Vacation With the Anubis (Monsters and Margaritas #2)

Chapter 1

Jessica

The Great Pyramid of Giza smelled like dust, diesel fumes, and the faint, inexplicable scent of cumin.

I stood at its base in sneakers made of breathable mesh with extra arch support I bought for this trip.

I got them because once I turned forty-five, my feet began to hurt.

Now that I stood here, on my dream trip, all I can think is What the hell am I doing here?

A tour group flowed around me, their guide’s voice rose and fell in lyrical patterns in accented English. “... built over twenty years… two million limestone blocks… astronomical precision…” His words washed over me without sticking.

I’d read all the guide’s spiel already. Ever since I was a child, I’d held a fascination with Ancient Egypt and read everything our local library had.

My house boasted a massive collection of books on the topic, yet no matter how much I’d read, before booking my flight, I spent weeks consuming every documentary, every travel blog, every list online about “Top Ten Things You MUST See and Do in Egypt.”

My best friend, Megan, laughed when I showed her the confirmation email. We’d been sitting on her deck, working through our second bottle of Pinot Grigio, when I pulled up the booking on my phone.

“You actually did it,” she said, eyes wide. “You crazy bitch, you actually booked it.”

“I actually booked it,” I’d echoed, and then the panic had set in. The wine-soaked certainty had evaporated somewhere between her deck and my driveway, leaving only the cold reality of what I’d done. I’d been sober when I booked a round-trip ticket to Cairo for ten days as a solo traveler.

My doubt caused me to almost cancel half a dozen times, but I refrained because I wasn’t letting my doubts ruin something I’d wanted for so long.

But now I stood in the place I’d yearned to see forever.

The pyramid loomed above me, more massive than any documentary could show.

Its limestone blocks stacked in diminishing rows toward a cloudless blue sky, so blue it looked Photoshopped.

I tipped my head back and felt the vertigo of scale.

The pyramids stood proudly, enormous statements to the test of time.

I gaped in awe, unable to process how people built them without cranes, computers, or modern-day health and safety regulations.

Yet ordinary people doing extraordinary things by stacking rocks built them until they touched the sky.

“Your first time here?” a British-accented voice beside me asked.

I turn to find a woman about my age, or maybe a little older, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sensible linen pants. She looked comfortable in the heat, as if she were used to traveling.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked.

She smiled. “You have the look. Half wonder, half ‘what have I gotten myself into.’”

“Accurate,” I admitted. “I’m Jess.”

“Caroline, from London by way of Manchester.” We shook hands and she gestured toward the pyramid. “It’s rather overwhelming in person, isn’t it? Nothing can prepare you for the sheer size of it.”

“I agree. I’ve read a ton and seen so many documentaries, but, wow, it takes my breath away.”

We stood together in awed silence for a moment, two middle-aged women staring up at a monument to human ambition and mortality.

I wondered if she was running from something too, or if she was one of those people who actually had her life together.

Was she a divorcee like me, traveling to find herself?

Or was she traveling for normal reasons like enrichment or cultural appreciation?

“Well,” Caroline said after a few minutes, “I’m off to catch the next tour. Lovely meeting you, Jess.”

“You too.”

She disappeared into the throng of tourists, guides, and vendors hawking their wares.

I listened as they called sale prices on scarves, postcards and miniature pyramid replicas I was positive were made in China.

Before long, I stood alone again, which is what I wanted.

I was here to collect my thoughts and make a life choice against this massive pile of ancient stone.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, knowing only two people cared enough to call me halfway around the world.

How’s Egypt? Are you having an ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ moment yet?

Megan accompanied her text with three pyramid emojis and a camel.

I smiled and typed back.

More like an Eat, Pray, What the Fuck Am I Doing Here moment.

She responded immediately.

That’s growth, babe. Sounds perfect to me.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and started walking along the perimeter of the pyramid, following the worn path through the sand and gravel.

The sun beat down, its heat relentless, even in late October.

I felt it on my shoulders and neck through my light cotton shirt.

Before I left the hotel this morning, I applied sunscreen, but based on the tightness in my skin, I didn’t use enough.

I grimaced as I rolled my shoulders. I’d be paying the price later.

A vendor materialized beside me, matching my pace. “Beautiful scarf, best price, very good quality for a beautiful woman.”

“No, thank you,” I said, not breaking stride.

“Special price for you, my friend.”

“No, thank you.”

He fell back, targeting someone else. The blogs I’d read mentioned the persistent vendors and the need to be firm but polite. But they didn’t mention how every interaction became a negotiation, or how exhausting it was.

I found a quiet spot and sat down on a low bench, pulling my water bottle from my bag.

Thanks to the heat, the plastic was warm, and the water inside the bottle slightly cooler.

Not wanting to succumb to dehydration, I took a long drink and stared at the sprawl of tourists walking around armed guards; camels posing for photos, and smiling at the whole bizarre circus that grew up around this ancient wonder.

When I was eight years old, I did a school project on Egypt.

I made a pyramid out of sugar cubes and wrote a report in my neatest handwriting about pharaohs, mummies, and buried treasure.

I’d been obsessed, begging my parents to take me, promising I’d be on my best behavior.

I’d said I’d save my allowance and do extra chores.

But my mother smiled and said, “Someday, sweetheart. When you’re older. ”

Someday had turned into never. First there was college, then my first job, then meeting Vinny, then our wedding, then Sophie.

Vinny had gotten his promotion, then we bought a bigger house, and the years blurred together in a comfortable middle-class haze of soccer games and parent-teacher conferences and family vacations to safe, predictable places.

But then Sophie left for college. Less than a month later, Vinny left me for Amber, a twenty-eight-year-old yoga instructor, who probably never had a conversation about mortgages or mammograms in her life.

And then I’d sat in my too-quiet house and realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wanted anything just for myself.

So I came here, putting myself first for the first time in my life. I didn’t care that I was thirty-seven years later than planned.

The pyramids didn’t care about my midlife crisis.

They’ve stood here for thousands of years, indifferent to the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of civilizations, and the small personal dramas of people like me.

I smiled at the irony of pyramids, built to be monuments to cheat death, still standing while the pharaoh who ordered them built turned to dust.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Sophie.

Mom, did you make it okay? Text me when you can.

I smiled despite myself. How the roles reversed. Now my daughter checked in on me as if I were the child.

Made it. At the pyramids. They’re big. I love you, honey.

Love you too. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

So I have a lot of options.

She sent back a laughing emoji.

I put the phone back in my bag and stood up, brushing dust off my pants.

A young couple walked past, holding hands, stopping every few feet to take selfies.

They looked happy, unselfconscious, like they belonged here and were enjoying their lives.

A pang of wistfulness jolted me in the stomach.

I missed the certainty of youth, and the feeling that my future was still wide open.

Maybe that’s why I came here. Maybe at forty-five, standing at the base of a pyramid built by people who thought they could live forever, I would finally learn my future was still open. Narrower than it was at twenty, sure, but not closed. Not yet.

I took a deep breath of dusty, cumin-scented air and started walking toward the entrance for the interior tour. From the brochures, I knew it would be claustrophobic, that I’d have to climb through narrow passages, that some parts of the tour would be hot and airless, and that some people panic.

Sounds about right for where I am in my life.

I bought my ticket from a bored attendant and joined the line of tourists waiting to enter. Above me, the pyramid rose into the blue sky, defying gravity, time and all reasonable expectations.

Here we go, I thought. You’ve wanted this forever, and now you’re here. Live your dream.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside.