One Rice Two Rice Red Rice Blue Rice

"You go talk to them."

"Me??? You at least know some words. What am I going to do?"

"Just go and do your best."

My first true archaeological experience came in the summer of 1997. I was a junior in college, and I had been anxious to join an archaeological excavation and get out in the field for the first time. Since about the third grade I had always wanted to be an archaeologist, and now I was finally about to get my real chance after taking classes and reading all these books. My professor at the time encouraged me to join him as he was going to excavate in Jordan. Exciting, I thought, and I signed up immediately.

That was quite early in the spring semester. As the weeks and months passed, I asked him about details about the trip. When? Payment? Is it happening? He wasn't sure if the dig was a go. Nervous, I spoke to a visiting professor who had an excavation in Ukraine. Afraid I'd get to summer without any dig, I jumped at the Ukraine excavation just so I had something.

It was an interesting experience.

Jordan did eventually happen, but that was decided after I had already left for Ukraine.

The project in Ukraine took place in a small, quiet town near the Romanian border, Kamianets-Podilsky. We flew in Lviv/Lvov, then the train to Podilsky (some of which deserves its own story). We lived in a school, since it was summer and students were not there. Bedrooms on the third floor, bathrooms and showers on the first (which made for interesting episodes), on opposite sides of the building. Meals were taken care of by a local woman who ran her own restaurant. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were all here. Except on the weekends. We were on our own. Which is challenging in a small town with a lack of restaurants.

One evening, three of us decided to find a meal on our own. We had heard about this establishment near the center of town, so we went on an adventure to locate it. But we didn't know a name, and even if we did it would do no good as no restaurants had signs in this town. And because this particular town had a castle and various forts around town, the fact that some of those structures were taken over and turned into restaurants or other shops made it more difficult to discern between a historical building and a restaurant. 

After hours of walking trying to find something, we stumbled upon this one fort structure that appeared occupied. Even if it was not a restaurant, there was activity there.

"We know that place is open. What if we just go inside and use the phone, call the school and ask where to find this restaurant?"

"That seems like a fine idea, we should do that." The actual conversation was likely not this brief or agreeable.

"Sebastian, you should go and ask to use their phone."

This was suggested by one of the people I was with, someone who had been part of this excavation for at least three years at that point. She had been in Ukraine multiple times, had even picked up some words of the language. She was in a much better position than me to seek help.

The troubling point for me was that there were two goons standing watch outside clad in heavy leather coats. They did not appear to be welcoming. Given Ukraine's proximity to Russia, we were sure these were members of the Russian mob (later confirmed). Having heard stories in the previous days about Russian mobsters and how prone they were to violence, even learning their preferred manner of disposing of people (hitting with cars), these were not people I wanted to get into any trouble with.

"Me? Why are you throwing me to those goons? Even if I did get a phone, how do I speak to the person on the other side and ask for help? This plan is just stupid!"

After much cajoling, I finally caved and put on a brave face as I went to speak to Mr Sunshine and Mr Rainbow Unicorn. We were that hungry. We were that desperate.

"Fine, I'll do it, cowards. If I die, I hope you choke on the guilt!"

I turned to the door and walked up to them. Using my best charades skills, I motioned for a phone. My new friends did not look amused, tried turning me away, but I was determined. They looked inside and thought about my request. I turned to look for my teammates, but saw nothing. The bastards had ducked behind a wall or bush and were nowhere in sight.

After a minute or two of staring at each other, Little Miss Sunshine decided to let me in. In his Ukrainian, or Russian, I could not tell the difference, and with a gesture of his head, he beckoned for me to follow him inside. Er, I was getting what I wanted, but I started getting more and more nervous. I again turned to my teammates, who were completely invisible. I will die alone.

Inside I find a club. And it is kept extremely dark. I am escorted to the bar in the center, where a heavy set man whom I dubbed Fat Paulie was busy counting money or some other legitimate transaction. He was told what I wanted, and I just tried to smile as if I knew what was being said. They exchanged some words, and he gruffed and pointed to a door on the side.

"Oh gawd, is that where I am going to get it?" My thoughts were not positive at the moment.

Again I am escorted through the club. I look around, wondering if there was anyone there who would come to my rescue. Darkness.

Past the door I find a small cleaning area and a phone. Success! A phone! Just what I wanted! But now what? I can call the school, but the person answering speaks no English and I spoke no Ukrainian. This plan's stupidity was becoming more apparent to me. I tried anyways, but no one answered. Ugh, now what?

At that moment, a woman appeared at the door. She was smiling. She seemed friendly. Is that how death comes? 

"[Various Ukrainian phrases]."

"Uhm, sorry, I no understand."

"[More Ukrainian]."

Dumb look on my face.

She had enough of the language barrier, and just waved at me with her hand to follow her. Stupidly, I did, because I had no other option. I watch her as she crosses the room, this dark room full of mafia members, to an even darker door on the opposite side of the building. My nerves were racing, not knowing what was happening, what she had planned for me. I kept glancing about the room, sure I'd meet my end in some swanky Ukrainian bar in the middle of nowhere.

She gets to the door, turns to me, smiles, and opens the door to reveal......Brenda and Svetlana (true names withheld), two other members of the dig team. Svetlana was of Ukrainian descent, so she spoke the language and could actually communicate with the staff. Here they were, sitting in the balcony area, enjoying some drinks and food unbeknownst to anyone else. Their faces were a huge relief for me, and I finally let my guard down. My life spared another night. 

I quickly left them and walked out the front door and back to my original crew. They were still hiding.

"Follow me, bastards."

We enjoyed a fine meal, and this restaurant became a regular hang out for us. I don't remember the food all too well, but I do remember their specialty: white rice. But they made it fancy by dyeing the rice yellow or red or blue/green. 

Over time, the whole gang would frequent the restaurant together. Drinks, food, laughs, a jolly good time. One day, Tattoo Man joined our table, a most unwelcome guest. On this particular day, he was quite inebriated, but he wanted new friends, and he was not quiet about it. We may have found out he was just released from prison, and was celebrating in a fine Ukie way. But he got a little too loud for some people. Fat Paulie entered the room, and Tattoo Man started speaking to him. Fat Paulie just looked up, put his finger to his mouth, and Tattoo Man shut up immediately. We now knew how the hierarchy flowed.

After Fat Paulie left, Tattoo Man again engaged in the celebration. He liked us enough that he offered to pay for our meals and drinks. Tempting as it was, we decided being indebted to a Russian mobster was not in our best interest. We got the bill, and politely declined his offer. As we took out cash to pay, I could feel his eyes on us, staring at our money. Best to pay and make our way out with urgency.

We didn't make many more visits to this particular restaurant after this encounter. On the walk back from our dig site a week or two later, we noticed some heavily dolled up women entering the establishment. It seems our restaurant had turned into a strip club. By this point, we had found other restaurants to frequent. Sadly, that restaurant had gone, and it was fun. And tomorrow there will be another one.

The gang looking for dinner

Life Advice

One thing I learned in Ukraine was that all women dye their hair. Blonde? Not natural. Brunette? Not natural. Redhead? Not natural. Purple? 

Purple? Definitely not natural. 

What was interesting about the purple was not the color itself, but who was dying their hair this color. Not the young women, as was common for the other colors, but the elderly ladies. The women who had already gone grey. Rather than be grey, they had fun with their hair and opted for lavender.

I met several of these women in my months there. Most were friendly and very personable. One was not.

My group, made up mostly of Americans though some had family in the country, were out on our downtime. We may have been in Lviv. Maybe it was Kiev. But we were out at a restaurant having food, having drinks. Nothing out of the ordinary. On this occasion, the weather was nice (I lived there June and July 1997), so we opted for outdoor seating. This seating area was out on the sidewalk, though enclosed in railings. Under a parasol. Nothing that can't be found in any other country.

We enjoyed our company. We enjoyed the drinks. We enjoyed the food. Mostly, we enjoyed just sitting outside and talking and relaxing. We spoke about the things people in their early 20s speak about. Music. Our views of the world. Our stay so far. What plans we had for after......

WHACK!!!!!

I cocked my head to the side, to see my one teammate who just screamed and was now holding his capped head. I turn some more, and I see a tiny little old lady holding her cane with a look of utter disgust on her face. Her cane was in her hand ready to strike again. She began yelling while looking at her victim. Another teammate began translating. The woman was mad because even though we were outside, we were still considered inside the restaurant. Since we are "inside," he should not have a hat on (this teammate always wore a baseball cap). He was showing disrespect. She was teaching him manners.

As the words were translated, she kept tapping his head hard with her cane trying to force him to remove his cap. He was not budging. He looked at me for support. All he found was me not being able to control my laughter. Right or wrong, however we decide to define that, mattered less to me at the moment than the sheer humor this afforded me. I could not help him. This angered him. This made me laugh harder.

Frustrated, our new friend kept walking while maintaining her eyes on him, cursing loudly as she shuffled off. 

What were we just talking about? Oh, who cares now?

Fortunately for my American friend, that was our only encounter with a battering babushka that summer.

Other little old ladies turned out to be more friendly. None more so than another teammate's grandmother. This teammate had her whole family in the country, in Lviv (also known as Lvov). As a result of this, and my friend's and her family's unending generosity, I was invited into homes and to dinners and celebrations, made to feel welcome. While I may not have enjoyed all the food, I did appreciate their hospitality and the hot showers (the entire summer was spent living in a school that had no access to hot water). Often conversations were held in Ukrainian, which I did not mind. I sat there hoping to understand, but mostly reading people's eyes and reactions. And laughing and smiling when it seemed appropriate.

One evening, we sat around the dinner table. I remember a delicious cake. And people talking. And overall a good, fun time.

There was a break in the conversation. The grandmother turned and looked at me. She pointed, said something, and the whole room exploded into laughter. I smiled, as something good must have been said, I just needed to catch up. I looked around hoping for a translation, at which point my colleague waited for the laughter to subside.

"My grandmother says you should marry a woman with really big breasts."

Knowing the translation had been made, the room laughs again. A smirk appears on my face, slightly embarrassed not knowing what to say. I just look at the grandmother, and nod in agreement. Sage advice.

Unfortunately, not everyone has her wisdom. 

I learned a lot that summer, about Ukraine, about archaeology, about myself, many things I will forever be grateful for. But nothing could measure up to the simple life lesson I learned over dinner one night.

Why I hate cows

"Don't kid yourself, Jimmy. If a cow ever got the chance, he'd eat you and everyone you care about!" Troy McClure

Fact: Cows are not bright.

Fact: Cows smell bad.

Fact: Cows like holes in the ground.

Wait, what? What kind of nonsense is that?

Before 1997, someone mentioned this to me in passing and I just laughed at them. I know I may not be the brightest bulb in the basket, but no one is going to fool me with that ridiculous line. Am I some sort of moron?

In 1997, I had the pleasure of going out on an archaeological dig. I lived for a few months in a small town near the Romanian border in Ukraine. The people were nice enough, the experience was fun, the food downright sucked, but the experience was still fun. I may not have enjoyed it all too well at the time, but looking back on it, it made for some good memories. I won't even get into the run-ins with the Russian mafia.

That summer, our crew had two sites we were working on: the backyard of a house that local architects thought contained an older structure, and a small plaza within an abandoned church that was at one time a bazaar and also a cemetery. Now, because I may have rubbed some people the wrong way, or because I had a disdain for working with bones, I never got the chance to work in the church. Instead, I spent the whole summer working in the backyard, usually alone with people who only spoke Ukrainian and no English. But we got along, we were able to communicate, and I got to be in charge.

Around the same time, a local boy was hanging around the area tending to his one horse and his one cow. What he did with those two animals I have no clue, but he'd herd them around town and they would mind their own merry business and leave us alone.

One day, the boy was not doing his job, and the cow decided she was curious about what I was doing in the backyard of the house.

For those who don't know what archaeology is, it is the study of past human civilizations. In order to get at the past and find the remains these people have left behind, we sometimes have to dig down into the ground and bring things up to the surface. This means we have to dig a hole in the ground, a fact my new best friend was all too happy to learn.

The cow leaves her group and heads towards me, and her eyes widened upon seeing my square (geek talk for hole in the ground). And lo and behold, that one little tidbit someone told me years ago was actually true. This cow decided it was her mission in life to get into my hole (insert joke here).

I saw this and I couldn't believe my eyes! I wasn't sure what I should do about this, but the one thing I knew was that I couldn't let a cow get down into my square! If she got in, we couldn't work. If she got in, how do we get her out? If she got in, I would never hear the end of it! "How'd you let a freakin' cow in your square?!?!?!" I had to man up and throw up resistance!

I grabbed the closest thing to me, a shovel. Now I know in other countries they are not as gentle with their animals the way Americans are, but I could not bring myself to doing any harm to a dumb animal who just wanted to get down and dirty. I took the shovel, I held it with both hands, and I held my ground. The cow began taking steps into the square, knocking down my perfectly straight walls (very important for us dirt playin' fools). This could not be happening!

I get in the cow's way. She goes left, I move left and block her. She turns and tries to go right, but Betsy is none too quick, so I block her again. But Betsy is none all too bright either, so she tries left and right a few more times, only to be turned back by the shovel-armed sentry.

Finally, she can't take it anymore. She knows she can't get by me. She knows her dreams have been dashed. Betsy wisens up, and starts walking away. I keep my position, in case she decides to try one last quick sneak attack.

As she walks away, her backside is directly facing me, her head the opposite direction. But only a few feet away from me, she stops, turns her head, and with the look of disdain I have never seen from any animal or person before or since, she looks straight into my eyes and deep down into my soul.

There is nothing in the world at that moment aside from the cow and me.

All that matters is that look.

The only important thing is what she is thinking.

And at our most perfect moment, at the opportune time, with her eyes constantly gazing upon mine, with me still holding the shovel in both hands and a stupid smirk on my face, she lets me know what she really thinks of me.

She drops the biggest pile of shit I have ever seen.

She drops it only about 5 feet away from me.

And her eyes never leave mine for a second.

Point made, the cow turns and walks away, leaving me with her gift.

Still with a dumb smirk on my face, and a pile of shit on the ground. The cow made her point. She did not mix words.

Since I still had the shovel, I put it to good use, moved the shit and covered it up.

But it took me a few minutes to come out of the shock of being shat at by a cow. By a cow who only wanted to climb down into a hole in the ground.

From that moment on, I realized I could not take cows lightly anymore. But I also came to another conclusion that is still with me today.

I fucking hate cows.

Mexico 5 - Final Chapter

The only goal I had for Mexico was to get away from snow and cold and misery, even if it was just for a few days. Four days in Mexico does not seem like much, but it was exactly what I needed. I returned to Michigan changed from how I left. For me, that is considered a success.

There was something about Mexico I found to be invigorating. Something peaceful. Pleasant. It came at the right time for me, and it offered what I needed. I just did not know it.

The entire time spent in the country was spent speaking only Spanish. I spoke English a few times with Americans; otherwise, it was Spanish with the Mexicans. I was concerned that my Spanish, my Chilean Spanish, would not work very well here, and that I would have trouble understanding Mexican Spanish, but in the end that was not an impediment at all. 

Something about being able to speak Spanish only was a huge relief to me. It was like I got away from myself, got away from the norm. It made me feel like less of a tourist, and more as if I belonged. It pacified me. 

The experiences of Mexico, particularly the swim in the cenotes, made this trip much more than a simple get away. I had people ask about the beaches and the party scene, but this was the closest I made it to the hotel zone.

This trip was about getting away from things, I had no need to re-immerse myself in USA on the beach. I regret nothing about missing out on the beach scene.

My last day in Mexico was quiet, as I had only one thing to accomplish: get to the airport. It was not an early start so I could sleep and walk with ease. 

At the bus terminal I saw a young couple I had seen wandering about Chichen Itza the previous day. Later we found ourselves on the same bus, and I asked them about it. I was being more social. It was, indeed, them, and from Chichan Itza our talk turned to the cenotes. We both were amazed at that experience, joyful we had made it out.

On the same bus was a younger couple. They were returning to Detroit as well, back to Ann Arbor. He a student at EMU.

The first couple was returning to New York City, so our conversation was limited. She had just left her job to devote to traveling. He was a personal trainer to the stars, having just completed work with Mary J. Blige. They asked about Egypt, as that was the next trip they were hoping to make. Unfortunately, our time together did not allow us to speak at length.

By the end of the day I was back in Michigan. The weather had turned for the worst. A snow storm had hit the north and midwest, making travel difficult. But I took it in stride. A few days prior I would have been in misery, but the re-emerged Sebastian had bigger thoughts than the snow to fill myself with. I was new.

I expressed some of these feelings to my younger brother a few days later, and he noted that the tone of my voice had completely changed. He could tell I had an energy about me, a joy I had long lost. 

I have heard throughout my life how people take the occasion of a new year to begin their lives anew, though quite often they return to the norm and the changes made give way to old routine. I had never given much credence to this thinking, as the new year and its celebration is an arbitrary date and observance. But for the first time, I began a year completely different. 2014 Sebastian was not the same as 2012/2013 Sebastian. And for this I have to be thankful.

Mexico 4 - Rebirth

On January 1, 2014, I awoke in an unexpected place. I was in Chichen Itza, Mexico, a decision I made only a few days before. The new year had been celebrated, 2013 had been swept away. A new start awaited me, but how different would this year really be?

I pondered what to do with my day. Should I re-enter Chichen Itza proper and explore the city again? Or venture out and see what I could find. I asked the hotel staff, could I walk to the nearest town (Piste)? Perhaps, but there is absolutely nothing there to see. Best bet is to walk to the other hotel, pick up a cab to Izamal. More to do there, though a bit of a drive. I gathered my belongings and walked to the other hotel. There the desk clerk spoke to me. I told him I had many hours until the bus returned me to Cancun, I had time to kill. What would he recommend? Izamal is OK, but what about the cenotes? Oh, there are more? And what to do there? Well, you could go swimming. Well that is a nice thought. Not too far, and I could kill an hour or two including the drive. And I'd make it back in time for my bus. He called a cab and within a few minutes Antonio was there to drive me to Dzitnup. Here I would find two cenotes nearby each other, Dzitnup/Xkeken and Samula. I could swim in both, or just one.

Antonio was kind and offered to watch my belongings as I took my bathing suit so I could swim. He'd also wait for me, as it was difficult to find a cab here. Provided I did not overstay my welcome, he'd be quite happy to wait. I assured him it would be quick, as I couldn't imagine swimming too long.

I made my way inside, past the men dressed as Mayans in their leopard skins. Past the shops, to the first cenote, Samula. I had no expectations. No one had sold me on this experience. I would go for a swim, enjoy the experience, kill some time.

I was not prepared for what would actually transpire.

The area was not packed, but I was not alone. I climbed the stairs heading down, and came upon a glorious site.

It was a beautiful vision, with the light piercing the cave from above shining upon the cold water. Others were already swimming, but there was plenty of room for everyone. A nook served as a locker for my belongings, and I prepared to enter.

I dove in among the fish, and swam to the rocky outcrop where others had gathered. There I sat and noticed small fish giving me a pedicure, eating away the dead skin on my feet. I sat there among the groups of friends and family, enjoying this unique experience.

And then it happened.  At that moment, I felt something. I did not come to Mexico to have a transformative experience. I did not come to this cenote with visions of a holistic cleansing, and no one I had spoken to promised any such scene. I was just killing time.

2013 had been a trying year for me. Personal relationships, work situations, everything in my life made me experience extreme highs and lows. There was plenty to be thankful for in 2013, but overall the year had not been among the best for me. And it all actually started in 2012, when the joy I had about being in Egypt was snatched from me. As an archaeologist, the opportunity to excavate in Egypt was a dream, and I had the chance to fulfill this dream. But the situations I found myself in the country, and what I had happening back home, squelched the excitement I had going into the journey. As a result, 2013 had me feeling melancholy throughout the year. I felt numb to experiences, lacking the joy I so desperately missed. I was crushed, not knowing how'd I'd ever get that old feeling of adventure and life back.

And with this swim, with this otherwise ordinary dip, 2012/2013 was cleansed from me. I felt it at that exact moment. A smile broke upon my face. A load was removed from my psyche. I felt lighter. I felt relieved. The joy I lost in Egypt came rushing in. What I felt I should have experienced among the deserts came to me here in Mexico. Even now, a month after the experience, the mere act of writing this has those feelings filling me.

I swam about the pool, from corner to corner. I chased the light. I felt weightless.

I had a ticket to swim in the other cenote, so I climbed out. At that moment a busload of Japanese tourists entered the cenote, crowding every last inch. I left just in time.

The cenote Dzitnup was more crowded, though larger.

There was no rocky outcrop here, but the swim was enjoyable albeit not as peaceful. There were more conversations to eavesdrop on. There were birds and bats to watch as they flew about.

The swim here did not last as long as at Samula, but I did not need it to. I had more than I could have ever asked for. I was clean.

The swim took much longer than expected, longer than I had promised Antonio. Fortunately he waited for me and my return to Chichen Itza was assured.

Back at Chichen Itza, a long line had formed to enter. Since I had already been inside, I skipped the line and made for the restaurant.

Maybe it was lack of food, or the experience I had just enjoyed, but that lunch turned out to be the best meal had during my stay. Or maybe it was the special vegetarian dish they made for me. Or the special garlic sauce that accompanied my meal. Or everything mixed together.

I patiently awaited my bus, feeling well fed and happy overall. The return to Cancun was approaching, and I had plenty to be thankful for already.

Sadly, monster bus was not my ride home

Several hours later I was back in Cancun for one final night. I went out for my last meal of this trip.

It was a quiet night, a quiet way to end the day. A day where I expected nothing but achieved so much. A trip just to get away from the snow and cold, I brought back with me a souvenir I could never plan for.

Mexico 3 - Celebration

New year's eve was spent in a hotel just outside Chichen Itza. The Villas Arqueologicas, as did the other hotels on the premises, held special new years menus for the visitors who decided to spend the evening with them. Mayaland had drinks and music and the like. Villas just had the special menu. I made do with the help of Mexican beer and a bottle of Chilean wine. Though there were other revelers in the dining area, each table kept to itself. There was no mass celebration among the guests.

To my right were two elderly people and a young woman. Parents and daughter?

Across from me was a large Spanish family. They were loud. Every time a waiter returned from tending to them he'd pass my table, and he'd give me a look indicating how annoying they were being. Part of this family spent the majority of the evening down the hall in the billiard room, playing loudly, running back into the dining room to flaunt their accomplishments every few minutes.

Sprinkled throughout the rest of the room were various couples. Some American, some Japanese, some Italians, others Mexican.

I ate my meal, imbibed, people watched, and then as the countdown to midnight approached, I found the area that had WiFi so I could speak to and celebrate with loved ones from around the world.

It was a relief to finally be done with 2013. Though there was plenty to be appreciative of, there was plenty I was ready to forget and move on from. Spending it overseas was the best way to end it. The day leading up to this moment helped me remove myself from what had transpired and allowed me to appreciate the world more fully. Get back to what I love.

The three-hour bus ride from Cancun left me right at the entrance of Chichen Itza. T'was nearly noon when I arrived, the area closed at 4:30. I had to be sure to take advantage of the time, so I made a dash for the entrance without looking back. Quickly I go through, past all the vendors, through the trees, and come upon a glorious site.

Eeyore's been to Chichen Itza

I was awe-struck upon seeing this. Such fantastic architecture and craftsmanship. Such fine condition. I just stood here for a long while just taking it, el Castillo, and its surroundings, in.

As I walked about, I overheard the tour guides speak about the structure. Many clapped to point out the echo heard bouncing of the building. I heard about the 52-year cycle. I admired the craftsmanship. I watched the groups pass by, listening in on the conversations in the multitude of languages.

A prolonged period of time was spent at el Castillo, but I had to ensure I ventured out and saw the rest of the site. Following are images from the other structures.

From el Castillo, a visitor can walk in any direction and hit any number of marvelous visions. Paths would lead one through the forest, past the vendors, to all the riches of the site. As I wandered one of these paths, I realized the bananas I had purchased that morning were left on the bus.

Eventually I made it to the cenote. A cenote is a limestone sinkhole  that exposes groundwater underneath. This particular one was used for sacrifices and offerings. Overhearing the tourguides taught me that divers found offerings in this cenote, as well as human remains.

Eeyore hopes not to be a sacrifice

Back down the path I continued my tour through Chichen Itza.

In one corner of the site, I ran into a native of the area. Without asking, I whipped out my camera and decided to take some photos.

Mr. Iguana did not care for the attention, so he scurried off when too many people came close by. Up and over a wall he jumped, leaving me to my thoughts.

Watching the vendors make the wares for sale

Curious if he is done having children

El Caracol, the observatory

Everywhere I turned, every corner of the structures was filled with beautiful craftsmanship. The level of detail on each inch of the site is exquisite, a beauty to behold. The above images attest to the work the denizens of Chichen Itza were capable of.

As the day wound down, I realized I had not exhausted my visit. Though I was sweaty and tired and hungry, I had to make sure I saw everything. I turned back to the entrance, intent on seeing the famous ballcourt.

Am I back in Egypt?

The site of an ancient ballgame that ended with the sacrifice of the loser. Images along the sides told the story of the decapitation of the loser by the victor. Nary a spot in this space was left undecorated.

By this point security began pushing people out. I left the ballcourt and went and had a seat in the grassy area outside el Castillo.

I chatted with some workers there, inquiring about evening events. Unfortunately for me, evening events had been cancelled and would not restart until April. I was left without evening plans.

Still sweaty and tired and hungry, I made my way to the hotel. I was allowed to cut through Chichen Itza, and after some trouble, I finally found my hotel.

There was still time until dinner began, so I decided to go for a swim in the pool in the open central courtyard of the hotel. It was cold, and it got dark rather quickly, but swimming and looking up at the stars was a nice, refreshing experience.

Cleansed from the day, it was finally time to eat. I sat among the various parties in the dining area. The Italians. The Americans. The Spaniards. The Japanese. The Mexicans. Each to their own table. Each celebrating the new year in their own way. I enjoyed beers and a bottle of red wine from Chile. And then came the food. Aztec soup with tortillas, avocado, and tomatoes. The tortillas and guacamole. The pesto pasta.

I observed others. I ate my meal. I sat in complete contentment of a day well-spent. I chatted with the workers when time allowed.

Drinks and food ceased early, but it was still not time for bed. I made my way to the WiFi area of the hotel, to chat with friends and family scattered about the world and celebrate the new year. I sent wishes to them, they returned the wishes back. Thousands of miles from friends, I was not alone.

Just after midnight, the Americans sitting to the right of me at dinner returned from the other hotel where dancing was to take place. They sat with me to partake in the WiFi as well, and we got to chatting. They were all in California. None of them related the way I thought, but I could not discern how they came to be together. The young woman applying to medical school. The elder gentleman an AIDs researcher from Stanford who worked in Zimbabwe. The older woman an anthro undergrad major turned psychiatrist. We were then joined by another couple, among them the daughter of an anthropologist who grew up in Romania.

We all spent about an hour or so talking, being friendly, being social. I even helped the gentleman purchase his airfare, my good deed of the year accomplished quite early.

The new year celebrated, it was time to turn in. Though I did not have much planned for the next day, I knew rest would be welcome.