Postcard from the End of Days: 10/28/11

When I first went to the Yucatán, I did a little research on the Mayan calendar.

You might have heard the Mayan Long Count calendar predicts the world will end on 12-21-2012.  Maybe I’ve been working in financial services too long, but to me that looks like the bank routing code on the bottom of your checks, which you have to supply if you want automatic bill payment from your checking account.  You might want to make sure that date isn’t hidden within your bank’s routing code; I’m not sure you’re covered by the FDIC in the event of the bank’s disappearance in the Rapture.

Actually, according to one theory, the Mayans were not predicting the end of the world.  Rather, they were counting to the completion of the process that started when the Big Bang created our Universe.  Or perhaps better said, they were counting to the culmination of Creation, the achievement of its perfection in terms of the evolution of Life’s consciousness.  Kind of like a wine being finally just right to drink.

Yes, a lot of shit probably has to get cleared away before perfection is attained.  But I think it only need concern you if you’re, say, a psychotic Libyan dictator who’s been oppressing people for decades.  Or maybe a corporate CEO and his politician bedfellows, siphoning obscene profits off the meager wages of everyday people.  (How many former Goldman Sachs and Halliburton guys have held high-level posts in our government?)

I think the rest of us will probably be OK, along with Occupy Wall Street and our friends in Libya.

What is also questionable, according to this theory, is the enddate of 12/21/12 itself.  Instead, proponents of the theory maintain that the date was actually 17 minutes ago, as I write this at 12:17 a.m. on October 29, 2011 —  that is, 10/28/11.  (Nothing much seems to have happened 17 minutes ago, although I did notice that I’d finished my vodka-on-the-rocks.)

There’s a justification for this “correction” of the enddate that has to do with another Mayan calendar, called the Tzolkin, a sacred count of 260 “days,” best pictured as two interlocking cogs of 13 and 20 “days.”

Courtesy the Starseed Network

The choice of October 28, 2011 has something to do with that date’s matching the enddate of a Tzolkin count called 13 Ahau.  The Mayans had a third count called the Haab, a secular calendar of 365 days.  Any given date is actually described using “days” from all three calendars.  (If you’re ever embarassed that you can’t remember today’s date, just be thankful you’re not Mayan.)

The author of this theory is a Swedish toxicologist named Carl Johan Calleman.  I’ve read his book, The Mayan Calendar.  But I first encountered his theory through a random Netflix video I’d ordered before my trip.

In the video, a guy named Ian Lungold explains Calleman’s interpretation of the Mayan Long Count calendar.  The presentation was filmed in what seemed to be a seminar in a hotel conference room somewhere.  Ian was a very calm and centered presenter, though I had to get over the de rigueur new-age ponytail and that wink-wink tone of irony that truth-speakers use when talking with the initiated — that we-know, don’t-we? tone of voice.

Despite the new-age, wink-wink, Best Western ambience, I have to say I was riveted.  My sister used to have a poster hanging on a door in her house.  It was one of those grainy black-and-white photos that “proves” the existence of UFOs.  And the headline on the poster was “I WANT TO BELIEVE.”  That pretty much sums up my feelings on these things.

Lungold describes a 9-step countdown (or maybe I should say a “count-up.”) Each step or “underworld” is shorter in terms of years by a factor of 20.  The first underworld lasts 16.4 billion years; the ninth, only 260 days.  However, the same amount of evolution in consciousness is supposed to transpire in each one.  (“If it’s your impression that things are going faster and faster,” Ian winks in the video, “you’re right.”)

Courtesy: preventdisease.com

Supposedly, the nine levels of the pyramid of Kukulkan at Chichén Itzá represent the nine underworlds, with the temple to Kukulkan perched on top.  Perhaps not coincidentally, the primary pyramid at Mayapan, another Mayan site I visited in 2010, has the same number of levels.

Pyramid of Kukulkan at Chichén Itzá

Pyramid at Mayapan

If you’ve ever seen a technology adoption cycle chart, which demonstrates how technological innovations have mainstreamed exponentially ever more quickly, this concept of increasing speed of evolution doesn’t seem so crazy. (Click on the image to expand it; then hit the back button on your browser to return to the blog.)

Courtesy: New York Times

Each ”underworld” is divided into 7 days and 6 nights of Creation.  They correspond to the stages of development of a fruit-bearing plant from a seed.  The days represent movement forward; the nights are reaction to or synthesis of the forward movement.  There’s something special about the breakthrough of the 5th day and the subsequent reaction of the 5th night.  For example, in the Fifth Day of the 4th Underworld, we harnessed fire.  Then that night, we had an Ice Age.  (Bear in mind, each “day” and “night” lasted 160,000 years at this level.)

In matching the Mayan calendar to dates in the Gregorian calendar, Calleman “explains” much of history in this template of evolution.  Each underworld
is fully contained within the 7th day of the level below it, and they all complete on 10/28/11 — exactly one hour ago now, New York time, as I write.

If anyone’s interested, a young man has posted a video on YouTube of himself explaining the theory in a very clear and cogent way.  (WARNING: The kid has an Afro, sits cross-legged on the floor in front of some kind of wolf wallpaper, and has a new-age flute playing in the background.  But he does a really good job of explaining it, and I especially like his aside when he mentions the 7 days of creation.)

When I did this research back in 2009, I put an entry in my calendar for 10/28/11  just to remind myself about it.  And I forgot all about it until a couple of weeks ago, when scheduling things, I noticed it.

Thank god I had a 15-minute alert set.  And I’m glad to know I was “busy” on the last day of Creation, even though I wasn’t working.  Here’s what I did:

1) I met my trainer at the gym at 9:oo a.m. for my usual workout.

2) I had an 12:00 Noon appointment with my chiropractor in the Village.

3) I got a haircut at Dop Dop salon at 1:00 p.m., so I wouldn’t be shaggy on my upcoming 2-week vacation.

4) On the way home, I stopped at Così for some lunch and then at Paragon Sporting Goods for quick-dry sock liners I wanted to take on vacation.

5) I took an hour’s nap.

My evening was  a bit more appropriate for such a momentous time.  I went to hear the New York Philharmonic at Lincoln Center.

Kurt Mazur was conducting.  He’s 84 years old, and his hands shake a bit, though often that was just him timing the music.  He came onstage wearing a black silk tunic top with silver collar and cuffs over tuxedo pants.  It looked a bit like he was halfway into his PJs after a night on the town.  Watching him walk somewhat gingerly up to the podium, I was inspired by his resilience, particularly in the light of my aching arthritic knees as I walked around the city today.

The first part of the program was Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony in B Minor, two movements of  beautiful orchestration.  The program notes explained that Schubert died of syphilis at age 31 in 1828 when “the disease was then incurable, and the attendant treatments were dreadful and ineffective.”  I was struck by the parallel to AIDS.  His diagnosis in 1822 is offered as a reason for his never having finished the symphony he was working on at the time, though he went on to write other masterpieces.

The second half of the program was Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 13 in B-flat minor, Babi Yar, set to poems by the Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko.  The poems were published and the symphony written in 1962, in the cultural opening that blossomed after Stalin’s death in 1953.

Five poems are the basis for the five movements of the piece.

The first, Babi Yar, commemorates the massacre of 33,771 Jews on September 29th and 30th 1941 in the Ukraine.  Marched to the edge of a cliff at the Babi Yar ravine, they were shot in groups of ten, after being “relieved” of their valuables.  Yevtushenko’s poem denounces anti-Semitism couched in Russian nationalism.

The second movement, based on the poem Humor, is about how humor is the unextinguishable release from tragedy.

In the third movement, the poet reflects on the resilience of Russian women, observed as they queue for groceries in a store.

The fourth poem, Fears, tentatively suggest that the time of fears in Russia is over; that now, one should be afraid of not speaking out.

And the final movement, to a poem called A Career, is the poet’s vow not to compromise his speaking of the truth in pursuit of a successful career.  “I pursue my career/By not pursuing it!” he exclaims in the closing stanza.  There is a lovely, hopeful melody played on a solo violin that floats throughout this movement.  As I left Lincoln Center and headed home on the supposed last night of this Creation, I remembered that melody.

If we believe Dr. Calleman and his theory’s proponents, then today is the first day of the perfection of Creation.

The weather forecast in the Northeast is for a winter storm (what happened to Fall?) with a 2-5″ accumulation of snow.  I assume it will be gone by the time my plane leaves Sunday night.

I intend to pack for my vacation — a two-week tour of Egypt, visiting the ruins of one of our civilization’s first great nation-states (formed at the beginning of the 6th underworld in Calleman’s explanation of the Mayan Long Count) and  home to some other spectacular pyramids and ancient temples.  Should I assume  some coincidental connection?

I have two things on my schedule Sunday before I leave: a visit to the 9/11 Memorial and a deep tissue massage.  Both appropriate, I suppose, if indeed we’re onto something new from here on out.

Postcard from Puerto Vallarta: 2(x)ist or Not To, That is the Question

I’m walking through the lobby of a resort hotel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico wearing a black hooded cape, a black feathered mask, and my underwear.

No, I was not kidnapped by Mexican Drug Lords, dumped on a highway without my clothes when no one would cough up a ransom, and forced to steal a costume leftover from a Dia de los Muertos pageant to cover myself.

I’m just headed to the Mardi Gras party on the second night of Atlantis Resort’s takeover of the Vallarta Palace Resort  for what I think can best be  described as a week of Gay Summer Camp in November.

Or Gay Club Med for the middle-aged (and those approaching it.)  There are 600 gay men here; the hotel is completely sold out.  I would guess the median age is somewhere in the 40′s.  I think the majority are actually couples.  More than 400 are repeat offenders, having done this week before, including my friend Anthony with whom I’ve come.

Like Club Med, the resort is “all-inclusive” — you pay for the week, a nonremovable bracelet is clamped to your wrist (sorry, but I also got one of these in each of the three surgeries I had in the past several years), and all your food and drinks are free from the moment you walk through the front door until the moment you leave.  (This was decidedly not the case at St. Roosevelt’s or the Hospital for Special Surgeries, although it certainly would have improved my experience of both.  Though I can imagine developing a dependence on general anesthesia, if it were constantly available and free.  I don’t know where I am when I’m under it, but it must be good, because I always feel a bit disappointed when I come out of it.)

It’s a bit dangerous, this unfettered access to food and especially to drink.  To borrow an expression from a former boss of mine, you can’t swing a dead cat in this hotel without hitting a Mexican carrying a tray of drinks.  On the afternoon of the first day I realize that pacing is the key to survival.

Atlantis is probably the premier gay travel company by participating headcount  per annum.  Most of its trips are cruises, which I’m told attract a somewhat younger crowd.  But they do a couple of resort weeks each year.  On land or water, the formula is the same:  days spent poolside or taking “excursions,”  late afternoon “tea dances” with varying themes, dinner, some entertainment, and late-night theme parties in the disco.

My friend Anthony, a veteran of thirteen Atlantis vacations, mercifully sent me guidance on what to wear for each of the themed events: for example,  cargo shorts and a camouflage T-shirt for the Dog Tag Tea Dance; Afro wigs, platform shoes, and polyester for the Classic Disco dance; something dark and sexy (read black designer underwear) for the Mardi Gras Party (hence the outfit I described earlier); and then there is that staple of the gay party circuit — the White Party, which is basically an excuse to dance in your Calvin Klein tighty whities or boxer briefs to the throbbing beat of house music.  (I suppose 2(x)ist is actually the more popular brand of underwear these days, but I’m not really the proper person to consult on these matters.)

For many years, until my little band of merry men gradually disbanded, I spent a similar week each year with a group of friends in Provincetown during August.  And like Carnival Week in Provincetown, Atlantis resort attracts a broad cross-section of the U.S. gay sub-culture — disparate types of gay men who, other than their homosexuality, have next to nothing in common.

There are the Bears — hirsute, generally portly men with facial hair — a group of which ( somewhat incongruously, since they’re not generally known for their high-fashion style) win the poolside Project Runway competition at Atlantis Puerto Vallarta for the third year in a row.

There are Twinks —  slender, slightly effeminate young gay men, who often are known for their high-fashion style and tend to work in retail.  A small gaggle of them from Rhode Island show up at every party in coordinated costumes that are basically varations on a Speedo with accessories.  They are appropriately nicknamed The Muppets.

There are Muscle Boys with worked-out bodies, who probably have manhunt.net profiles that say “worked out, hwp” (that’s height and weight proportionate.)

There are boys from LA with bleached blonde hair, Giorgio Armani square-cut swimsuits accentuating an over-sized package, D&G sunglasses with a bit too much gold, and an out-of-shape, 60-something, highly successful boyfriend.  Or there is a beautiful boy with a Bachelor of Science degree, laid-off from his job, working as a go-go boy in a gay bar in Texas, and here with a “friend” who is three times his age.

And then there are hundreds of basically normal, everyday, standard-issue guys who are gays, spending a week jokingly referring to each other as “she,” happy to escape the primarily straight world in which every day they compete and excel.  People you know are in this latter category.

Despite these differences, everyone is remarkably friendly.  Coming and going around the hotel, everyone says good morning, good evening and hello whenever they pass another guest in a hallway or in the elevator.  Brilliant costumes at themed parties are always applauded, regardless of who is wearing them.

Anthony and I meet some really nice people whom we hang with poolside, at dinner, and at the parties throughout the week.  All in all, I have a great time. I soak up the sun by the pool, watching cute guys in Speedos walk by.  I do a course of thirteen zip lines through the jungle canopy back and forth over a river, led by some crazy, flirtatious Mexican straight boys, who know exactly who their customer is and play appropriately to the audience; they were totally fun.  And I dance for two hours straight (no pun intended) to classic 70′s disco  in an Afro wig, huge red sunglasses, and a T-shirt with a Coca-Cola bottle on it that says, “I’ve got the Coke, let’s get this party started.”

At the last big party, the White Party, I have an epiphany of sorts.  I’m in a white V-neck T-shirt and white drawstring pants I bought at the hotel gift shop.  I’ve decided that, since I’m 57 and not exactly “hwp,”  showing up in just my underwear is probably not my best look .  I’m standing on the edge of the dance floor with our new-found friends, a May-December couple from Florida.

In front of us, a small group of young guys is dancing their hearts out to a throbbing beat, wearing  nothing but their white briefs and tennis shoes.  They are decidedly “hwp” and very cute.  I watch one of them and think, who’s got that kind of energy to move like that song after song after song?

Then I remember when I was first in New York in my twenties, going to acting school, working several jobs just to make ends meet, one of which was at a night club called Les Mouches on 11th Avenue and 29th Street.

Toward the end of the night, when the customers had mostly gone, the DJ would switch from the disco music she was required to play to the more current rock that those of us who worked there loved — The Pretenders debut album with a song like Brass in Pocket, My Sharona from The Knack, or Marianne Faithfull’s comeback album,  Broken English.

As soon as we heard those songs, we would run to the dance floor.  I wore cowboy boots, peg-legged jeans, ripped T-shirts, and a bandana around my neck.  And I would dance like my life depended on it — loving the feel of my body in motion, letting an attitude fly through my limbs, caring not a whit what anyone thought of me.

Then I think of a time shortly after my sister and brother-in-law were married.  We’re all in Florida —  Jan and Bruce, his sister and me.  We’re all in our 20′s.  And my mother and father, both in their 50′s, are with us.  We’re in a Florida State Park.  And the four of us youngsters are going canoe-ing.  For whatever reason, we’ve only got two two-person canoes.  My father says that he wants to go.  And we tell him we didn’t think he’d want to; it’s not for him really.  I don’t know why we felt that way, other than that we were enjoying our youth and he wasn’t part of that.  I recall the disappointment on my father’s face, as we young folk take off for our adventure.

Standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching the young guys luxuriate in the energy of their youth, I say to myself:  it’s time to go to bed; this scene is not for me anymore.  I’ve done this; it was fantastic, it was fun.  But it belongs to younger people now; I cede you this ground. Happily, really.

I remain just a few minutes longer.  Tomorrow is our last full day, and I have the zip-line excursion in the morning to get up for.  I’ve never done one before, and I’m a little anxious about it.  But excited at the prospect nonetheless.  Buenas noches,  guapos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Souvenir Photo from Puerto Vallarta Zipline, November 2010

 

Postcard from the Yucatán: Tulum-ing

Tulum was the last stop on our Mayan-ruin-hopping tour.  There’s a pretty complex of buildings, unusual among the many Mayan sites throughout the Yucatán, as it’s the only beachfront property the Mayans developed.  The site is dramatically perched atop a cliff that overlooks the beach below.

Temple Ruins at Tulum 3/22/10

For years, various people at work have mentioned going to Tulum on vacation.  Several went on yoga retreats, where they did yoga on platforms facing the sea, meditated and ate vegetables.  (Very relaxing, they claimed.)  Others went to something called Bikini Boot Camp, which seemed to be a sort of a pre-Hamptons preparatory ritual for young-ish New York women, with juice fasts and morning beach runs.  (Worth it, I suppose, if you get the results you want.)

Neither is particularly up my alley.  But both the yoga practitioners and the bikini boot-campers added that aside from these required activities, they spent the rest of their time lying on a beach doing nothing, and that it was heavenly.  This appealed to me and sounded like the perfect way to close out five days of intensive ruin-hopping.

The beach below the Tulum ruins 3/22/10

Before I left for the tour, I ran to Barnes and Noble on Union Square in the hopes of finding a good juicy novel to read in Spanish (because I can!) while lying on the beach.  The selection was disappointing; nothing but a lot of bad American self-help books in translation.  I began to despair of finding anything inspiring.  Then suddenly I saw a book with an image of the Pyramid of Kukulcán at Chichen Itzá on the cover and a provocative blurb about the end of the world in 2012 according to the Mayan calendar.  A brilliant archaeologist had decoded the mysteries of the Mayan predictions, and now his son – paranoid and delusional, locked up in a mental institution in Florida and being treated by a beautiful graduate intern – might be mankind’s only hope for salvation.  Could anything be more perfect?

The other thing that everybody said about Tulum was, “The town itself isn’t much to speak of.”  The tour operator expressed a similar opinion in an email, when I advised them I’d be staying on in Tulum for a few days and asked for a hotel recommendation.  They described most of the accommodations on the beach as being “rustic” with no AC, no electricity after 11pm, and some with no electricity at all.  They suggested a couple of resorts a bit up the coast from Tulum.

Undeterred, I went on Trip Advisor and discovered a small, trendy boutique hotel that had unanimous raves from reviewers.  It was owned and run by a Canadian couple, had a fantastic restaurant, showed movies on the rooftop on Friday nights, and although technically “in town,” was just a 15-minute bike ride from the beach on bicycles that the hotel kept for the use of guests.  I booked by email; paid my deposit by PayPal (balance due in cash), and on the afternoon of March 22^nd said my good-byes to my tourmates as I was dropped off in Tulum in front of the Hotel Teetotum.

Hotel Teetotum, Tulum 3/25/10

That night I walked into “town” – a generous term for the collection of single-story, concrete buildings that lines two sides of a few blocks along Mexico Highway 307.  I had spaghetti bolognese at a small Italian restaurant on a side street, but was surprised when the waiter said they were out of parmesan cheese.  That seemed almost as strange as the hotel restaurant in Copán the night before which was out of tortillas.  “Estamos en México.  We’re in Mexico,” I said to the mesero in Spanish, “how can you be out of tortillas?”  “We’re in Copán,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

Meanwhile, the beautiful intern – who was Guatemalan and, therefore, actually of Mayan descent – had fallen in love with the archaeologist’s son, whom she believed to be sane and the victim of a conspiracy masterminded by a former colleague of the guy’s father, who now just happened to be the Secretary of State of the United States.  She was plotting to help him escape.

I spent the next day riding one of the hotel’s bicycles down the sole beach road as far as I could go, until I hit the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve.  It was brutally hot, and the adjustable bicycle seat kept collapsing under my weight every time I hit a bump, so that I felt like I was riding a hot-wheels tricycle.  But I was enjoying the freedom of wheels, the exercise and the sea air.

That night, I had dinner with two women from Winnipeg, who’d been on my tour and who were also staying in Tulum for a few days.  Later, back at the hotel bar, I got to know Corey the bartender as well as Jane and Mark, two Londoners who were staying at the hotel, but heading off the next day for a few days at one of the rustic beach hotels.  I seemed to be a bit of a young couples’ magnet, as the next night at the bar I met Jeremy and Shannon from Chicago, who had just come from staying at one of the rustic places on the beach, and were passing their last few days in Tulum at the Teetotum.

I spent the next two days stretched out in a rented beach chair under a palm thatch umbrella at a place called La Vita e Bella (Life is Beautiful in Italian), where I had Tacos Arrachera for lunch each day (marinated skirt steak with guacamole and onions, and they did have tortillas), taking the sun and reading my novel.

I rode the bicycle there one day.  But on the second day, I took one of the plentiful taxis, which seemed to be everywhere and would appear immediately on the street the moment you wanted one.  Jeremy and Shannon showed up my second day at La Vita e Bella, which coincidentally was where they had stayed before checking into Hotel Teetotum.  They settled into some beach chairs at a respectable distance from mine,  assuring me that they weren’t stalking me.  The thought had not even crossed my mind for a minute; but once they’d mentioned it and denied it, it seemed like a distinct possibility.

The beautiful intern did help the archaeologist’s son escape, and they made their way to the west coast of Florida, where her adoptive parents lived.  They were oceanographers and were listening to some strange sounds emanating from somewhere deep in the Gulf of Mexico, which had started immediately after a strange radio signal was intercepted from somewhere deep in the constellation Orion on a particular day when the planets in our solar system all lined up in a particular way that only happened once every 65 million years.

My only other trip to town was to pay a second visit to Don Cafeto’s, a place our tour had stopped for lunch before we visited the ruins and where I’d first had Tacos Arrachera (and they did have tortillas).  Our van driver had claimed that Don Cafeto’s had the best food in Tulum.

I’m convinced that in Latin cultures, no one ever goes out to dinner by himself.  That if you do, it means there’s something hideously wrong with you that you can’t find someone to have dinner with, and it’s just pure arrogance that you don’t hide yourself back in your room and spare the public the sight of your lonely, pitiful self.

Maybe I was being over-sensitive, but I felt a little less than welcomed at Don Cafeto’s, absent the rest of my group.  To combat my discomfort, I picked up a copy of the local paper from the table next to me and read the news in Spanish (because I can!).  I was a bit disconcerted to read that our Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, had just been in Mexico, promising assistance from the U.S. in Mexico’s bloody war against murderous drug gangs.  “Great,” I thought, “now there’ll be reprisal killings of American tourists.”  And I walked back to my hotel with a bit more haste than I might have, had I not been capable of reading in Spanish.

As it turns out, there was an alien spacecraft manned by Pure Evil, buried beneath the Gulf of Mexico, where it had lain dormant for 65 million years, awaiting the radio transmission from the constellation Orion to bring it back to life, so that it could go about its business of destroying mankind in December of 2012 per the Mayan prediction.

But the archaeologist’s son was able to dig up some magic weapon at Chichen Itzá, with which he battled Pure Evil in another dimension of space and time, and ultimately was able to save humanity.  The beautiful intern had become pregnant with twins, courtesy the archaeologist’s son; and their spawn was the subject of the second novel in the series, which I’d bought as well but still haven’t read.

Corey, the hotel bartender, offered to drive me to the airport in Cancun on Saturday for half the price the Tulum taxis charged.  He was good company and the price was right, so I said sure.  At breakfast on Saturday morning, I ran into the Londoners Jane and Mark, who’d actually gotten married on the beach the day before without telling anyone, and were back at the Teetotum for the French toast with caramelized bananas.  (A little rich for my tastes.)

On the way to the airport, Corey asked me if I could give him the money in advance of arriving there.  He explained that if the taxi drivers at the airport saw me handing him money for driving me, they’d bash in his car.  I felt a little like I was doing a drug deal, passing him the money – which he immediately hid in the compartment between the seats — while the car was  in motion, lest someone observe us at a stop light.

But we were in Mexico, after all, and on the Yucatán peninsula, which is bathed in the deceptively tranquil waters of the Gulf and is home to the mysterious Maya.  You probably can’t be too careful.

The deceptively tranquil beach at La Vita e Bella, Tulum 3/26/10

For more detail on how the archaeologist’s son defeated the forces of Pure Evil, read El Testamento Maya, by Steve Alten, originally published in English as Domain.  http://www.amazon.com/Domain-Trilogy-Steve-Alten/  

Or if you can read in Spanish (I can!) try http://www.amazon.com/testamento-Maya-Vintage-Espanol-Spanish/

Postcard from the Yucatán: Astro-Theatrics

I was never very good at geometry.

Algebra, yes.  The very logical, linear, deductive solving of equations came quite easily to me.  But angles and spatial relationships always boggled my mind.  I could follow an explanation for several seconds, but once explained, comprehension fled my brain like a teenager from a bingo hall.

Later in life, I attributed it to the fact that I lacked some degree of depth perception, owing to one eye being near-sighted and the other far-sighted, a condition that was not corrected with eyeglasses until sometime when I was in high school.  This also explained to me my poor performance in sports as a child, since I couldn’t judge how close a ball was to my head as it moved through the air until it hit me.

Maybe there’s no truth to either assertion.  Maybe there are other reasons I was so inept at sports.  But I prefer this explanation and fully intend to stick by it to the grave.

Equally annoying has always been my inability to identify constellations in the night sky.  There was an Astronomy merit badge you could get when I was a Boy Scout.  I must have considered going for it, because I can dredge up a vague memory of total frustration if I think about it.  I recall having one of those fold-out, laminated star maps with connect-the-dot constellations traced on a midnight-blue background.  But looking at the night sky without the benefit of the lines, I could never make out a single constellation.  I can spot Venus – the first and the brightest star (yes, I know it’s actually a planet!).  And I can find three stars in a row that are part of Orion.  But whether they’re his belt or his sword, I have no clue.   I can’t make out the rest of him to save my life.  Forget about the Big Dipper.

So I was very excited when I convinced myself I was following the explanations of our guide in the Yucatán, who had been billed on the tour company’s website as an expert in “archaeo-astronomy.”  My self-satisfaction was short-lived.

At one site, we stopped in a typical Mayan peasant hut, probably built fairly recently near the welcome center of the site.  Our guide explained that even today, Mayan shamans lay out the dimensions of a house that is to be built just as they did in ancient times, using the dimensions of the Golden Mean or Golden Ratio.  

You can look up the Golden Mean on Wikipedia, as I’ve done several times since I’ve returned from the trip, futilely trying to engrave it in my mind in some lasting way.  (I’ve had to look it up again just to write this next paragraph.)

The footprint of a traditional Mayan home will have the dimensions of a Golden Rectangle.  (In ancient times, they managed this with lengths of rope.)  You start by making a square.  Then mark a length from the midpoint of one side of the square to an opposite corner of it.  Then your trace a circle around the square with that length, anchoring the length at that midpoint.  If you extend the end  of one side of the square out to meet the circle, you will have created a rectangle.  And the ratio of the length of that rectangle to the length of a side of the original square will be equal to the ratio of the length of a side of the square to the distance from the end of the square to the end of the rectangle.

If you had trouble following that and also were not very good at sports as a child, maybe you should consider having your vision checked, if you haven’t done so already.  Just a thought.

Our guide’s contention was that the Maya had a good understanding of geometry, derived from their observations of the movement of the sun, moon, stars and planets, and used it in the construction of their ceremonial buildings.  Such that the light from the rising or setting sun, for example, on certain days of the year such as the spring or autumn equinox, could be focused through a window to fall on a specific spot in a building.

Observatory at Mayapan 3/20/10

They were employing “theatrical lighting,” he said.  Imagine a king or a religious leader standing at the top of a staircase of a pyramid, backlit by the rising sun on an auspicious day, such that a halo of golden light surrounds him just as the sun rises above the horizon.  To the masses below, it’s a sign from the gods; from the point of view of the leader, a clever bit of theatre.

For millennia, of course, religion has relied on theatrics to impress the masses. And to this day, it continues.  I vividly remember an Easter Sunday morning service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine here in New York that my sister and I attended sometime in the late ‘70s.  We sat in the darkened cathedral with minimal candlelight for the first part of the Easter service.  At a certain point in the service, the Bishop ceremoniously knocked on the doors of the cathedral (miked and broadcast over speakers inside the church) and announced, “Christ is risen; Christ is risen indeed.”  At which point, the huge bronze doors at the entrance to the cathedral were opened, and sunlight rolled into the darkened interior like a freight train.  At the time I was working in the theatre as an actor and director and recognized the brilliant theatrics that it was.  Nonetheless, I had goose bumps and tears in my eyes, the effect was so beautiful and moving.

Our tour was planned so that we would witness two examples of Mayan astro-theatrics.  On the Spring Equinox, the rising sun shines through a window of the Temple of the Dolls at Dzibilchaltun.  And at the more famous Chichén Itzá, the setting sun casts a shadow along the main staircase of the Pyramid of Kulkulcán that creates the impression of a serpent moving down it as it touches a carved serpent head at the base of the pyramid.  (Their god Kulkulcán was portrayed as a feathered serpent.)

Unfortunately, the weather gods were not our friends in this venture. Of the five days we traipsed around Mayan ruins throughout the Yucatán, the 21st day of March – the Equinox – was the only day of the tour to be overcast from sunrise to sundown, with cloud-cover completely obscuring the rising and setting sun.

Nonetheless, we arrived at Dzibilchaltun early in the morning, joining throngs of people hoping for a break in the clouds during the several hours in which the rising sun might be seen through a window at the back of the temple.

Temple of the Dolls, Dzibilchaltun 3/21/10

Everyone stood around facing the temple.  We posed for photos with mock amazement on our faces, in case we wanted to claim we’d seen it.  Someone took a picture of a poster of the effect.  She’d send it around, and we all could use that as evidence we’d actually witnessed it.  Three women dressed mostly in white with crystals around their necks held hands and chanted for a bit.

At one point, I was standing in an open space in front of the temple with no one else around me, facing the crowd of people looking toward the temple.  And I thought, if the sun were to break through the clouds right now, rays of sunlight would stream through the temple window and magically silhouette me.

I imagined people would start approaching me with their cripples and their babies, seeking my blessing.  What would I do?  And I thought, I would lay my hands upon their cripples and lift their babies up to the sunlight.  Why not?

I will leave it to my therapist to interpret these Christ fantasies that standing in front of the Temple of the Dolls engendered.  It should be noted that the sun did not break through the clouds at all.  Not one little ray.  I blessed no babies nor cured any cripples.  Although my loss of twenty pounds before the trip miraculously improved the mobility of my own joints.

Just before we left, when it was clear (even if the sky was not) that nothing was going to happen, a young couple with a stroller went up to the ropes surrounding the temple.  They stood there for a bit, and then the father took the baby out of the stroller and lifted it above his head facing the temple, while the mother stepped back and took a picture.  She made him hold the baby up several times, whether to get the perfect picture or to be sure the baby was properly blessed, I cannot say.

Blessing, Dzibilchaltun 3/21/10

Postcard from the Yucatán: The Rain Explained

The weekend before I left for Mexico, we had a hurricane in New York.  Literally.  Somewhere in the metro area winds reached 75mph, which is the official definition of one.

On Saturday during the worst of it, I went to see a friend in New Jersey who had recently come home from the hospital.  I’d picked up some things he needed and was bringing them out to him.  His 15-yr old daughter (and my goddaughter) who lives most of the time with her mom in Brooklyn had called me the night before to see if she could go with me.

She met me at my apartment in Manhattan.  We hoofed the two blocks to the subway, trying to manage our umbrellas, which occasionally were turned inside out by the wind.  We took the #2 train up to Penn Station and caught a New Jersey Transit train from there to the Jersey suburbs.

 An image of the two of us from about an hour later sticks in my mind.  We’re making our way from the train station in Maplewood to my friend’s house – about a 10-minute walk.  Delightful in pleasant weather, but in this scene, definitely otherwise.

 We’ve each got a plastic bag with things we’re bringing him.  She has an overnight bag and a purse.  I’m carrying a bag of Chinese take-out for our lunch.  The umbrellas in our hands are behaving more like kites.  It’s raining heavily, and the wind is blowing the rain sideways, soaking the legs of our pants.  The sidewalk is totally flooded in places.  I’m sweating inside my rain jacket, but my ungloved hands are like blocks of ice in the raw windy rain.

 It rained the next three days in New York, though the wind died down and the rainfall was somewhat less each day.  All I kept thinking was “Wednesday I fly to Cancún.  Wednesday I’ll be in the Yucatán.”  I spent Sunday indoors and out of the rain, getting all my things together – camera equipment, adventure clothes, sunscreen, Spanish novels, and snacks.  If not completely properly packed, everything was at least in the suitcase or the backpack before Monday morning.

 On both Monday and Tuesday, I ran from meeting to meeting at work, desperately trying to get actual work done between meetings.  Monday after work I went to dinner with a friend from work and his wife and tried to steer the conversation away from work.  I was at the office until 11:30pm Tuesday night.  Raced home.  Did some last minute chores.  Finished packing.  Sat on the sofa sipping a Manhattan until almost 2:30am, so I would wind myself down.  Set the alarm for 7:30am and went to bed.

 I got up Wednesday morning promptly when the alarm went off.  Showered, shaved, watched the weather, ate some breakfast, checked the status of my flight, shut down the computer, powered down the stereo and the cable, and was out of the house by 9:15.  I grabbed a cab and made my way to JFK.

 It was a glorious morning: brilliant sunshine, cool morning air, with a forecast high of 60°.

 Four hours later or so, we touched down in Cancún on a wet runway, where it had been raining throughout the day.  At the Westin Resort, there were red flags on the beach, signaling dangerous water conditions.  In my hesitant, just-landed Spanish, I told the driver and the bellhop (both named José) that I’d left a glorious spring day in New York for the rain in Cancún.  They both assured me that the next day, there would be sun.

 “Ésto viene de los Estados Unidos,” explained José the driver, making a dismissive gesture with his hand in the general direction of what was happening outside the cab.  “This (dismissive hand gesture) comes from the U.S.” – as if rain were a NAFTA import.

 I actually knew the forecast for the rest of the week – sunny and warm – but it was fun to play the misfortunate tourist.  The next day, I would join a Mayan-ruin-hopping tour – 12 people with an archeologist visiting ten sites over five days.  We would finish in Tulum, where I was to stay another five days – hopefully lying on a beach with no red flags and eating fish tacos under a blazing sun.

 At the moment, however, the sound of the surf crashing on the beach below my hotel balcony was the only promise of that idyll that Mexico could give me.

Cancun, March 17 2010