Three Figs, Two Castles, One Arrow, No Rapunzels

Reseeding self-trust, one fig at a time.

The day before my flight to Athens to see my guy, I gave myself a Vitamin C facial…promptly splotching an uber-sexy rash across my cheeks. Not exactly the glow-up I had in mind for my reunion with Christos after seven weeks apart.

I’d carefully orchestrated a mid-semester six-night trip to Greece over a long weekend bridging two religious holidays, determined to keep the momentum of our four-month long-distance relationship ablaze.

Instead of meeting in Crete like our two prior rendezvous, this time he (and his car) rode an overnight ferry to the port of Piraeus so he could pick me up in Athens for a road trip along the coast of Peloponnese (Πελοπόννησος or Pelopónnisos), a peninsula connected to Greece’s mainland by the Isthmus of Corinth.

Exhausted from traversing the Atlantic, but aching to see him, I quickly hauled my suitcase into an airport restroom and swapped camouflaged sweatpants for a flowy white ankle-length skirt I’d bought at Coyoacán Market in Mexico City a few weeks earlier on a three-day jaunt with my friend Clay to see Oasis. My style is usually jeans-and-leather-jacket edge. But somehow this romance has me dressing all Stevie Nicks.

I exited customs and found Christos waiting for me, grinning, clutching a bundle of pink roses. We kissed for a solid five minutes—the gooey couple making a scene among business travelers and parents dragging tired toddlers across parquet flooring.

The dawn sky streaked purple as we flopped into Christos’s car. He handed me a roadie of coffee and a squishy pillow. Tuning the stereo to Johnny Cash’s cover of U2’s One, he squeezed my knee, steering the car onto the Athens interstate.

An hour later, we pulled into a roadside café flanked by olive and orange trees. Slinking into metal chairs on a patio, Christos grabbed a paper napkin from a dispenser. I handed him a pen from my bag. He scribbled the phonetic pronunciation of our respective coffee orders in Greek. Americano with milk for me, no sugar. Iced double espresso for him, with Stevia. I asked him to add an introduction: Θα προσπαθήσω να μιλήσω ελληνικά. I’m going to try to speak in Greek.

The waiter smiled patiently as I fumbled through each phrase of our linguistic script. Christos rolled a cigarette, murmuring, “Μπράβο, ομορφιά μου.” Bravo, my beauty.

Refueled, we aimed toward the car. Christos stopped at a tree, plucked three teardrop bulbs, and placed them in my palms.

Σύκα. Figs.

I held the figs in my lap as we curved the coastline, barreling toward Monemvasia, a medieval castle town perched on a rock attached to Greece’s mainland by a tombolo—a natural land formation bridge. Moni = single. Emvasis = approach. One way in. One way out.

We crossed the tombolo, gazing upward at the monstrous rock, a study in contrasts. Sea level fortress walls housed a modernized village; ancient ruins stood sentinel at its summit.

Christos wedged our car between a camper and a row of motorcycles lining the left side of an access road, the right side a precarious plunge to the sea. He popped the trunk and yanked out a backpack, two duffels, and my overstuffed suitcase. Refusing to let me lug anything heavy, he began our uphill trek, knapsack strapped to his back, a duffel swinging from each shoulder, one hand pulling my roller. I strode beside him in my flowy skirt, cradling three figs, six roses. A gaggle of British men passed us, ribbing Christos about chivalry.

We entered Monemvasia’s castle archway, suitcase wheels catching on cobblestones. Sweat pooled on Christos’s forehead as he wended our luggage through clusters of tourists crowding a narrow corridor. We passed tiny art galleries, artisan shops selling jewelry and hand creams, and tavernas—gaps between storefronts yielding glimpses of the Myrtoan Sea.

Christos paused at an iron door, piling our bags in a mound. He peeked into a neighboring gelateria and spoke rapid Greek to a woman behind the cash register. She smiled and handed him a key.

The windows of our room overlooked terracotta rooftops and the sea. A gauzy veil hung from the ceiling, draping a queen-size bed centering the room. Christos unpacked bottles of wine from one duffel, hand-crafted labels intertwining H and X in gold cursive. In Greek, both our names begin with X.

We collapsed in bed for a much-needed nap, then dressed and ventured out to explore a labyrinth of stone structures enveloping us for the next five nights. Arms draping each other’s waists, we barely noticed raindrops seeping through our clothes. He snapped a photo of me beneath a cascade of bougainvillea, his hazy phone screen blurring my wrinkles.

I smile differently when Christos photographs me.

Truer.

He catches a facet of me I don’t yet behold.

For dinner, we elected a seafront terrace, an awning overhead deflecting rain. Wearing a cute tweed cap I hadn’t seen before, Christos looked professorial as he studied the menu, debating local dishes to introduce me to new vocabulary and flavors.

He chose φύλλο layered with feta and spinach—like crispy spanakopita but thinner and lighter. A plate of χόρτα—sauteed greens in olive oil and lemon. My favorite dish we’d enjoyed multiple times in Crete: γαύρος, lightly fried anchovies. And a new delicacy: grape leaves stuffed with rice and lamb, swimming in a lemon cream sauce. We shared a bottle of local organic wine a shade of ruby, with an effervescent mineral cloudiness I love.

It felt so reassuring to be in his presence again, his lyrical accent translating Greek into English for me as he explained the etymology of words. He handed me two small packets. The first: a square ceramic tile, black ink handwriting displaying a line from his favorite poet, Γιάννης Ρίτσος (Yiannis Ritsos), a long-time resident of Monemvasia. “Άξιζε να υπάρχω για να συναντηθώ.” It was worth existing to meet. The other: a necklace of five silver olive leaves.

That night—wiped out from our respective oceanic journeys—we slept intertwined, waves crashing, cats meowing, raindrops tapping tiles outside our windows.

I woke up in bed alone, disoriented from jet lag. A key jostled in the door. Christos re-appeared at the top of our staircase carrying go-cups of coffee, a map of Peloponnese, and a set of markers to track our day trips to various villages. Sitting at a breakfast table on his side of the bed, we laughed at my pronunciation mistakes as we reprised Greek alphabet lessons we’d begun in Crete.

Late morning, the weather still iffy, we set out on our first car adventure. I played deejay, interspersing Cretan mantinades between Gen X 80s and 90s songs we both know by heart. Traversing one “finger” of Peloponnese, our little car rounded hilly S-curves, olive groves and orange orchards whizzing by. Twice, Christos had to slam the brakes to avoid crashing into herds of goats napping mid-road. We reached an opposite coastline, rusty abandoned ships dotting white sand. In a town called Gytheio, we crossed a narrow bridge onto Kranai Island. Christos parked, opened my car door, and grabbed my hand. We walked along a mulchy path through a fragrant pine grove, like stepping into a Christmas wreath. We arrived at a small castle, its tower an oversized chess piece. Its teethy parapets made me think of Rapunzel.

As Christos and I ambled through sandy soil toward a lighthouse, I thought about how he makes me feel princess-y but not in a way that makes me feel dainty or fragile or incapable. Instead, he seems to celebrate my strength. My writing. My books. My teaching. My boxing. At the same time, he makes it feel okay…validating…to accept nice gestures. Like, lightening my load. Tending to me. Non-transactionally.

I remember musing to an Italian guy once, Sono una principessa ma non sono una principessa. I’m a princess but I’m not a princess. That guy didn’t understand what I meant. I think Christos does.

We drove onward to the Caves of Diros, a network of underground limestone caverns sculpted by water lapping against stone over millennia. (The water played the long game.)

Joined by an Italian motorcycle gang and a Norwegian family, we descended a staircase from the ticket vestibule into a grotto, boarding a trio of rowboats oared by Greek guys explaining how mineral accretion from calcium-carbonated water alchemizes into stalactites and stalagmites at the rate of one centimeter per century. (Another lesson in patience.) Christos translated for me, our whispers echoing. We quietly joked about how the dripstones looked phallic.

After the tour, we left the cave site, our car hugging the coastline again, eventually reaching a cove called Limeni. We chose a wooden table at a seafront taverna, aggressive waves slapping a barricade, occasionally splashing foamy water onto concrete flooring inches from our feet. Christos accompanied the waiter to an ice chest to choose a fresh-caught fish for our lunch. We ate grilled calamari and octopus, sipping ouzo over ice. Christos filleted a crispy whole fish, dousing it in olive oil and lemon. After lunch, we captured my favorite selfie of our trip, our faces framed by hazy sunlight peeking through silver clouds, my hand against his beard.

On our walk back to the car, an apothecary shop caught our eye. As we sampled balms, hand lotions, and salves, Christos curated a Limeni swag bag for me: facial mist of prickly pear and aloe; body creme dubbed “coconut mystery” with olive oil and St. John Wort; lip ointment blending almond and mastic oils.

On the long drive back to Monemvasia, Christos started to feel congested, stuffed-up, the weather and disrupted sleep during his overnight ferry ride from Crete catching up with him. We went to bed early, but village noise and thunderstorms caused us both to toss and turn. I’m the “princess and the pea” when it comes to sleep. Slight creak in a floorboard. Subtle shift in temperature. Mere wisp of movement. The watchdog in my brain perks up, scans for danger, realizes no imminent threat exists, stops pacing, finally does three circles, then nestles in ‘til the next inevitable trespass an hour later.

Over the next few days, we continued day-tripping, zigzagging Peloponnese’s mountains, crossing coast to coast. I noticed physical discomfort in the crinkles framing Christos’s eyes as he struggled to breathe through clogged sinuses, but he never turned away or siloed.

Each day brought more exploratory meals. Roasted lamb with carrots. Saganaki—fried cheese. Lentil and zucchini fritters.

At sunset one evening, we hopped a ferry to Elafonisos, a small island. Christos sipped coffee while I browsed a small clothing shop, fingering the cotton of hand-stamped shawls. I popped into a ladies room before we boarded the last ferry off the island. When I emerged, Christos handed me a paper bag. Two soft scarves inside. One magenta pink—my favorite color. The other, white with a green and purple design. I wrapped both around my neck.

Another rickety night’s sleep. At 3 a.m., a nightmare about drowning bolted me awake. My chest hurt. I felt panicky. Not wanting to wake Christos, I lay still, hand pressed to my sternum, reminding myself I know how to inhale. Just weeks earlier, I’d had my first-ever claustrophobia attack on a plane.

My flight to Mexico City to see Oasis.

I’d booked a window seat, as always. An adorable Mexican abuelo and abuela joined my row. The lady was so cute and sweet seeking to engage with me, even though we couldn’t really understand each other. She opened plentiful bags of food, laying treats across her tray table. Fruit, pastries, candies. Her jacket sleeve and airplane blanket ventured beyond the armrest onto my lap. Suddenly, the man in the seat in front of me reclined his chair to its extreme, leaving mere inches between my face and the embedded TV screen. I began to feel trapped. My heart thudded. A tingly sensation rippled across my neck—like a shock collar gearing up to zap me. My seatmate’s tray table, pile of packages, and straying jacket and blanket seemed to further encroach. I needed air. Immediately.

I apologized profusely for making the elderly couple maneuver themselves up and out of our row but I needed to escape and catch my breath. I shimmied around a beverage cart and lurched to the back of the plane. I stood in the galley for a few minutes, not wanting to bother or alarm the flight attendants, but unsure how I was going to return to my seat. I didn’t really have any alternative. I reminded myself, You know how to breathe. Yes, this feels like a tighter space than usual, but it’s only for four hours. Put on your headphones. Find a movie to watch. Focus on the screen four inches in front of your face. Try to soften the caged-in feeling. Make the periphery around you vanish. Inhale. Exhale. You can do this. You’re okay. You’re not suffocating.

The first four episodes of Season Three of The White Lotus got me through the flight. (I still have no idea how that story ends.)

In bed with Christos in Monemvasia, I felt breathless like I did on the plane. This man I love and who loves me lay next to me, yet I suddenly felt utterly overwhelmed. That 3 a.m. sleep-deprived state in which the slightest ripple of worry magnifies into a tsunami of fright. I wanted to run. Where? I had no idea.

A sharp pain flared in my shoulder. My brain flashed to Crete…my first journey there five months earlier…the women’s retreat hosted at Christos’s hotel where he and I had first met.

Near the last day of the week-long retreat, I’d booked a one-on-one with the program leader, Kat. Her specialties: Reiki and Quantum Energy Healing. During our guided session, I experienced a dream sequence…or a vision…or some sort of transmission. I saw my little-girl-self running through a forest. I was dressed in some sort of baby-warrior outfit, all feathers and animal skins. Barefoot. Sprinting. On cold snow. Moss. Bark. Racing away from something. Someone. An arrow pierced my shoulder. I turned to see who shot me.

My dad.

My father shot me in the shoulder with an arrow.

I didn’t fall. I ran. Eventually, I stopped. I crooked my arm behind my back and yanked the arrow out of my own flesh, my own bones. I turned. In place of my father, I now saw the boy, the man, I’d spent twelve years of my life with, from the age of eighteen to thirty. The most formative relationship of my life that ended with me running away twenty-five days before my thirtieth birthday. He—instead of my dad—now held the bow of the arrow that shot me.

I don’t know where that lil diorama came from, but I do know that—in it—I ripped that imagined arrow out of my own viscera by myself. And while that little girl version of me was indeed fierce and strong, she also felt fractured and betrayed.

Christos shifted in his sleep, turning toward his side of the bed. I rolled toward him and wrapped my free arm around his broad shoulder, his bicep, resting my palm on his forearm tattoo…the Hand of Fatima. I breathed, synchronizing to his inhales and exhales.

It’s okay to be afraid. You can be scared but also not flee. This relationship is different from any you’ve ever had before. You’re learning object constancy for the first time, yes, at fifty-five. Though he treats you like a princess, you both know life isn’t all castles and fairy tales. Also, let’s acknowledge, you’re a shitty sleeper. You’ll eventually adjust to sharing a bed. But you also need to use your words. Tell him what you need to feel safe and sound enough to sleep.

I drifted off. We awakened to morning village bustle.

“Καλημέρα, αγάπη μου όμορφη,” Christos whispered. Good morning, my beautiful love.

“Baby,” I ventured. “I think I need to go for a walk. I’ll just go to the end of the bridge and back. Maybe twenty minutes or so. I just need to move my body.” When I’d left New York bound for Athens, I told myself, It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to eat way more than you do at home. It’s okay to take a break from your exercise routine. But I know from experience, the best way to get a grip on my emotionality is to activate my physicality.

“Of course, μωρό μου,” he smiled.

I changed into exercise clothes and grabbed my phone and a mesh satchel holding my travel memoir. I kissed Christos, bounded down the staircase, and opened the door, squeezing through a rash of tourists. I scooted through the castle archway, zipping toward the cliff’s edge. Sea spray and sun felt good on my face. Each step down the hill ratcheted down my overthinking. I reached the tombolo, crossed the bridge, turned around, and shot a photo of my book with Monemvasia’s rock as backdrop. On the return climb up the incline, I noticed a swimming hole—a small inlet with a ladder descending into the sea. I took a photo and texted Christos: Want to climb to the upper town to see the ruins, then go for a dip here? He responded immediately with kiss emojis.

After thirty minutes alone engaging in one of my usually-non-skippable daily routines, I felt a million times better. I resolved to use my words and tell Christos that, on my next trip to see him, I need to exercise every day—to tame the wild horses in my brain.

We spent the day climbing a series of slippery stone staircases to the “upper town,” a spread of dwellings—now ruins—originally built in the sixth century by Byzantine settlers, and later expanded by Venetians and Ottomans. Churches including the Agia Sophia occupy the ridge. A small sign marked a thousand-year-old olive tree. I pressed my hand to its bark.

Our vigorous hike cleared Christos’s congestion and my angst. We retraced our steps to the hotel room, changed into swimming gear, grabbed towels from the car, and walked hand-in-hand to the swimming hole. As I’ve shared in previous posts, I’m usually afraid of the ocean. But I’ve untangled that fear in multiple Greek waters with Christos. I jumped off the ladder, submerging, feeling mermaid-y instead of skittish. Christos joined me. We floated together, a salty cleanse from the day’s exertion. We climbed the ladder, wrapped towels around our shoulders, and settled against a sunbaked rock. In the crook of his arm, I felt like a kid who’d built a secret fort.

We capped off our last evening in Monemvasia with one more balcony meal. Moussaka. Fava beans with chunks of pink ham. Pasta cut in small squares—χυλοπίτες—tossed with red peppers, feta, and beef. All served on hand-painted ceramics. We sipped organic wine. Christos snapped a photo of me wearing my pink scarf, again capturing a kinetic me I don’t yet know. Who is this glowy shadow he coaxes out?

The next day, we repacked, got drenched in a downpour toting everything to the car, stripped down to skivvies and changed into dry clothes in the parking lot, and set off on a final excursion inland to the mountains. We stopped in a hillside hamlet so Christos could show me his grandmother’s home—crumbling stone walls memorializing the contours of a house where he’d played as a little boy.

We pressed onward through the rain toward a nearby enclave called Vytina. Wooden A-framed cottages with stone chimneys gave the town an Alpine lodge feel.

“Too bad we can’t stay here tonight instead of driving back to Athens,” I mused. “This place feels really cozy.”

We glanced at each other. Wait…could we just stay here? I needed to be at the Athens Airport by 5 a.m. for my 7 a.m. flight.

“We could have an amazing meal, check into one of these hotels, go to sleep early, set our alarm for 2 a.m., be out of here by 2:30, and get you to the airport with plenty of time,” he suggested.

“Won’t you be too tired driving that early in the pitch darkness?” Then we both laughed. Sleep was basically a moot point for this trip.

We found a rustic taverna for a late afternoon lunch, opting for a veranda table. Rain tumbled onto awnings of nearby shops advertising local honey. Christos chatted in Greek with a server, who beamed throughout their exchange. Christos has that effect on people. Upward spiral of positive emotions.

Another comfort-food feast. Pumpkin soup. Zucchini kofte. Wild boar sausage. The square χυλοπίτες pasta again—this time, with lamb. Carafes of red wine. Post-meal snifters of mastiha—a liqueur blend of mint and cedar.

We checked into an artsy hotel with faux fur blankets, a balcony overlooking a forest of evergreen. We propped the terrace doors open, a cool breeze nudging us to sleep. The 2 a.m. alarm jarred us awake. I showered quickly while Christos wrangled two hot coffees from the kitchen.

I should have dozed in the car on the two-hour trip to Athens; Christos is a masterful driver and I needn’t have worried he’d fall asleep at the wheel and careen us into a ditch or off a cliff’s edge. But my brain was doing its annoying whirring thing. Taunting me with irrational all-or-nothing emotionality. What if we can’t ever sleep soundly together? How is this ever realistically going to work?

He accompanied me into the airport. My suitcase—now stocked with a two-liter cola bottle of hand-pressed olive oil, a gargantuan jar of olives, another tub of honey, a plastic carton of honeycomb, and a sack of Grecian skin care products—miraculously passed Norse Airlines’ 23-kg weight assessment without incident. We sat for one more coffee. I looked into Christos’s brown eyes and a tidal wave of exhaustion, fear, and self-doubt hip-checked me. I burst into tears.

“Baby, everything is okay. We’ll see each other again in forty days. I love you.” Christos wiped my cheeks, held my hands, and kissed me. “Everything is okay.”

I still didn’t use my words to tell him what I’m afraid of. BECAUSE I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’M AFRAID OF!

He walked me to passport control. We kissed and hugged tightly. I pulled myself together, knowing I need to be an adult and work on understanding why my brain is flip-flopping between clinging and fleeing. Like our two prior trips, he waited until I was fully out of sight before leaving his post. No one else has ever done that for me at an airport.

I missed him the moment I cleared security and found my gate. I missed him on the nine-hour flight home. I missed him when I finally got to my apartment, took a shower, and slid into my own bed. I slept thirteen straight hours and woke up clear-headed. I missed him.

I dressed in my hippest New York law prof outfit and taught my morning class well. I went for a two-mile run at my neighborhood park. I ran three loads of laundry. I did some book promo outreach to literary and travel podcasters.

I logged into a 5:30 p.m. zoom and unleashed emotional floodgates upon my therapist. She patiently listened and helped me breathe through some tears.

“Remember how your very first therapist taught you the mantra, tolerate the discomfort? Let’s adjust that to: tolerate the uncertainty. In your professional life, you are accustomed to chiseling and cementing certainty. This is different. New turf. This relationship with Christos is unfamiliar terrain—in the sense of his unconditionality. You’re diverting from past erratic push-pull patterns. And even though this new path is a healthy thing, it’s going to feel scary.”

She’s right. I am 100% accustomed to romantic relationships that go from zero to sixty in five seconds, in which I rapidly contort myself into the man’s “ideal,” completely masking who I am or who I aspire to be. In the past, I’d been afraid to assert myself or disagree or get into a fight because they’d criticize me. Reject me. Discard me. In my two most enduring long-term relationships—one, twelve years spanning my entire twenties, the other, eight years dominating most of my thirties—in the end, I was the leaver. I yanked the arrow out of my back and I fled. I ran for the hills.

I don’t want to flee anymore. I want to sit with breathless overwhelm and not seek to escape it. I want to remember that I know how to inhale and exhale. I want to get better at using my words to say what I’m feeling and what I need.

I know this time is different. Every time I touch Christos’s skin, I feel warmth. I feel his positive energy, his love, his kindness, his good heart. He’s electric. And I’m electric too. But finally in a good way, not a shock-collar way.

Yes, this relationship so far is chock full of fairy tale-y moments but it’s also mature. Christos isn’t bailing at the slightest ripple of discomfort or when I ugly-cry in the airport.

As always when I’m trying to make sense of things, U2 lyrics seep into my psyche.

A line from “Streets.” I want to run. I want to hide. I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside. Is that how Rapunzel felt, all trapped in that pretty castle?

Nobody’s trying to lock me in a tower.

Do I deserve to feel like a princess in my white flowy Mexican skirt holding three figs and a bouquet of pink roses? Yes, of course. But that same princess needs to realize she got there because of the little girl-warrior who raced through a snowy forest barefoot and wrenched an arrow out of her own back.

Self-trust takes remembrance. And it takes practice.

The next time I’m feeling overwhelmed, I just need to give myself some grace to find my air again, like I do in boxing. And when I’m ready, I’m going to grab that arrow that tried to maim me but failed…I’m going to dip it in ink…and I’m going to draw my next map.