The Fishing Hole - community building at work.

It wasn’t the most enchanted of meetings: our first night in Zihuatanejo, Mexico, my travelling companions and I were spotted by the bartender at a corner bar and ceremoniously greeted with a loud, “HEY, GIRLS!”

Nonetheless, we had ventured into town from my parents’ upscale hotel on the hill, and anything looked better than the over-priced, half-empty “Salsa” bar the front-desk people had recommended. We hesitantly agreed to one Pacifico at The Fishing Hole, a street bar featuring seven stools, 5 kinds of cerveza, and one very loud stereo.

Three hours later, we had sampled all varieties of Mexican tequila The Fishing Hole had to offer (in our defense, there were only three), exchanged travel monologues with two mechanical engineers from Morelia, become best friends with Carlos the bartender, jumped behind the bar to create the evening’s playlist, and met half the young work force of Zihuatanejo.

To be clear, we are a friendly trio, but this immediate comfort and intimacy is not our modus operandi. A fairly average Canadian traveler, I tend to be overly polite and a little reserved. In that venue, however, lingering on my barstool sharing stories in broken English and pigeon Spanish seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

View from my hammock, Playa Saladita

When our night drew to a close we parted ways with the customary kiss to the cheek, promising Carlos we would return the next day to meet still more of his friends.

The Fishing Hole had us hooked.

Over the next week, Carlos and his friends, Adrian and Bebe, transformed our brief vacation into a love affair with Zihuatanejo.

We were taken an hour north of the city to surf at Playa Saladita, “The Salty Beach”, where the ocean’s floor is lined with sea urchins and its shore with only a handful of houses. The road to Saladita has only just been completed and the previous way in required heavy-duty off-roading, making it precious to locals and surf-bums. Swinging in a hammock on top of an isolated surf shack, listening to the waves and the breeze and little else, I understood why.

We were escorted to the opening of Ixtapa’s first beach bar, Mavericks. Ixtapa is the oddball cousin of Zihuatanejo. Built in the 80s, it’s a resort-centric town full of souvenir shops, nightclubs, and Americana. Mavericks is an anomaly: nestled into the sand, its clientele is mostly local, its beer is free (at least, on opening night), and its entertainment features a local reggae group and the world’s friendliest DJ.

We were swayed to try scuba diving when Adrian passionately described diving the reefs around Zihua, explaining that he felt less like and instructor and more like “an ambassador to another world.”

We were introduced to trova Mexicana, Mexico’s highly political and romantic folk music. We were introduced to Cumbia (Columbian-style salsa dancing) with far less success. We were directed to the Parthenon, the decaying former mansion of Mexico City’s dirtiest police chief, “el Negro” Durazo. We learned to say la ultima y nos vamos! (One more and we’ll go!) when we had no intention of going anywhere.

The bay of Zihuatanejo

Every day we were treated to new examples of what it means to live, work and play in Zihua. Its local community didn’t just welcome us, it reached out and pulled us into the fold without a moment’s hesitation or a second thought. Carlos, Adrian and Bebe had little awareness of their graciousness. They were just doing what they do.

Which invariably leads to some lessons about community building. It would appear that the community formed over beer and halting conversation can be as influential and oddly supportive as the ones formed over textbooks, yoga mats, or manifestos. And apparently, these impromptu communities can spring up just about anywhere. You just have to be open. And take chances. And, when the invitation is loudly extended from the other side of the street, pull up a barstool.