Esperaba que alguna vez. Nada puede durar tanto, no existe ningún recuerdo por intenso que sea que no se apague.

I woke up alone in Puerto Vallarta. My mouth dry. My body sore. My senses numb.

I heard the waves crashing against the rocks and receding back into the depths, and I desired nothing more than to become part of the backwash, letting it take me with it back into the deep.

The sun had just started to peak through the gaps of the La Sierra Madre Occidental mountains that line the edge of the city. I got up and walked towards El Malecón, passing late night stragglers and early morning risers. Only some looked in my direction, and only one offered me a “Buenas dias,” to which I replied, “De nada.” The woman looked at me quizzically then proceeded along her way. Suddenly, I realized my folly, but the moment had passed, and I remained alone on my way towards El Malecón.

As I passed the Casa Ley, I glanced up at a building and saw a white rabbit, in a long, yellow-checkered coat moving off into the distance, and above a window, someone had written in bold letters, “Not all who wander are lost.” I took no comfort from these words because at this moment, in all of my wandering, I felt lost, adrift without a mooring, moving ceaselessly towards the abyss that awaited me.

I reached El Malecón and paused in front of El Milenio, gazing at the myriad of animals ascending from the waves at the bottom, curving upwards past Charlemagne and Nezahualcoyotl to the woman at the top, grasping a dove and outstretched towards the heavens. I stood mesmerized, tracing the passage of time, linking me, in some way, to those who came before and those to follow. Yet, I still felt alone.

The sunlight grew as I moved onward, stopping again to gaze upon a sculpture of a man and woman sitting beside one another, heads turned southward, feet dangling in the air. I could not tell where one began and the other ended, melded together as they were on the bench. Fused together for eternity, the couple sat gazing southward, looking, in unison, towards some long ago past or some unforeseen future. I stared at them, longing for their connection. Yet, I still felt alone.

Sweat began to bead on my neck and drip down my back. The sun continued its slow ascent, but, combined with the moisture hanging in the air, it already made its presence known. I trudged forward as bicyclers zoomed past me and dogs scoured for breakfast amongst the remnants of the night. I stopped in front a couple standing before the sea. Both appeared to be rising from the depths, one holding a trident as he reached up towards the woman above him. They longed for one another, but distance kept them apart, the waves pulling them away from each other’s embrace no matter how hard they struggled to reconnect.

Further down El Malecón I saw two children climbing towards the sky on a ladder, attached to thin air. Each had one arm firm grasping a rung while the other, extended, reaching towards the infinite sea, longingly searching for something that did not appear. Below, an individual looked up at the children, with arms outstretched as if in supplication for an answer to what the adventurers found as the ascended towards the heavens. No reply descended from their lips, and I again, felt alone.

I turned east, away from the ocean and towards the mountains. I spied the Mirador el Cerro de la Cruz towering up in the sky and decided to make my way upwards, hoping I could, where the children failed, bring some meaning to my excursion. I walked, upwards, past shops where women, even this early in the morning, pleaded with me to come inside and relax. I walked past the Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe with its doors and windows open to the steamy morning air. I walked upwards on the asphalt, passing a one legged man in his descent towards the church. I nodded, and he replied in kind as we crossed paths, each pursuing our own journeys towards an essence we could not explain.

I walked past chickens and horses, dogs and cats, littered trash and mud, before reaching the base of the Mirador el Cerro de la Cruz. I had already walked up seven hundred steps to get this point, and I had three hundred more to go till the top. I took my time, stopping often to wipe the sweat from my brow and drink the water I had brought along with me for the journey. When I arrived at the top, I gazed towards the east and the La Sierra Madre Occidental mountains as the sun rose higher and higher. I turned towards the west, looking out over the Pacific Ocean as boats started to dot the horizon.

As I looked around, from the mountains to the sea, I saw, attached to every railing on the tower, padlocks with the initials of lovers who had found one another, at some point, amidst their travels in this world. The locks carried the inscriptions of initials and dates — J y L 11/05/25 — or full names — Siera y Jesus. Each reminded me both of my own loneliness. Each screamed at me that these people had found one another, found a partner in their journey, while I remained alone, wandering the streets in a strange city, not knowing whether anyone would even think about me if something happened to me here, far away from my home.

My contemplation complete, I descended the stairs, making my way back to my bed for a few more hours of sleep. On my way back, I passed the Parroquia Nuestra Señora del Refugio and decided to step in to cool off because even at this hour sweat enveloped me. I found a pew and let the breeze, emanating from the opened doors and windows, wash over me. Ahead of me, near the front of the church, I saw a man and woman, sitting close together. They conversed, looking at one another in adoration, and before they arose, they leaned in and kissed, right there in front of the altar. They arose, hand in hand, and exited back out into the sultry Puerto Vallarta morning.

Feeling cooler, I arose to finish the walk back to my room. I passed shops and cafes, dogs and cats, mopeds and cars. I passed people, going about their morning business, as if I did not exist. I passed a pair of older women, each with canes, navigating the uneven ground beneath their feet. At one treacherous step, one of the women appeared unable to take the step down as the sidewalk descended. Her companion, placing her cane in her left hand, held out her right hand for the woman to grab a hold of. The woman reached out and held her hand, and the two stepped down the step onto firmer ground. They continued to shuffle along, each helping the other on their trek to wherever they were going that morning.

Making it back to my room, I looked at the wall and saw that someone had written, as for me to find,

Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux.