Ruins, Cenotes, and the Things We Remember…

Daily Writing Prompt: Describe your most memorable vacation.

There have been many memorable trips in my life, from wild road trips across the States, long weekends in Vegas and Sedona, a Camino de Santiago trip, and a trip to Kusadasi. But if I had to pick one, it would probably be an extended journey I took to the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico.

It wasn’t your average sun-lounger-and-cocktail kind of holiday. It was supposed to be! We arrived in Cancún, took one look around, and couldn’t wait to get out of Dodge. It was way too glossy, too packaged, not our scene at all. We had no real plans, just a rental car, a thirst for adventure, and a rough idea of heading towards the old Mayan sites. My other half at the time was Mexican, which turned out to be a brilliant advantage when wandering his homeland without a guidebook or itinerary. Instead it turned to a search for something older, something sacred, and what I found left a mark on me I’ll never quite shake.

We spent days exploring the ancient ruins of Chichén Itzá, Coba, Tulum, and Ek Balam. There’s something about standing in a place where the stones themselves feel like they’re still whispering the secrets of civilizations long gone. The sheer scale of those pyramids, the intricate carvings, the symbolism… it was humbling and strangely familiar, like I’d been there before in some other life. (I always feel that way when visiting ancient sites!)

I remember standing at the base of El Castillo, the great pyramid at Chichén Itzá, wishing I could climb those narrow, steep steps, but by then it wasn’t allowed anymore. And fair enough, they’re treacherous, but that didn’t stop me from imagining what it would’ve felt like, reaching the top with the jungle stretching endlessly in every direction, the weight of centuries beneath my feet. Even from below, the place had a presence you could feel in your bones.

We followed our intuition, one dusty road after another, and somehow ended up in Chetumal, and from there, drifted over the border into Belize. It was that kind of trip: no reservations, no deadlines, just a string of half-formed ideas that somehow landed us in ancient ruins, hidden cenotes, and backwater villages where time moved differently.

The Cenotes are deep, sacred sinkholes filled with crystal-clear water. We swam in one, with the sunlight slicing through the opening above like some kind of heavenly spotlight. It felt like stepping into the womb of the earth itself. I remember thinking this is what baptism should feel like: raw, ancient, and honest.

That trip wasn’t just a holiday. It was a pilgrimage of sorts. I left deeply tanned, a pocketful of strange stones, and a deeper awareness of just how much this earth has seen. It taught me that there’s wisdom in the old ways, and that sometimes, if you listen hard enough, the past doesn’t seem to be the past really past at all.