The Puerto Vallarta Welcome

By Harry Arabian

 It was a poor decision to acquire this beachfront property in Puerto Vallarta. Looking back, we were misled—not by agents or contracts, but by our own emotions. The breeze that swept in from the Pacific, the hypnotic rhythm of cobblestone streets under our sandals, the mariachi horns echoing from vibrant cantinas, and the promise of our silver years played like a dream too perfect to question.

We thought we had found our final nest, the long-awaited perch after a life of snow shovels, tax season dread, and Boston bustle. The idea was simple: trade Red Sox for sun hats, cold winters for cold fruit punches sipped from a second-floor balcony overlooking the ocean.

After a long flight from Boston and a cab ride through the sun-soaked neighborhoods of Vallarta, we finally returned to our building—the one we now legally called home. Our bags sat proudly at the curb like obedient dogs. The taxi engine idled while gulls wheeled above us. But something was wrong.

The building entrance was roped off, yellow tape flapping lazily in the warm air. A sun-faded paper was posted to the front door. Marie, ever the practical one, stepped forward. She adjusted her glasses—her “teacher mode” glasses, the ones she wore when dissecting Spanish conjugations or spotting typos on restaurant menus.

Her eyes moved line by line, widening in slow horror.

It was the same look she gave me years ago when we got that letter from the IRS—something about a five-year-old deduction that apparently wasn’t deductible. I braced myself.

The taxi driver, watching us curiously in the mirror, spoke up in broken English:
“Señor, maybe you need hotel?”

I turned to Marie, asked gently, “It seems bad?”

She sighed, pointing to a sentence on the notice like a schoolmarm highlighting a student’s dangling participle.
“The public works department,” she began, “while working on the road, damaged both water and sewer lines to the building. No access until further notice.”

I offered my best Spanish, one I'd fumbled together over years of travel: “Lo siento.”

Marie looked at me with that familiar expression—a cocktail of amusement and exasperation, like when one of her students blamed their dog for eating a homework file saved to the cloud. She shook her head and muttered, “Con permiso,” like she was late for a meeting with the universe.

The taxi driver, sensing opportunity, leaned over the seat. “I take you Zona Romántica. My wife—she have best Bed and Breakfast, steps away from Los Muertos Brewing. Very clean. Very nice.”

I looked at Marie. She shrugged. I looked at my watch. My stomach rumbled in agreement. “Sounds good,” I said. “Tengo hambre y tengo sed.”

With an awkward shuffle, we hauled our bags—our Boston-to-beach dream neatly zippered in Samsonite—back into the taxi. The driver grinned and made a U-turn with flair.

The windows were rolled down. A reggae version of "Guantanamera" played softly on the radio. And as the sun dipped over the rooftops, we laughed—not at the mess, but at the misadventure.

Our nest could wait. For now, we had each other, a room in Zona Romántica, and a dinner waiting at Los Muertos Brewing.

Retirement, it turns out, still had a few surprises left.