Snapshots of the Malecon

Puerto Vallarta, a holiday Friday night, my last day in Mexico:

• A man standing with a big balloon, holding it by the end and thwacking it rhythmically in the air, bouncing it off his wrist.


• A young man standing with friends, in normal dress except wearing a pink bunny hat.


• Club Row, each with high ceilings, dark interiors, pounding with music, everything from techno to fifties, lit each with a different hue of low lighting, red, blue, pink, each vast cavern occupied by only a couple or two at 9:30, against the giant flashing video images, though the Malecon was thronged.


• A tall Viking goddess jogging past the crowds in spandex and bare feet.


• Random people crossing, or standing about in clutches, on the Malecon or sidewalk without regard to the predominant flow of people, as if they owned the space. Oh wait, they do.


• A couple of middle-aged Mexican men walking down the sidewalk, the heftier one in bright yellow tank top and shorts.


• A couple of stylish Mexican women standing on the corner in conversation, interrupted by a wiry, weathered blonde tugging a tiny dog on a leash who gets tangled up in one of the standing ladies’ ankles. She glowers at the gringa, who chides her pet and tugs it away.