That's me, age 24, half-way up the Pyramid of the Moon in Mexico. I gave up climbing at that point. In 1974, I went to Mexico with my sister-in-law and one of her friends. My brother had died six months earlier, so my sister-in-law was a relatively new widow.
I had taken French classes in high school so I did not know any Spanish at all, but my sister-in-law spoke fluent Spanish. We went to several small towns of historical significance and then wound up in Mexico City. The small towns had been far more interesting to me for the glimpse of authentic Mexican culture. Mexico City was another big, international city and I had seen several of those by that point in my life. However, I had never seen pyramids so I happily hopped on a bus to spend the day climbing. But it was hot and I tired out fairly quickly. Reading about the pyramids was more fascinating than climbing them.
When I think of Mexico now, I think of the small towns with the plazas on Saturday night and the sound of a mariachi band drifting through the air. I think of the bakeries and the taste of fresh bolillos. I think of the bullfight, too. Poor bull.
But the pyramids. Well, I saw them and I climbed upon them. But I'd rather sit in a plaza, listen to mariachi music and eat bolillos.