A collection of favorite memories while on the Yucatán peninsula May-July 2025

Fridays always felt a little different. The mornings came faster, it was a little hotter, the film of dirt we had built on our skin had grown oppressive, like wearing chenille in the summer. Everyone was ready for a break, but none of us entirely eager to end the day, end our week together, either. Lunch has to happen by 10am, the sun already baking overhead, and instead of the usual peanut butter smeared sandwiches, or the guys’ bowls of pozole, we’d share a bag or two of Charritos, and crispy cold bottles of the infamous Mexican coca-cola. While there is enough here to write a novel on the exploits of highly caffeinated Maya men, my favorite memories start with reaching deep into the bag of fried pork skins doused in pickled jalapeños, and laughing together in three different languages.

Astonishingly grand and empty of people, the Gran Museo de Chichén Itzá is a marvel of marble and stone. It’s not an entirely intuitive structure, but stunning nonetheless, and it felt like an immense privilege to stand alone amongst the assemblage. I was watching a spider slowly creep its way down a silver strand, tracing the reflective string from almost floor to ceiling when, loudly, there was a resounding *thud* somewhere behind me. Not a welcome sound on a delicate museum floor, almost all of us froze, and in searching, found Caroline doubled over, a perfect imprint of her forehead glistening like a halo smeared across the pristine glass. The only other witness was the sleeping security guard in the corner. And maybe the spider, too.

I didn’t learn how to ride a bike until I was well into my teenage years. Mostly because we lived on a busy road, and partly because my bike was pink and you couldn’t catch me dead embracing femininity back then. Learning that we’d bounce through a 20 minute bike ride (over highly irregular bedrock) to our site and back each day made me a little nervous. There were more than a few crashes, eventually my handle bar rusted clean off, and there were not, nor had there ever been, any brakes. There were also clouds of butter yellow butterflies exploding around us as we cruised by, indifferent and stoic cows crunching their cud to say ~buenos dias~ to each morning, a steadfast grass guardian in his ghillie suit to pass off our daily salute, and there was the ever present ache in my cheeks from how hard I was smiling. Más que nada, extraño mi bici.

Usually, if a man thrusts his leg onto the bench in preparation to show me his leg, I’m more than likely to run. But our tour guide through the Hacienda Yaxcopoil (yaa-sh-ko-peel) was magnificent, a Maya man who worked there as a teenager. He walked us through the meticulous process of breaking down the sturdy agave-like plant into a reliable twine that would be sold internationally, a major export of the Yucatán from the 17th to the early 20th century. Likened to “green-gold,” henequen rope would even make its way to Chicago, helping to propel America through her industrial revolution. Back on the hacienda in 2025, our guide rolled his pant leg up to the knee and said he wanted to show us something his parents had taught him as a kid. In a smooth and practiced motion he perfectly twined the strands of fiber together, using the friction of his skin to twist the plait. I wonder what tricks we’ll leave behind that will stick entangled in time?

Our archaeological site is adjacent to a 17th century cattle hacienda, and strolling through the grounds of Yaxcopoil barely eased the inevitable tension between an archaeologist and the time period she can never go to.

“our” hacienda for comparison

Eight Weeks in the Jungle- Yucatán pt. 1