No Gracias: The Art of the Beachfront Battle
The Price of a Sunset? About 3 Necklaces, 2 Bracelets, and Your Dignity
As a traveler — and more recently, an expat — I’ve seen local vendors hawk everything from pies to piñatas with the confidence of a Wall Street trader at Burning Man. Honestly, if some of these folks were selling stocks instead of sarapes, they’d be making six-figure, “now-I-can-afford-San-Francisco-and-my-kid’s-braces” kind of money.
About two weeks into my “blending in like a local” phase, I wandered down to the Malecón — that magical place where cobblestone meets coastline and capitalism meets coconut water. That’s when I spotted her: a tiny abuelita, barely five feet tall, both arms draped shoulder to wrist with heavy ropes of chunky beaded necklaces made of polished stones.
“You know what?” I thought. “I could use one of those. Let’s support the local economy.”
“How much?” I asked casually. She told me the price in USD and I almost passed out. “Buy two and get a discount,” she chirped. Suddenly, she’s putting necklaces on me like I’m a mannequin at a Macy’s clearance sale. I didn’t even like moonstone before this moment. Now I’m convinced it holds ancient powers. Like Kryptonite, but for my wallet.
I walked away with two necklaces and a life lesson: Never underestimate a little old lady with product and purpose. Mucho respeto.
Now, once you leave the Malecon and choose the beach itself you will find an abundant array of bars, restaurants, and beach clubs. For the price of a cerveza you can usually get a beach chair with an umbrella and a view of paradise. Standard tourist fare is on offer: quesadillas, nachos, and chicken strips that haven’t seen a chicken in weeks. But the real food scene? It walks right up to you. Freshly grilled shrimp skewers with lime, mangos carved into flower shapes and dusted in Tajín — all for less than what you’d pay for bottled water at LAX.
Ladies straight from a Diego Rivera painting, long shiny hair in braids, make steady progress through the hot beach sand. They’re joined by teenage boys and silver-tongued Papis of all sizes, parading piles of colorful blankets, dresses, shawls, and jewelry. It’s QVC on the beach, and you’re the live studio audience. The language of commerce here? Spanglish and charades. It’s a roaming food court meets flea market meets day spa. For a few bucks, you can get your hair braided, your shoulders massaged, a shave, a questionable cigar, and a vacation wardrobe. You’ll feel like you come from old money — on a PBR budget.
But beware: as the sun dips low and the sky becomes an Instagram gradient of orange and pink, the energy shifts. The vendors know it’s their final shot. The golden hour becomes the Hunger Games.
This is when they unleash their final weapon: children.
Armed with dimples, candy, and missing baby teeth, the kiddie sales squad launches their adorability offensive. “Chicle?” “Amiguita?” You’re defenseless.
Then come the moms and aunties — Sniper Team Cinco — carrying neon light-up toys, stuffed animals, and spinning trinkets that hypnotize your wallet into submission. It’s not a beach anymore. It’s a carnival run by very persuasive people in flip-flops.
Gone is the polite, “Gracias, no.” You now use body language like semaphore. You’re dodging offers like Neo in The Matrix while trying to eat guacamole.
Then the Mariachis arrive.
A friend was visiting me in Puerto Vallarta and we planned a final sunset dinner on the beach — all warm breezes and sea spray. For all the world, we looked like a cozy, cis-hetero couple.
Cue the band.
Spotting an opportunity, they swarmed us, smiles bright, instruments tuned, ready to turn our table into a telenovela. As they began to play enthusiastically at us, my friend and I locked eyes. Time for improv.
“The Breakup.”
He turned away solemnly. I dropped my eyes to the table. We sighed in perfect heartbreak harmony. I whispered to the band leader, “Not a good time.”
Their smiles faded. The violin sagged. Even the trumpet got a little misty. With a nod of understanding, they moved on to serenade another couple — one hopefully less “mid-breakup” and more “just engaged.”
The sun set. The spell was broken. The beach lived to sell another day.
Moral of the Story:
Never bring a soft heart or a full wallet to a beach at sunset. One will be broken, the other will be empty.
What was the most memorable trinket you ever bought from a vendor on vacation? Did it make it home in one piece? Or upon coming back to reality, did you realize that the “perfect dress” you found in the fancy tourist trap made you look like Carmen Miranda meets Charro? (That’s a hard look to pull off at a PTA meeting…. Maybe the HOA meeting?) Share in the comments! I’d love to hear your battle field beach stories!
If you laughed so hard you spit out your margarita, hit the 💜 button; share this article like an STD at bible camp and smack the Subscribe button like a mosquito that’s been buzzing in your ear all night!
In the meantime, feel free to borrow my breakup scene improv act to ward off unwanted (and unwarranted) acoustic assaults! Past performance is not an indicator of future results. Your mileage may vary.