Aboard a bus departing the Cancun airport I notice a small stepped-pyramid adjacent to the on-ramp of the high-way. It stands the height of a single story, too close to the roadway to have been constructed afterwards, but oddly prominent. Is this pyramid a lesser, forgotten Tulum or Chitzen Itza that the paradise infrastructure has surrounded and shadowed? I wonder.
Thirty seconds later a second pyramid appears, this time on the right side of the road. Plastic, off-color and shoulder height. Holding up a gas station sign. This cheap eye-sore is connected to the first pyramid, but I can't see how. Cloned in either tribute or mockery.
I think of my own town. Its origins and legends. I do not know if they are true, and it has not yet been 200 years.
The resort leaks the past world from its corners and shoots it straight up in a fountain. The water lands in a steady crash. The drumming ritual on the beach. But my room-service menu contains an unassuming dish. Tortillas stuffed with pumpkin. Description: a local breakfast item. I like to think the owner of the hotel never set this dish on the menu.