By Paddy – Lifestyle Correspondent, The Modern Nomad
Quarterly
Puerto Pikafuko smells of salt, sunscreen, and faintly of
Marlboros.
That last part is courtesy of Gary Dalton, a 62-year-old retired
accountant who believes love, like milk, comes with a clear expiration date —
eighteen months, tops.
Gary is easy to spot: linen shirt, sun-faded ball cap, and a
cigarette always parked at the corner of his grin. He’s lived here five years,
long enough to perfect what he calls “The Honeymoon Algorithm.”
Most expats come to Puerto Pikafuko to slow down. Gary came to optimize
romance.
“Everyone wants love to last forever,” he says, lighting
another. “But forever smells like compromise. Eighteen months smells like
coconut oil and smoke — the good kind.”
The Perfect Habitat for Short-Term Love
Gary chose Puerto Pikafuko for its natural turnover rate.
“Snowbirds fly home after six months. Expats start missing Target and grandkids
after two years. This place renews itself like a cruise ship manifest. Perfect
for my model.”
He calls it Love in Limited Residency.
“Why invest beyond the high point?” he asks. “After eighteen
months the chemicals fade, someone wants to redecorate, and suddenly your
ashtray becomes a moral issue.”
He scrolls through his phone, showing color-coded calendar
alerts:
Month 4 Check-In, Month 12 ROI Assessment, Month 16 Soft Exit
Prep.
Nestled between them is a recurring reminder titled “Stock
Up on Marlboros.”
The Cigarette Clause
Gary’s rulebook is detailed, but his smoke is sacred.
“Every relationship begins with her saying, ‘I don’t mind if you smoke, just
not inside.’ That’s Month One optimism talking,” he says, exhaling toward
the sea.
“By Month Ten, she’s waving incense around like she’s performing an exorcism.”
His theory: the first nine months, women overlook almost
anything — smoking, clutter, selective hearing — because dopamine fogs
judgment. Once the honeymoon chemicals crash, the air clears… literally.
“That’s why you have to leave before the cough starts. If
you want to enjoy your smoke and your sanity, don’t stay past when she starts
buying scented candles.”
When the first “We need to talk about your smoking”
lands, he knows it’s time to initiate The Fade-Out Protocol.
The Relationship Lifecycle, Gary-Style
He’s mapped it with accountant precision:
Months 1–3 | The Spark Phase
“You’re funny, spontaneous, tan, mysterious. The smoke looks cinematic. She
says you’re ‘old-school cool.’ That’s dopamine talking.”
Months 4–9 | The Deepening
“She starts leaving a toothbrush. You’re sharing playlists. You start
pretending to care about her Pilates instructor. Cigarettes become a ‘quirk,’
not a concern.”
Months 10–15 | The Static Zone
“The charm stabilizes. She stops saying the smoke smells sexy and starts
Googling air purifiers. You notice she coughs pointedly. I call that Environmental
Feedback.”
Months 16–18 | The Exit Phase
“She hints at moving in. I light one, look at the ocean, and say, ‘You
deserve better.’ Then I reinstall Tinder — just to look.”
He delivers the timeline with a mix of pride and pity, like
a man explaining a weather pattern no one else will accept.
Spreadsheet Romance
Before Mexico, Gary spent four decades in Calgary auditing
other people’s chaos.
“Numbers don’t lie,” he says. “So I started tracking relationships like assets
— they depreciate predictably.”
He still keeps an Emotional ROI Spreadsheet on his
laptop.
Columns include:
- Start
Date
- End
Date (Projected)
- Laughter
Per Week
- Nicotine
Tolerance Level
- Argument
Frequency per Month
“I can spot decline early,” he says. “Month 13 is always the
first dip in cigarette acceptance.”
The Women of Puerto Pikafuko
Gary’s notoriety precedes him.
“He’s like a romantic storm warning,” jokes María, a bartender at Viejo Cabello
Azul Lounge. “You see the smoke coming from two tables away, but you still sit
down. He’s charming, and he always leaves before the hurricane hits.”
Most of his partners are visiting expats — divorced,
semi-retired, open-hearted women looking for connection under the palms.
They fall for the confidence, the stories, the way he lights two cigarettes at
once — one for her, one for him.
Brenda from Duncan BC remembers him fondly:
“He said right away, ‘I’m an eighteen-month man.’ I thought
it was funny. Then one morning, Month Sixteen, he brought me coffee and said,
‘You deserve better.’ Just like that. Polite, gentle, like he was refunding my
time.”
She pauses.
“Honestly? I didn’t even cry. He’s that convincing.”
Nicotine and Nostalgia
Gary insists smoking is more than a habit — it’s a filter.
“People who can’t handle smoke can’t handle imperfection. I’m saving us both
time.”
He laughs and lights another. The motion is graceful,
ritualistic.
“Back in Canada, I used to sneak cigarettes in the garage. Now, I smoke at
sunset with Nickleback in the background. If she’s beside me and smiling,
that’s love. When she starts waving the smoke away, that’s my cue.”
He claims it’s not avoidance, it’s awareness.
“Most people wait for fights. I watch for frowns.”
Community Reactions
Reactions around town split evenly between envy and
exasperation.
“Gary’s living the dream,” says Phil, 67, fellow expat. “He
gets eighteen months of happiness and no alimony.”
Susan, a yoga instructor, disagrees.
“I went out with him once. He ordered wine, lit up immediately, and said, ‘Don’t
worry, you’ll ignore this for the first year.’ I left before dessert.”
Locals mostly tolerate him. The café owner keeps a special
ashtray labeled ‘Gary’s Office.’
A Typical Day
Mornings start with Lupita, his small rescue dog, trotting
beside him while he smokes and hums Maggie May.
By nine, he’s at Café del Dedo Apestoso updating his spreadsheet.
At noon, he meets that month’s “companion” for ceviche.
Afternoons are spent exactly how he likes them: beach chair,
paperback novel, cigarette in hand, pretending to be retired while secretly
tracking emotional metrics.
Evenings bring salsa music and new possibilities.
“I never chase,” he repeats. “I attract. The smoke’s a beacon. It keeps the
serious ones away.”
The Exit Strategy
When the 18-month mark looms, Gary becomes tenderly
efficient.
He plans a romantic dinner, usually at El Dos En El Rosa, his favorite seaside
spot.
He tells her she’s wonderful, kind, and deserves someone who doesn’t come with
an ashtray.
“It’s not lying,” he says. “It’s truth with manners.”
He never ghosts, never argues. He simply steps aside with a
cigarette salute.
“By the next morning, I’m single again and guilt-free. I light one, open
Tinder, and start the cycle clean. Closure through combustion.”
The Man Behind the Smoke
Ask if he’s lonely and he exhales slowly, studying the
glowing tip.
“Lonely? Nah. I’ve got Lupita, Nickleback, and nicotine. I’m consistent — most
people can’t say that.”
He looks out at the water. “People chase eternal love like
it’s a pension plan. I just collect dividends of joy. You wouldn’t eat the same
meal every day, would you?”
Another drag. “Love should be like smoking on the beach —
bad for you in the long run, but worth every puff while it lasts.”
The Legend of Puerto Pikafuko
In town folklore, Gary’s become half myth, half cautionary
tale.
Tourists whisper about “the man who leaves you smiling and smelling like
tobacco.”
Some say he’s selfish. Others say he’s enlightened.
He says he’s punctual.
“I’m never late ending a relationship,” he tells me proudly.
“Timing is everything. The trick is to leave before she starts asking you to
quit — smoking or staying.”
A Perfect Ending, Every Time
When his last romance ended, he threw a small farewell
party.
There were candles, tequila, and — naturally — cigarettes.
They danced under fairy lights, and when the clock struck midnight, he handed
her a single lighter engraved “You Deserve Better.”
She laughed, kissed him goodbye, and caught a flight north
the next morning.
He hasn’t heard from her since, though he checks his calendar sometimes and
smiles.
“Right on schedule,” he says.
He flicks ash into the sand and nods toward the horizon.
“Love’s like smoke — it’s beautiful, but it never stays still. And that’s fine
by me.”
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