The day the world didn't end

“Ah, a New Yorker. Isn’t your world supposed to end today?”

I responded with a wry smile to the Maori man in front of me, who gave a quick laugh at his own joke before leading us deeper into Hell. I glanced at my watch. Yes, “my” world was supposed to end in approximately ten minutes.

It was May 21, 2011, the day buzzed about in American media as the “Rapture.” Like most people, I did not believe it would happen. At the same time, it was supposed to begin in New Zealand, which is where I found myself that morning, inhaling the strong, sulfur scent of the Hells Gate Thermal Reserve.

I stared at the Maori guide, a weathered man who had been giving these tours for longer than I have been alive. Initially, I bristled at his condescending use of “your world.” But watching him speak of his cultural history—words he undoubtedly repeats day after day—and seeing the spark still light up his eyes, I softened.

I imagined how hard it must be for him to be giving these tours to ungrateful visitors when this land used to be a sacred spot for his ancestors. How sick he must get of tourists ignoring his words to pose for silly pictures, pretending to dip their toes in the boiling pools of mud.

As a New Yorker, I am used to seeing a steady stream of tourists pass me on the street each day. But recognizing myself in this tourist role—that was different. So accustomed to being the local, I was completely unprepared to be that unknowing visitor, just another face passing through for the week.

“Your world.” I made up my mind that Hell’s Gate was the perfect place to leave behind all of my judgments. To experience everything from here on out with open eyes and an open mind. Well, that is, if "my world" didn’t end…

Fifteen minutes had passed.