Up until the early 1960s, amidst what was developing as the Mexican Riviera, Puerto Vallarta's signature Banderas Bay was primarily a calm fishing village, a haven from the high seas. This definitely wasn't Acapulco where all the action was; I mean, Elvis never did a movie "Fun in Puerto Vallarta"!

After my first visit to the donkey-adorned, cobblestone streets that still accentuate Puerto Vallarta, I knew I would someday return. Not for the beautiful bay, the hot Mexican sun or the endless streets of souvenir shops, but for something mystical, yet right under our noses. Like discovering the elusive true meaning of Christmas, I was later to witness something more profound, significant and delightfully authentic, that went against all the strict recommendations of seasoned tour hosts.

"Cheers!" accompanied the jet engines whining in the February Canadian air. Cheap plastic champagne glasses were raised, equally cheap champagne and orange juice teetering inside. It's 7 a.m., flight time, and we're off.

When our group of 10 happy campers, some already happier than others, step on Mexican soil we are going to be revved up to party mode, some of us oblivious to the actual length of the flight. I would estimate that about 90 minutes into the flight, however, snores had moved in like a Vancouver fog, gently silencing the "cheers," allowing the attendants to finally sit down. Except for Roy. Roy, we would soon discover, was like a talking Energizer Bunny, who somehow, without trying could turn a chess game into a hard hat area. "Where's Roy?" would soon challenge "Buenos dias" as my most frequently used expression on this trip.

Should armed military guards escort you on the tarmac to the terminal after you deplane? Maybe they're waiting for Roy. That's not funny, though, as these guys were a very somber lot, or maybe just needed some fiber in their diet. I made a point of being just behind Roy as we went through customs, not unlike a mother would tail a child in an expensive china shop.

Enter Paco, grinning ear to ear, his tour sign electrified with welcome, albeit florescent orange. For the next two weeks this charming man was to be our lifeline to the fun and festivities we all paid good money to experience. Nobody thought to ask his last name; his badge just said "Paco."

Paco would, unbeknownced to him, also show us the time of our lives doing something he wasn't required, nor as a liaison remotely expected to do.

Any tour guide can show you the sights and sounds of Puerto Vallarta, the vacation destination. Paco opened our eyes to the luxury of Mexican culture and tradition, where luxury is not necessarily defined by material possessions, but by family, food, fun and friendships. (Speaking of food you won't believe what Roy ate.)

Born and raised in Puerto Vallarta, and educated in San Francisco, Paco was as personable as a man can get. His warm sincere smile complimented a command of the English language that made my command of Spanish sound like so much calculated gibberish.

His daily mandate was to meet me in the lobby of our modest, comfortable hotel and present the possibilities of entertainment and excursions, and that was all. Ours was but one of a few on his morning hotel run, but by the second-to-last night of our stay he would have such a profound effect on us that one sweet, wealthy widow in our group was ready to sponsor him and his wife to move to Canada and a new life.

Many different and exciting possibilities were available to us, one of which involved a very beautiful - and for some, scary - trip to Yalapa. This trip would culminate in a breathtaking natural waterfall, accessible only by a horseback caravan with not-so-breathtaking horses. There we were, greeted by very overpriced botanas and weak margaritas. The way I look at it, those munchies and drinks got up here the same way we did, and besides, it's only pesos.

Upon arrival I reminded Roy to "hold the crushed ice," but he didn't, citing its inviting "rainbow color," which resulted in numerous stops on the way down for Roy to hit the bushes. I later found out why these dozy animals did what they did daily: they are fed at the top and allowed to drink at the bottom. It was necessity. My wife, no Calamity Jane, said she would climb the path on all fours if she had to, rather than sit on that teetering, knock-kneed poor excuse for a horse, should she ever come back here again.

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