I was struck with the weight of history that permeated this land. I was used to living in a modern city—Seattle was founded in 1852, but any vestiges of its comparatively short history had long ago been paved over, obliterated by highways, or buried under arcologies. In contrast, this region of the Yucatán was ancient, the bones of its centuries-old cities still visible. As we passed by a ruined building, I trailed my fingers across the pitted surface of its stonework, feeling the outlines of hieroglyphics that had been carved by ancient hands. For the first time, I had an inkling of what had driven Rafael to explore his Azzie heritage. This country had deep roots.