Having achieved a measure of stability in my life—a steady job, a car (a blue Volkswagen), the beginnings of a journalism career and a UT grad student named Lulu as my main squeeze—it seemed that taking a vacation would not be inappropriate. Despite living in Texas most of my life, I had not yet been to Mexico. So I secured a traveler’s visa and flew to Acapulco in May 1984.
The scene at the airport, I must say, was daunting. I did not know where to go or what to do. There were virtually no provisions for foreigners who needed help. The authorities might as well have posted a big sign stating, “You’re on your own, gringo!” I used my limited Spanish skills and persevered.
Eventually, I found a man who drove a private van going into the city. I informed him that I wanted a basic hotel room. Fancy was not part of the agenda. He claimed to understand, and we took off. Before we had gone far, I was struck by the poverty all around. People living in tin-roof shacks, donkeys pulling wagons and broken-down buildings provided a stark contrast with life in Austin.
The driver clearly thought I was an idiot. He disregarded my instructions and took me first to a five-star hotel with a wide-open view of Acapulco Bay. He turned to me and said, “Nice?” Yes indeed, but far too expensive. Let’s try another. The next one was only slightly less splendid. “No, amigo, this is not what I want,” I told him. The third and fourth—well, you get the picture. At long last, we came to a hotel that was in my price range. I settled in for a three-day vacation in this city on Mexico’s southern coast, famous since the 1940s as the destination of American and European movie stars, Errol Flynn, Elizabeth Taylor, Frank Sinatra, Brigitte Bardot, John Wayne and Lana Turner among them. John and Jackie Kennedy had their honeymoon there, as did Bill and Hillary Clinton.
Too much time has passed for me to remember all I saw and did during my excursion to “Aca,” but three scenes have stayed with me.
• There was a group of young men playing half-court basketball just off the street. I stopped and watched, hoping they would notice and invite me to join. Truthfully, I wanted to join. They were trying hard, but they were not accomplished players. While I know it sounds boastful, I could have taken them to school. I got no invitation, so I moved on.
• I had to see the cliff divers of La Quebrada. Featured in the 1963 Elvis Presley film Fun in Acapulco, they are some bold and courageous guys. They climb up on this ledge, kneel, say a prayer and then do a graceful dive 40, 80 or 115 feet into the roiling waters of the gulch below. Injury and death are always a possibility.
• One warm and breezy night, I met a young woman whose name has been forgotten. She made a living by selling coconut cream to people on the beach. Somehow, we met, talked and had a harmless encounter beneath a large umbrella. When I went back to the hotel that night, the doorman asked where I had been. I responded: “Una chica en la playa (a girl on the beach).” He evidently did not keep that secret because the next day, his colleagues at the hotel looked at me with big, knowing grins. When I saw Lulu back in Austin, I told her all about the trip but somehow failed to mention la chica.
That was my one and only visit to Acapulco. In the ensuing years, its preeminence as Mexico’s top tourist spot has given way to Puerto Vallarta, Cancun and Cabo San Lucas. Drug-running gangs have cut into its appeal, and the beach has been marred by concrete hotels, chain restaurants and kitsch.
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