Nostalgia for Manufactured Memories: Revisiting the Mexican Town My Grandmother Called Home
The jerk and bump of tires hitting runway jolts me out of a light sleep. I’m surprised I was able to doze off on this flight — planes are notoriously cramped and uncomfortable, and I can rarely nap at the best of times. I pull up the window shade to see the tarmac of the International Airport in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The sun is bright and beams off the pavement. From this distance, the airport appears stark and unwelcoming, but then I spot palm trees in the distance and I’m immediately overcome with a giddy, childlike excitement. I’m here.
As I step into the hot afternoon sun to find a cab that will take me to Bucerias, I wonder what the experience must have been like for my grandmother, driving from Calgary, Alberta on her own some thirty years ago with a car full of her belongings, little knowledge of Spanish, and certainly little experience with avoiding the usual tourist traps. On her own in a new country for the first time, what did she think? Where did she go? Was she exhausted and nervous?
My cab driver speeds along, manoeuvring around slower cars, and the highway stretches out ahead of us. The same highway that my grandmother navigated on her way to the little beachfront apartment she rented in Bucerias. The same apartment, now an AirBnb property, that I’ll be staying in with my parents, who’ve graciously let me crash their winter vacation for ten days. What will it feel like to walk through that familiar doorway all these years later?
I enter the code to the locked gate of the little apartment complex and the door buzzes and creaks as it swings open. I walk through the gate and down the tiled hallway, which opens to a courtyard with a swimming pool and, beyond it, the ocean. Passing the pool, I stop as a breeze hits my face. I close my eyes and hear the rush of waves on the distant shore, the faint sounds of kids playing on the beach, and the familiar combination of trumpet and guitar as the neighbouring restaurant’s music floats over the cement wall surrounding the courtyard. I turn back and traverse the terracotta stairwell to my grandmother’s balcony. Scanning the beach below, I’m filled with calm. Perhaps it’s in my DNA. I was meant to be here. It feels right.
The rolling waves and seemingly constant sound of music bring me back to that moment, twenty-six years ago, when I first took in this breathtaking scene. My visits here since then seem to blend into one, continuous memory: hot sun, cobblestone streets, long days at the beach, glass bottles filled with sweet soda. It has been years since she’s lived in this quaint apartment on the beach, but it doesn’t feel as though a day has passed since I was staying here with my grandmother, Eva — or “Ay-va,” as the locals pronounced it. The sounds of men shouting, saws buzzing, and hammers pounding interrupt my momentary trance and I’m immediately reminded of the vast construction taking place around this modest abode. High-rises tower around me, in various stages of completion. I turn to see a man sawing a piece of rebar as he perches precariously at the edge of a 12-storey condo building under construction across the street.
I walk through the doorway of the apartment to find my parents, already tanned, smiling, and awaiting my arrival with a cold beer ready. After settling in, we head out for a much-needed walk to take in the sights — I desperately need to stretch my legs. While Bucerias hasn’t escaped the massive growth taking place in Jalisco, it still manages to retain its small-town charm. Cobblestone streets are narrow and winding. The restaurants I remember as a child are still bustling. The merchants are busy as ever. The smell of salty ocean air mixed with the sweet, spicy aroma of cinnamon from the local churro vendors’ carts is just as I remember it. There is still just the one resort in town, but the new condo construction means that Bucerias has become slightly more cramped. Despite that, my memories are validated as we stroll through the familiar streets, which haven’t changed at all. It gives me a sense of peace and hope for a place I have a distant yet powerful connection to.
My grandmother left her home, her business, and her family in Calgary to come here in the 1990s, in pursuit of adventure and sunshine. Walking the same streets now that she once walked, I feel an intense closeness to her. After travelling around Mexico, she settled in this town and found a community of snowbirds and locals that she spent her time with, playing canasta, drinking red wine, and smoking cheap cigarettes. They got to know the vendors and restaurant owners, and my family, through regular visits, got to know them as well. Despite her having moved back to Canada, my relationship with her felt the strongest when I was visiting her here, in Bucerias. My grandmother still remembers this town fondly — often wishing she was still here — but the details have gotten hazy for her.
We stop at the entrance to a small ceramics store, peering in past the tables of bright mugs and plates and I spot Sonia. I wave, not sure if she’ll remember me. “Hola!” she proclaims, walking toward me with a smile on her face and her arms outstretched. She remembers me. We visit briefly with Sonia and make small talk, and I promise to return before I leave to choose from her selection of handmade ceramic bowls to bring home as gifts. Sonia and her husband, David, have grown their business since I first visited, when they had only a small stall in Bucerias’ El Centro. Their now larger storefront is a testament to both their hard work and the rapidly growing tourist population of this small town.
In search of a reprieve from the hot sun, we stop in at the Red Apple, a modest restaurant on the rooftop of a four-storey building a few short blocks from my grandmother’s apartment. Their creamy guacamole is served with a generous basket of homemade tortilla chips, fried to the perfect crisp. Sipping cold Pacifico beers, topped with fresh limes, we watch the sun set over the ocean. The stress of my life back home, rife with deadlines and responsibilities, has seemingly melted away. It is not lost on me that vacation destinations are inherently more relaxing than home, but yet I wonder, could I find my own community here, like my grandmother did?
