into the water. A man sat with his dog near the shoreline. Pigeons perched on rows of empty beach chairs awaiting another day of tourists.
This was the vibe—the Puerto Vallarta I’d come to love. Peaceful. Unhurried. Exactly as I’d hoped it would be.
A short while later, I collected my luggage, checked out of the apartment, and headed to the airport. Visit number nine was over.
I don’t know exactly when I’ll return. But after nine trips, I think it’s safe to say Puerto Vallarta has earned a permanent place in my travel life. Some destinations impress you. Some entertain you. A very small number begin to feel like old friends.
Puerto Vallarta has become one of mine.
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