After threading through customs, then several dozen cabbies, women representing condos or time shares or some-kinda-deals, and some out -and-out scam artists, there are the doors and fresh dusty air and noise and father sunshine pressing gently down, making my Seattle cold morning clothes intolerable.  Puerto Vallarta rolls right on without seeming to notice as my jacket, shirt and long-sleeve tee shirt come off and I hang the shirt loosely back in place.  A brief re-shuffling of the backpack and off to the bus-stop.  My first attempt at Spanish conversation elicits and English answer and the bus is jolting me away toward Old Town and a cheap hotel.  It happens not to be the express bus I was expecting, though.  Rather it’s the one that rumbles around the backskirts of town and finally brings me to some familiar streets, nearly an hour later.  What a tour!  And hey, this — THIS is urban Mexico.  Check in for the night (about $20) and cross the street for cerveza and a burrito de pollo, then a short siesta and back on the streets to walk out the remaining kinks and to soak up a bit of this kind old town before moving on down the coast tomorrow morning.


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