Free Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd

for him to call me tomorrow afternoon at the hotel and for us to go back to the place we met. The name of that place is about the only detail from my first trip that I can’t remember. It’s not like me to forget, and it drives me crazy because that was one of the happiest nights of my life.
    “Maybe we’ll dance again,” Demetri had written. Maybe we will, but it won’t be in the same way. We may have started with a romance, but now there is Scott. Through our letters, through time and distance, Demetri and I are developing a friendship. That is all our relationship can ever be.
    I keep indulging in the hope that being in Greece, and only that, will solve everything for me. Even when I woke this morning, before I opened my eyes, I lay in bed luxuriating in that particular fantasy. I’m going to walk out of the hotel lobby onto the sidewalks of Athens and that alone is going to make me happy.
    There’s relief in moments like those, but when they’re gone I always return to my New Normal—a state of semiterror at the thought of failing, looking stupid, getting hurt, or being rejected. For me, normality has become the act of retreat, of being afraid the world will find me and slip like smoke beneath the door. All of which fills me with sadness that I’m missing out on my own life. I know girls from my graduating class who are starting new jobs, MBA programs, law school; girls with five-year plans; girls who want to take on the world. Post-rejection letter, I’ve preferred hiding in plain view, like one of those insects camouflaged as a stick.
    A man greets us, holding an armful of menus. “Yassas, kalispera!”
    His name, Yiannis, is embroidered in red thread on the front pocket of his shirt. We follow him into the dining room where a band is playing “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago . It is just as I remember: The stage with the oversized painting of the Parthenon hanging behind it. Long, narrow tables, plates of cucumber, tomato, feta, bowls of tzatziki , platters of chicken souvlaki, moussaka, shish kebabs, black olives. Wine the color of dark cherries. Pastry drowned in honey. I have lost all direction for my life, but I have not lost my appetite.
    Yiannis leads us to two seats directly in front of the stage, then hops up to the microphone to introduce the next performer. A heavyset woman wearing a blue sequined gown with tassels on her shoulders walks into the spotlight and sings a song that seems to be about losing someone and hoping he’ll come back.
    She is followed by a belly dancer with a sword. Her outfit is a shimmery bra and a sheer purple skirt that falls to her ankles with slits cut to her hips. Her spine is an octopus tentacle. When she balances the sword on a spot above her belly button, I think to myself, I could never be this woman. Finally, the room explodes with lively Greek music. Everyone claps. Some stomp their feet. Men shout and let out long, curling whistles. Women roll their shoulders and snap their fingers over their heads.
    Our food arrives just after the band takes a break. Mom and I have barely spoken, but I really think it’s because the party has been so loud. I stab a piece of the pork souvlaki on her plate and she spoons tzatziki from mine. “You can’t have too much of this,” she says, spreading the yogurt sauce onto a piece of pita, and in this uncomplicated exchange I think I might tell her everything.
    I want to say: Did you know that Dr. Gergel asked me if I wanted her to find out why my application to graduate school was turned down and that I said no ? I don’t want to know the reasons because the reasons are my defects. And did you know she suggested I reapply? But how do you go through getting turned down by the same school twice? There are other ancient history programs out there, but I haven’t looked into them. What are the odds of another program accepting me if the first one didn’t? It’s as if the rejection letter has uncovered a terrible truth