Pyramid Dust

I once knew a teacher who, during their study of Egypt, had her students embalm old stuffed animals she picked up at Good Will. Wonder if those kids remember more factoids today than those who constructed the way less cool sugar cube pyramids. I guess I’m thinking of it because since I started reading Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff for my book club, Egypt seems to pop up almost every day-from the news to my doctor’s office.

At my appointment yesterday, for instance, my doctor perused the book cover. “Cleopatra? Should I read it?” Turns out he was dying to go to Cairo. Egypt evokes big time glamor and mystery for most everyone. Hoping the good doctor was paying as much attention to my throbbing knee as to asking questions about my trip to Egypt, I told him about visiting Giza.

You’ve heard of Bar Crawls? I did the Pyramid Crawl. The passage into its innards is barely wider than an airplane aisle, plus the ancients made sure you approached reverently by making the ceiling so low you have to bend at the waist. So here I am bent in half and bumper to bumper with a hundred other tourists going in and going out. I can close my eyes and still see “Cheer” blazed in purple across the gray sweat pants of the girl in front of me as she complained about no phone reception.

Lights strung along the passage failed to minimize the creepiness of having a million tons of stone above me. As I stumbled deeper into the pyramid my thigh muscles knotted from being bent over so long. I felt I was breathing air that had been in twenty other people’s lungs very recently. But I wasn’t giving up. Besides my own crazy stubbornness, how could I tell my granddaughter, who loves all things Egyptian, that I chickened out?

Finally, we got to a space the size of a walk-in closet where we could stand up and the lighting was better. My thighs were grateful. I looked around for the sarcophagus. Sadly, I realized this was just the seventh inning stretch. Cheer Rear and a dozen others turned around and headed for the exit. Where was their sense of adventure, right? They probably expected a tram to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, too.

When I reached Pharaoh’s burial chamber, my heart raced. Only gray walls survived, the colorful wall paintings had been either carved out and stolen or had flaked away. I touched the outer stone sarcophagus, too heavy to cart off like the rest of the contents had been. Listening, I heard the past speak to me. How much easier it had been for me to hear its voice on the surrounding sand dunes than in here amid chatter of lunch and the heat and malfunctioning cameras. I concentrated and scenes from the past appeared in my mind complete with flowing white robes and intricately woven hair. A psychic episode? Nah, just scenes from History International. Still, I felt transported in time.

When I finally emerged from the pyramid, I looked over my shoulder at one of the Wonders of the Ancient World and marveled at my magical journey to its center. It had always been my dream to come here. My gaze dropped to my shoes now the pale brown of pyramid dust. Pyramid Dust. It might just as well have been Fairy Dust.