Yucatan, Et Cetera

Yucatan, etc. Cortez, DeMille are gone. It's now the locus of postgraduate honeymoons, urban fugues, a minor literary genre. Knowledge and ejection predispose us to technological parody-- antique busses, burros, plumbing, pyramids-- as if nothing ever caught on. There is no CHRONOLOGY, the pace and mores are too counterproductive-- poster Indians pee along the road, the women never dust. We like the Sartrean-Spanish askewness-- bugs, sex, dysentery, moonlight-- as if, though settled with us, the Fates vacation here.