Despite the general craziness of Cabo San Lucas, sometimes encouraged by all-you-can-drink shots of tequila, it does have a stunning beach, Playa del Amor (reached by easily arranged water taxis), where on one side you can swim in the Sea of Cortés and on the other watch Pacific waves crash ashore. And I liked where I stayed, the simple but friendly Casa Rafael's, even though I immediately put U.S.-Mexican relations at risk by assuming, because all ten rooms of the pink-hued hotel are named after women, that it was once a bordello.

"They are named for family members," one of the owners told me. "Your room, Josie, is for my mother-in-law."

Twenty miles away, at the other end of Los Cabos but feeling like it is at the other end of time, is San José del Cabo, a town whose sunbaked adobe buildings, especially around the main square, are being converted into boutiques, galleries, and restaurants. As much as any place can where the New York Times is sold in the local bookstore, San José del Cabo gives you the sense of old provincial Mexico.

Between the two towns, which are connected by a four-lane highway, is a stretch of cliffs and beaches known as The Corridor, along which are some of Los Cabos's—in fact, some of Mexico's—highest rated hotels.

"Golf is what made this place happen," said a cigar-smoking guest at the most lauded of them all, Las Ventanas al Paraíso. And he may be right. Eight courses, most designed by the top names in the sport, are spread out along The Corridor, making for green oases that are as pleasant to look upon, even if you are not a golfer, as they are in any desert.

Although Los Cabos owes little of its image directly to Hollywood, Puerto Vallarta, across the Sea of Cortés and down the coast a bit, is a different story. I have never seen the 1964 film The Night of the Iguana. Nor could I find anyone in Puerto Vallarta, where it was shot, who had. But obviously the locals feel a debt to it for putting them on the tourist map: There's a statue of director John Huston in a downtown plaza. And when they refer to "the movie," as they often do, there's no doubt which movie they're talking about.

Beaches, twenty-five miles of them, have always been one of Puerto Vallarta's big draws. The most popular are Playa Olas Altas and Playa de Los Muertos, just south of downtown. Despite the enthusiasm of its wandering vendors, I found Los Muertos particularly pleasing, in part because of local persistence in holding on to its name, which means Beach of the Dead. I wish tourism officials no success in their efforts to get people to call it, and the area of shops, restaurants, boutiques, and galleries growing up behind it, the Romantic Zone.

Restaurants are another big attraction in Puerto Vallarta, and finding a good one is not nearly as difficult as finding a quiet one. There are even pizza parlors with mariachi bands. The piano playing is muted and the food exquisite at the Café des Artistes, whose owner, chef Thierry Blouet, counts among his admirers novelist Carlos Fuentes. "At Café des Artistes," Fuentes has written, "there is no dish that is not a work of art, nor a work of art that does not feed the spirit." Soaring words that make you wonder if he paid for his meal.