Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico - When I think of Puerto Vallarta, my mind goes back to that first bite of taco al pastor, sold by a street vendor in the Old Town neighborhood.

We'd been in town for all of about two hours - enough time to take a cab from the airport, drop off our bags, get the lay of the land and hit the streets for a snack. That taco al pastor cart would draw us back, again and again, with its sizzling meat tossed and chopped before us and then scooped onto griddled corn tortillas.

We'd come to Mexico after much discussion. We considered some Central and South American spots, but good food and a quicker flight inspired me to lobby for Mexico.

My boyfriend, Neil, was nervous about Mexico, and, considering he's someone who reads at least two national newspapers a day, that's not unreasonable - he'd been spooked by stories about drug cartels, car jacking, kidnapping, murder.

I brought up Puerto Vallarta because a former boss had retired there, and her Facebook posts revealed a gorgeous city halfway down Mexico's Pacific coast, urban enough for exploring but beachy enough for relaxing.

I began reading, and found this: AARP's magazine named Puerto Vallarta among the best places to retire; Conde Nast once named it the friendliest city in the world; and a popular marketing magazine named it the "Best Place for Meetings and Conventions."

Soon, I was skimming AirBnB and found a two-bedroom apartment owned by a guy from San Francisco that had a small private pool on its second-floor deck and cost less than $80 a night. Sold.

We get off our plane, grab a cab and within minutes we're reveling in views of the Sierra Madre mountains as we drive to our apartment. A smiling man greets us with a giant hug and introduces himself as the property manager. Formerly from Hollywood, Bert has lived in Puerto Vallarta for decades. He lets us know his favorite places to eat in the area (big fan of the street vendors), tells us there are two cold beers in the fridge and advises us to leave our passports, credit cards and IDs in the safe and take cash when we go out. It's common-sense advice, and we follow it all week.

We start the vacation off by sinking into the pool, sipping Coronas and taking in the scene. We're in the Old Town area of Puerto Vallarta, away from the touristy resorts. To one side we can see the ocean and on the other rise the mountains, covered in thick forest. Between us and the ocean are layers and layers of homes, apartments and small shops. We can hear the crowing roosters that roam the streets, along with the happy screams of kids kicking around a soccer ball. And across the way, a woman on the second-floor patio is hanging sheets out to dry, playfully chatting with a man and sipping wine. There's an easiness in the air.

Refreshed, we wander down the hill toward the ocean. That's when we find the aforementioned taco cart and I get to use my subpar español. The patient vendor responds to me in English.

We continue on to the Malecon, a mile-long paved path along the ocean that offers gorgeous views. The route crosses a bridge over the River Cuale, and we stop to watch the water flow from deep in the mountains, past hillside homes, melding with the ocean.

Below us, we spy some men gathering some sort of shellfish from the water, cracking them open and selling them, on the spot, from a makeshift counter. In front of us, a man passes carrying a tray of empanadas for sale, and a woman balancing a basket of pastries on her head.

When the sun begins to set, we stop for margaritas on the beach. Kicking off my shoes, I grind my toes into the sand and watch the sky turn a hundred impossibly beautiful shades of neon. I take dozens of photos. None of them do Vallarta justice.

In the days that follow, we do a few touristy things.

At a small souvenir shop packed with tchotchkes we decide we need to take home some hot sauce, too, opting for an authentic-looking Mexican bottle (only to later find the very same brand in our local grocery store; fortunately, it's delicious). We eat dinner at La Palapa, a romantic waterfront restaurant, where we kick our shoes off and, again, watching another ridiculous sunset while eating incredible, fresh seafood. And we take a snorkeling trip that we booked from a guy in a Mexican restaurant (who also gave us a coupon for a free order of guacamole.)

But the stuff we really remember is what we found off the beaten path. I had emailed my former publisher and asked her for suggestions. She directed us to a walking tour called Power Walk the Hidden Streets of Puerto Vallarta.

So we sign up with Sylvie Scopazzo, and on the last day of our vacation she meets us on the Malecón. Following her lead, we turn our backs to the ocean and look up at the jumble of houses stacked deep into the foothills. From where we stand, you can see no streets, no grid, no sense of order. Just Jenga-like buildings, ranging from dilapidated shacks to sprawling, tile-roofed mansions. "That's where we are going," she says.

Following her lead, we walk up steep, brick-lined streets, passing colorful murals, learning about the history of the city. After about half an hour, Scopazzo warns, "It's going to seem like we're going right through someone's backyard." And with that, the street ends and we walk right past the someone's back porch, from which a tiny brown dog watches us peacefully. We ascend a series of concrete steps, so close to the small, slightly crumbling houses that it feels like we're trespassing. Climbing higher above the ocean, she leads us along these covert passageways again and again. One narrow trail, she says, was built for mules so they could haul up the building materials for a house.

Eventually, we reach a rocky summit. Here, we have a majestic view of Puerto Vallarta: the blue of Banderas Bay, the towering resorts and condos that line the beach, and the areas we've just passed through, backyards and all. We've entered a world we'd never have found on our own.

Scopazzo says that 17 years ago, living in Vancouver, British Columbia, she decided to move to Puerto Vallarta sight unseen and fell in love with the place. Now she walks through the streets, waving at friends every few blocks, giving us a glimpse into close-knit, small-town charm in this city of more than 250,000. She has brought along dog treats she made herself and offers them to the dozen or so stray dogs we encounter along the way, greeting each of them as you would an old friend.

We descend from the hills, and the tour ends with us taking our shoes off and walking across the rocky Rio Cuale to Isla Cuale, a long, narrow island that's home to art galleries and workshops and restaurants. Scopazzo had ordered our lunch ahead of time at Las Brazzas Restaurant, and my simple, subtly spiced chicken burrito totally hits the spot.

Later that afternoon, we wind our way back to our apartment, stopping by our beloved taco cart for a final al pastor, and then head up our steep hill one last time. About halfway up, a man with silver hair and a bright smile pulls up beside us in an SUV and rolls his window down. "Want a ride to the top?" he calls out in English. "It's a steep climb!" We thank him and say no, we could use the exercise. He waves and continues on his way. As we marvel at the gesture - one that would never happen back home - and reflect on our trip, we both feel a little silly for thinking twice about traveling here.