Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [116]
Everything he’d said seemed to have been lifted from the movie.
Nonetheless, it was a momentous feeling to wander through the oldest ruins known to mankind. And adding to the sense of gravity was our group itself. Our guide had intimidated them all. It’s kind of eerie standing in a cave with twenty people—most of whom were friends by now—and not hearing so much as a whisper for an extended period of time. It was the quietest moment on the tour.
From there, we went on to the Tarxien ruins, which were located right in the middle of downtown. This time, however, instead of a building, we were led to a small vacant lot, with a few large stones scattered throughout. Machu Picchu, it was not.
“This is it?” Micah asked.
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. At least you can shoot video now.”
“There’s nothing to shoot. This looks . . . boring. How long are we supposed to be here?”
“I think an hour.”
“That’s a long time, considering no one knows anything.”
He was right; it was a long hour, despite the fact that we had a new guide, who actually seemed pleased to see us. Every description began with the phrase, “We think this might be one of two things . . .” or, “We’re not exactly sure what this was used for . . .”
We also began to frequently hear the word replica.
As in: “This is a replica of the pillar, which we think might have been important because of . . .”
After the first few minutes, and no fewer than a dozen “replicas,” Micah raised his hand.
“You keep saying the word replica,” Micah observed.
“Yes,” our guide nodded. “It’s a replica.”
“You mean it’s not real?”
“No, the real pillar is in the museum. Most of the real pieces that have been discovered have been removed to indoor museums so they won’t be further destroyed.”
“And those things you just showed us?”
“They were replicas as well. But they were crafted to look exactly like the originals did.” Our guide beamed. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“How much of these ruins are replicas?”
Our guide motioned around her. “Almost everything you can see. But you can tell what a wonderful job they did.” Our guide motioned off to the side. “For instance, we think that this wall may have been used for one of two reasons . . .”
Micah and I quickly lost interest. We weren’t actually seeing the Tarxien ruins, we were seeing . . . fakes. It was like being shown a picture of the Mona Lisa when visiting the Louvre, instead of seeing the actual painting.
“I can’t believe it’s not real,” Micah said, looking around. “It’s like a movie set.”
“Exactly,” I added, “and to be honest, not even a very good one at that.”
We were on our own for dinner that evening and Micah and I chose a restaurant near the hotel that served pizza and beer. As we always did when we were together, we found ourselves reminiscing about our early years.
“Do you remember Blackie?” Micah asked.
“The demon bird? How could I forget? Or Horrible Mention . . .”
We laughed uproariously.
“Or how about that time we loaded the van with so many books the van looked like it was being launched . . .”
“Or when we pretended to be falling off the edge of the Grand Canyon . . .”
We laughed even harder.
“Or the BB gun wars—that time I shot you in the back and we had to dig the BB out using a steak knife because it was so deep . . .”
“Or when Mark and I knocked over that mailbox and those guys beat the daylights out of us . . .”
“Or when grandpa ran the hose over my head . . .”
“Don’t forget the infamous Band-Aid treatments . . .”
We told the same stories we always tell; for some reason, we never seem to get tired of hearing them. As we doubled over and slapped our knees, people at other tables stared at us, trying to figure out what was so funny.
That’s the thing, though. Our stories are funny because we lived them, and we survived them. The worse the incident was when it was happening, the funnier the story had become to us over the years.
In time, Micah grew quiet. He held a warm, almost soulful look in his eyes.
“Now those were good times,” he said.
I nodded. “The best.”
After dinner, Micah and I ventured