Con Voyage to Mexico City

Originally published December 25, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1310

I was more than halfway up the Temple of the Sun when my legs gave out. I flopped to the stone surface, crouched on the narrow and inclined stairs, my heart slamming against my chest, and I tried to remember what the hëll I was doing there…

The convention was called the MECYF 98, a massive convention in Mexico City. Held from July 11-15, the convention had grown exponentially in its few years of existence, drawing in twice, three times the number of attendees of the San Diego Comic Con. Other scheduled guests for the convention included Alan Grant, Denny O’Neil, Karl and Barbara Kesel, Marv Wolfman, Mike Carlin, and Sergio Aragones.

I was a bit nervous about attending. First, I only went to a handful of conventions this year, due to various family concerns. And second, this was the first convention I was attending as one half of a new “couple,” since Kathleen was going to be coming with me. Although Kathleen was no novice to the convention scene, she was known for herself and her many accomplishments in such fields as puppetry and costuming (including a devastating “Vincent” costume she wore as part of a Beauty and the Beast presentation at one convention.). But at the MECYF, she was going to be, as far as the fans were concerned, “Peter David’s girlfriend.” I was reasonably sure she would take it in good stride and not feel her own identity was threatened, but nonetheless I was a bit apprehensive. Plus there were going to be several other “significant others” in attendance as well (Alan Grant was bringing his wife, Susan, and Denny O’Neil’s wife, Mary Fran, was also coming), so naturally I was hoping she’d have no trouble meshing with them.

But once we actually got to the convention, I found far many other things to be apprehensive about. Understand, the people running the con couldn’t possibly have been sweeter. They were solicitous above and beyond the call of duty. All of the guests had personal gofers/aides attached to us for the duration of the con, and everyone was determined to make the convention a pleasant experience for all concerned. Nonetheless, there were certain… little things… that made me a bit apprehensive. For instance, our hotel was in downtown Mexico City. “Is there any problem,” I asked, “if we just want to walk around on our own at some point?”

“No problem,” I was told, but then was given the admonition, “but… I would try not to walk around alone. Always walk in groups.” This, for some reason, made me a bit apprehensive.

My apprehension grew when the shuttle brought a group of us to the convention center for the first time. We had had emphasized to us that crowd control was a top priority. Indeed, when we went anywhere, we were always going to be escorted by large numbers of volunteers. And furthermore, any time we were going anywhere at the convention, our route would be prearranged and scores of volunteers would form human barricades to keep the fans at bay. I had a hard time relating to all of it, because I’ve been attending conventions for years and have never once been mobbed. Oh, sure, there’s been the occasional occurrence where I stop to talk to someone in a dealer’s room, I start signing a few books while I’m talking, and suddenly discover that an autograph line has materialized.

And there have been some autograph sessions that became nearly unmanageable. But I’m not exactly Leo DeCaprio, y’know? I’ve never needed to concern myself about stampeding herds thrusting themselves at me or endangering life and limb.

So the shuttle pulled up to the convention center… and there were cops outside. Armed cops. Heavily armed. With very large guns. And flack jackets. And helmets.

“I want to go home now,” I said, fighting down panic and not doing a terribly good job of it. Oddly enough, no one brought me home.

It turned out that, in addition to our little comic book love fest, it was also an incendiary time for the city itself due to some sort of major political brouhaha that was on the verge of reaching a flashpoint.

Still, once we were in the convention center, things seemed a bit calmer.

There was a dazzling display of fan crafted art which was exhibited along the main corridor. The dealer’s room was unbelievably crowded. Every so often someone noticed me and came over to have me sign something. You’ll find that the best way to avoid being mobbed is to go somewhere where everyone is already packed in. You don’t have to worry about that first, crushing surge of bodies because since they’re already jammed in fairly tight, it’s hard to get any sort of momentum going.

The thing is, most of the time when I go to a convention, I never get to see anything of the surrounding area. That’s annoying enough when it’s someplace in the States. But if I’m on foreign soil and I get to see nothing of the area, it really seems a waste. So I was bound and determined, as were a number of other attendees, to get out and about and see some neat stuff.

Did you know there were pyramids in Mexico? I didn’t know that. Apparently everyone else there did, however, and an expedition was mounted during one afternoon when our schedule was cleared of autograph sessions and panels. We caravanned out to see the pyramids, which I was all excited about until I found out that the Sphinx was in another country completely. So I had to deal with the disappointment.

A half an hour outside of Mexico City is the ancient city of Teotihuacan (which means “Home of the Gods.”) Once upon a time, Teotihuacan was a bustling center of commerce with a population of 100,000. Now all that remains is ancient ruins. One of those, the centerpiece of the excavation, is the Pyramid of the Sun, built in the second century A.D., stretching over 200 feet high and measuring 650 feet square. It’s situated on the Street of the Dead, and just down the street is the slightly shorter Pyramid of the Moon.

I figured we were all going to go look at the things. Just, y’know, look.

But as we made the approach, I saw specks walking around along the top of the Sun Pyramid. It turned out, much to my surprise, that one can actually scale the pyramid by means of a narrow and very angular stairway that runs up the west side.

Naturally, we intrepid comic book folk decided that we must embark upon the challenge. And scaling the thing was no mean feat; not only was the pyramid 210 feet high, but each of the sides actually measured 730 feet. Plus not only was the air already thinner than what we were used to, but naturally it got thinner still the higher you went. Plus, one was climbing at a fairly steep angle on stairs that, in some instances, were barely deep enough to place your foot. All of those elements combined to lend credence to the sign at the bottom which warned, “Climbing the pyramids can be dangerous.”

Nonetheless, a group of us began the trek.

Did you know the Pyramid of the Sun is the third largest in the world?

It very quickly began to feel like it.

The climb quickly began to take on a pattern for all of us who were not in shape. There would be a flight of stairs that would take us to a plateau… where we would rest… and then embark on the next flight of steps (each one becoming progressively narrower). As we reached each plateau, with tourists and Mexican citizens trotting past us with disgusting ease, one or more of us would say, “Okay, that’s it…” and declare that they were going no further.

I would have liked to think poorly of them. I would have liked to think that those who didn’t have the stamina to make it to the top were somehow lacking in The Right Stuff. In point of fact, as I left the stragglers and quitters behind, I came to the conclusion that they, indeed, had the Right Stuff: That stuff being, of course, brains. I, on the other hand, was possessed of two decidedly Wrong Stuffs: First, a deadly mixture of pride and stubbornness, and second, a girlfriend who I quickly discovered was one half dámņ mountain goat.

“My God… I’m dating Xena, warrior princess,” I gasped as I lay on the pyramid about three quarters up and watched the superbly in-shape Kathleen lope ahead as if she were doing five minutes on a stairmaster. By that point, my legs were absolutely leaden, and I couldn’t feel anything in my arms.

“Meet you up there!” I tried to call after her, but I doubt she heard me. She probably had the theme from Rocky sounding in her ears.

Do not get the impression that I was the only comic pro to attempt the top. Barbara Kesel sped by. I wanted to kill her. Not only was she bounding up the steps like a gazelle, but she was perky. “Young people,” I growled. “I hate young people.”

Denny O’Neil, who is about 109 years old, trotted past me, going in the opposite direction. He’d already made it to the top and was trotting back down with no hint of exertion whatsoever. He wasn’t even sweating. I was pouring out sufficient moisture that it threatened to slick up the entire side of the pyramid.

I trudged up another flight, which seemed about a thousand feet long. It was probably about thirty. I collapsed again. The stairs were so narrow, my exhaustion so complete, that I was reduce to crawling on my hands and knees. I heard a child burble behind me and I looked down. A mother was coming up the stairs with her son. The kid couldn’t have been more than two years old. He was mounting the steps with infinite patience and no discernible strength. We locked eyes, him young and innocent, me with a dull ache where my lungs used to be and hauling four lead weights that once resembled arms and legs.

“So what! I can rent a car! You can’t!” I croaked at the child. His lower lip stuck out. He almost cried. Separated from the incident, I look back on it and feel badly. At the time all I thought was, Good. Little creep. He toddled past me and left me behind. I looked to the top, which was in view. Kathleen was busy using her chakram to flatten armed troops. Barbara was leading an aerobics class. I was busy trying to restore sensation to my toes.

I crawled, literally crawled the rest of the way. Now I knew why the central street was called the Street of the Dead. I was ready to kill myself for having embarked on this insanity. Once I reached the top, I would have had an easier time admiring the view if only the crash cart, the guys applying paddles to my chest, and the concerned faces of the doctors hadn’t gotten in my way.

In the center of the top was a small metal tab. The notion was that one was supposed to touch it and, upon doing so, one feels energized and reinvigorated. I touched it. I would have felt more reinvigorated if touching the tab had caused a water fountain to spring out. Kathleen and I spent a few minutes walking around the top while I tried to figure out how I was going to tell her that I had no intention of going back down. I was there, I was staying put. I even considered suggesting that the convention be moved in its entirety to Teotihuacan. Relocate the autograph sessions to the top of the pyramid. Make the fans work for that autograph. Let’s see ’em haul my entire run of Hulk hundreds of feet at a seventy degree angle.

Ultimately, though, I realized that staying there simply wasn’t an option. I considered just hurling myself off the side, but opted simply to take the stairs down. It was, incredibly more terrifying than going up, because I constantly felt as if I was on the verge of tumbling forward. There was a railing partway down, but since I had no strength in my arms, it wasn’t of too much use.

To my horror, Barbara, Kathleen, Karl, Denny, and a number of other insane people were already galloping toward the Pyramid of the Moon at the end of the street. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said in nothing resembling my normal voice. “Don’t worry! It’s shorter than the Pyramid of the Sun,” she told me.

That was my out. I drew myself up and said disdainfully, “I already climbed the taller one. The shorter one isn’t worth my time. Unlike some people, I don’t have to prove anything.”

I then went off to a corner to find an emergency oxygen tank while the Comic Olympic Team scampered up the Pyramid of the Moon as if it were a jungle gym.

That evening, I was looking in a guidebook and said to Kathleen, “Guess how many steps it was up to the top of the Sun pyramid.”

“Two hundred and forty seven,” she said. “I counted.”

I looked back at the guidebook and said, “Well… ha ha. That’s how much you know. You’re wrong.”

“How many then?”

“Two hundred and forty eight.” I paused for dramatic emphasis and added, “Xena would have known.”

Kathleen just polished her sword and looked smug.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)