TOMORROW NEVER COME

He was as obese a human as I have ever seen.  His “belly slab” extended well below his waist, as well as several feet in front. 

He was wearing a dark blue speedo. 

I took the photo anyway. 

Later, as I viewed my record of the man’s physique, my thoughts, initially of humor, progressed to compassion.  What a dreadful burden for the poor man! Yet, there he was sunbathing on the beach in Matala, Crete.  Nearby were topless beauties that I did not dare photograph, as well as many other bodies somewhere in between. 

I wanted the photo, not because of the obese man but because of the sloppily hand-lettered slogan on the wall above. There, in big blue letters, someone had written: WELCOME TO MATALA, GEORGE.  Below that, it said, TODAY IS LIFE.  TOMORROW NEVER COME.  Thanks to photoshop, that photograph, sans the obese man and the greeting to George, is on my wall.  

TODAY IS LIFE. TOMORROW NEVER COME. 

Isn’t that just another way of proclaiming the value of mindfulness, living in the present moment?  I try to do so and have always found it difficult.  I learned on this trip; it is easier for me to be present when surrounded by many scantily clad young women.  Could hedonism be the true path to mindfulness and enlightenment?  I doubt it.  As one of my favorite writers, Joseph Wood Krutch noted, “faster music and stronger wine pay diminishing returns.”

Mary and I were fortunate to visit Greece, twice within a period of three years.   

I have said many times, I cannot believe we have not been back.  We loved everything. 

Homer’s “wine-dark sea,” although lacking the diversity, is as beautifully clear as waters of the Caribbean and Hawaii.  As in those places, Greece is striking for the contrasts of ancient and modern, devout, and profane, but the divergences here are startling, the juxtapositions more likely to shock.   That fat man, the nudity, the natural beauty of the sea and cliffs, the history of violence, the antiquity— the totality of it all moved me.

And we loved the food!  Bread baking is one of my hobbies.  Greeks invented bread. The many bakeries were all different; each having their own wonderful rustic varieties. On Mykonos, the proprietress told us the starter was 80 years old and the oven had been used for at least two centuries.   

The other food tradition is freshness.  Menus showed little variety, but the fruit, vegetables and seafood were fresh from the garden and the sea.  I also enjoyed the after-meal tradition of a shot of Raki—a firewater made from fermenting what is left over after harvesting the grapes.

Something that separates Greece from any other area we have traveled is that a portion of our second trip included my dad and stepmother.   Adult children traveling with their parents is not unusual, but I struggle to find the words to convey how unusual it was in this instance.  

My own mother died young from breast cancer.  Dad had a small shoe store.  Vacations were non-existent.  Their plan, my mom had told me, was to sell out while they had a lot of time to do things such as travel.  I lived and worked a thousand miles away.  I could only imagine the day-after-day ordeal of radiation and chemotherapy and the drugs used to counter the side effects.   It was three years of relentless, painful, and ineffectual treatment.  

Once, mom showed me a wad of bills in her bedroom drawer.  They had to keep at least a thousand dollars so she could be admitted when they had to make emergency trips to a St Louis Hospital.  They had no health insurance.  Fortunately, in the 1970s, catastrophic health care costs could be borne by people as thrifty as they were.  

Mary and I often thought of the thwarted travel plans of my parents.  We were determined not to wait.  Just in case! Indeed, we were 50 on our first trip to Greece, the same age as when my mom died.  

Subsequently, Dad married his own Mary, known as “Dad’s Mary,” not to be confused with my wife, “Nic’s Mary.” Highland was small.  Although Dad and Mary had not closely socialized in their original marriages, they had many mutual friends and Mary and my mother had known of each other their entire lives.  

Dad’s Mary had suffered the horror of watching her husband die of ALS.  On rare occasions, she would speak of some aspect of those horrible days.  For an extended period, she was unable to have more than two hours rest because she had to arise and clear Charlie’s airway.  

Dad was Roman Catholic and Mary attended a Congregational church.  A priest and a minister jointly officiated their marriage service.  One of them stated how both had enjoyed the richness of previous marriage.  Indeed, they had, but they also shared the common experience of watching their partner suffer a prolonged and painful death.  Both needed a companion.  

Once they married, the only thing a few on our side of the family lamented was that Dad’s Mary did not want to travel. She was so reticent about going anywhere that when they married, we marveled at the preposterously low number of miles on her car.  How did they end up going to Greece with us? 

I was passing near my hometown on business travel and had stopped for a short visit.   We were sitting at the dinner table.  I remarked about our recent trip to Greece. Surprisingly, Mary said, I love Greece!  She re-counted that while Charlie was dying, she sometimes had a few hours during the day when others cared for him.  She habitually went to the library and looked at books about Greece as an escape.  It was the only thing that kept me going. 

I probably would have bet our house that my casual, unconsidered response would not meet with assent.  Would you go to Greece if Mary and I took you and Dad?  She nodded vigorously.  Dad jumped in, Would you really?  In a heartbeat! she said.  I called my wife and said, we are going to Greece.  That was the second trip.

On our first, we were accompanied by well-traveled friends and considered it a 30th anniversary celebration.  Mary and I had already traveled numerous times to Mexico and Central America, but this trip would address my wife’s dream of travel to Europe; her first planned trip having been precluded by our marriage.  

Initially, we visited Athens for the Acropolis and the museum.  Some famous features disappoint.  Not these!  We have amazing technology, but I wonder whether we will leave anything for future generations that can rival the ability of the ancient Greeks to construct such edifices and create such art. 

I lament that “being educated” no longer requires the classics, which to me include the stories of Ancient Greece and Rome.  I was fortunate that a mentor suggested I read Bullfinch’s Age of Fable when I was in my early teens.  In college, literature classes still required the Odyssey and the Iliad.  I had read these as a teenager and been so enthralled, I read Virgil’s Aeneid and the plays of Aristophanes.  We call these “ancient myths,” but they are not so different than what many believe today, as described so aptly in Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey.  The ancients understood the human ethos.  Studying them is studying us.  We should do both.

Lit up by an orangish glow, the Acropolis at night is magnificent, especially coupled with the realization of how many generations it has inspired.  We could see it from the room in our small hotel.  We could also see and hear a discotheque positioned just below.  

Surrounding the Acropolis is a mixture of modern-day curio shops adjacent to ancient columns and structures.  Private dwellings are interspersed; some utilizing ancient walls.  How often do the residents think about their ancestors who have sat where they now sit?

And sitting is something locals do.  They sit with iced coffee for hours.  I would notice a group as we passed by on our way to one of the sights.  An hour later, when we returned, they were still there.  Did they have jobs?  At least I quickly recognized this was the “way,” in Greece.  Unlike my dad, who never accepted it.

This custom of sitting for lengthy periods both before and after meals was something that required acclimation.  Dad routinely insulted waitstaff by demanding menus and the check and change.  

Poor Dad found many things strange.  Our first hotel had an unusual elevator, tiny, with doors that had to be opened and closed manually.  I sent Dad up with some suitcases with instructions to send the elevator back to me.   After waiting too long, I ran upstairs and found Dad pushing buttons bewildered that the elevator would not move. What happened? I asked.  Well, it stopped, but it wouldn’t let me off.  I wanted ‘off’ so that’s the button I pushed, but I had to pull the doors open myself.

Unfortunately, our visit with Dad and Mary was at the time of the US invasion of Iraq and a year before the Olympics. Not only was the US unpopular but many Greeks felt the expense of the Olympics was unconscionable with so many unmet domestic needs.  The streets of Athens were full of construction rubble and heavy equipment.  All the temporary walls and construction fences provided ample space for graffiti denouncing the US and President George W. Bush.  

As we walked to the Acropolis with Dad and Mary, we encountered a middle-aged woman sweeping her home, the back wall of which was ancient.  Immediately, in broken English, she remonstrated us and the US for the war.  She wanted to know why we could not be like the rest of the world and work for peace.  We could only shrug and apologize.  Later, we were reminded in several shops that not only the war, but climate change was our fault.  I decided we should say we were from Windsor, Ontario.  Being only 2 miles from Detroit, it was something we could easily pretend.

We received another earful the next day on our drive to the airport, which required extra time because strikers blocked the highway.  The cab driver let us know that Americans only cared about money and that the Iraq War’s only purpose was to enrich multinational corporations and to control the oil supply.  

Many of my fellow citizens believe in “American Exceptionalism,” and as Reagan said, that America is, and always will be, a shining city on a hill.  That sounds nice, but any traveler who meets with regular people in other countries, knows it is not true.  Anyway, no one ever actually threatened us, but we were all bothered, especially Dad’s Mary.  

Later at Frangokastello on Crete, our rooms were adjacent to a tavern.  We had been conspicuous that afternoon and evening. During an uncharacteristic cold rainstorm, we had played euchre, my hometown’s traditional pastime, at one of the tables and then stayed for dinner.  The late-night din, which included some angry shouting, carried into the parking lot.  Mary believed it was directed at us. That was unlikely. Besides, by then we had told everyone we were Canadian.

Our walk to the Acropolis with Dad and Mary took forty-five minutes because Dad asked for frequent rests.   He was nonplussed that his Mary was finding it easy.  He had always insisted his frequent golfing habit was good exercise.  I suggested that the cart and the ubiquitous six-pack probably did not help his cardiovascular condition.  Because we were arriving later than expected, I noticed something strange.  Where were the tour buses and milling crowds?  Then we saw the sign. A strike had been proclaimed.  No one was working!  No one was going to ascend the Acropolis today. My Mary and I were devastated.  This was THE place!  We thought it was the most important site to visit. Dad and Mary seemed fine.  I was incredulous.  The trip had been planned for nearly a year. We were flying to Crete the next day.  

There was nothing to do but visit the Odeon of Herod, Hadrian’s Arch, and the rock where the apostle Paul preached.  There was also time for Dad and I to sit and talk while the Marys shopped.  We had a great day.  The next day, with the assistance of a special early breakfast provided by our hotel, and the hiring of a taxi, we managed to squeeze in a sufficient tour of the Acropolis before leaving for the airport.

On our first trip, we timed our Athens sightseeing to see the famous changing of the guard.  I am not going to describe the ceremony; it is easy to view on YouTube.  A Greek soldier who receives the high honor of being one of these guardsmen is obliged to wear an outfit I can only describe as silly, pom-poms on the shoes, white tights, and a little white skirt, etc. (Look it up!). Then they perform a high-stepping walk, often showing flashes of their undergarments. Not being much for pomp and circumstance, it reminded me of Monty Python’s “Ministry of Silly Walks.” (You can look that up too!).  In between changes, the guards must stand motionless to be stared at, teased, and photographed by tourists.  It is one of those “must-see” events that is “must-see” only because it is “must-see!”

That first trip included several islands: first Mykonos, then Santorini and finally Crete.  The reason for Mykonos was not for its reputation as a party island, but because it is the gateway for visiting the nearby islet of Delos.  Delos was prominent in Greek mythology as the birthplace of the gods Apollo and Artemis.  From 478 to 454 BCE, Delos was the Treasury of The Delian League–an association of several hundred city-states dominated by Athens.

Delos is nothing but a rock, but it once had 30,000 inhabitants, an incredible number considering the need to water and provision so many people on a barren island. Not only were they watered and fed but the mosaics and statuary are magnificent, ranging from much larger-than-life lions to giant phalluses.  Who had time for so much sculpture?  How could ancient society afford it?  

As I admired it, perhaps, my scientific training was an aid.  Too few people grasp the enormity of time.  Probably I do not either, not really, but who would not be affected by caressing a 2900-year-old intricate carving in stone.   I thought, all this work, all this time.  It felt sacrilegious that all over Greece were remnants of carvings, and columns and buildings, piled, wasting away in the sun, wind, and rain.  I wanted to find a tarp and protect it.  

I have never felt a connection or passion for medieval times, not even as they evolved into the renaissance.  Maybe it is the idea of the dark ages or the religious conflicts which originated in those days and continue to poison our world, but I am captivated by ancient times, rather, I am amazed.

Much of Mykonos itself was overrun with tourists, but here again, were the incongruities so typical of Greece. The old town is a warren of narrow, curved alleys and sidewalks, seemingly a maze built to test human instead of rat intelligence. It was!  It was constructed this way to make it difficult for pirates to invade.  But now, many of the small caverns in the warren hold high-end boutiques selling jewelry or low-end tourist detritus.  Yet here too, was the two-century old bakery and the beauty of the Mediterranean.

Our hotel looked over a small beach and bay.  Cliffs on the opposite side were attended by numerous Barn Swallows and occasionally Yellow-Legged Gulls.  The clear water glistened and beckoned. I had my snorkeling equipment.  I knew the water was cold, but why not? 

The approach to the water was through the beach and a multitude of sunbathers.  I was briefly distracted.  I thought, The Greeks appreciated beauty.  Inspecting the statuary and marveling at the accurate depiction of the human body is expected.  Why not enjoy authenticity?  She was dark-haired and dark-complected, slim hips, wearing nothing but a thong.  She was lying on her stomach leaning on her elbows talking to some young men.  Her bare breasts were just big enough and perfectly firm.  Her legs were apart, one bent up at the knee.  The thong was both loose and askew.  My glance of appreciation required less time than it did to describe it.  I love Greece!

I braced myself for the cold entry but soon warmed to the beauty of the clear water and occasional sea life.  Species were few.  The creatures were small, but viewing nature is always interesting.   I watched a well-camouflaged fish moving along the sandy bottom.  It had retractable white barbels—a Striped Red Mullet (Mullus surmuletus).  The sudden appearance of the ivory appendages was shocking. Why the color contrast?   Were they white for a reason?  Or maybe they are white because they are usually hidden, and their color is of no consequence?  

I followed as the fish gently stirred up the bottom with those barbels, doubtlessly finding small creatures to ingest.  Another fish, which I did not identify, snaked along casually ingesting the sand.  Then, like a cloud being emitted from its mouth, the sand was expelled in a white puff, the fish no doubt retaining organisms it could use as food.  

I snorkeled at every opportunity, usually seeing the same species, but once, at Frangokastello on Crete, I spied a flying gurnard (Dactylopterus volitans)—a fish with the appearance of a square toad that suddenly sprouts wings.  

Sadly, wild nature in Greece, is mostly extirpated.  Most of the landscape has been eaten to stubs by goats.  Hiking in the gorges, the most common plant was oleander.  Although native, it reminded me of old neighborhoods and abandoned lots in Southern Arizona.  Songbirds were rare.  I remembered the tradition throughout most of Europe of consuming them; likely that was also a Greek practice.  

My most pleasurable natural sightings were the numerous swifts and swallows. I watched nesting Crag Martins fly in and out of seaside caves now shading picnicking revelers.  I considered how those birds and their ancestors have been witness to many human generations and so much change.  No doubt, the Mycenaeans used these caves 2500 years ago and prehistoric man before that.  Crag Martins raised their young here as the Greek civilization attained its apex and fell to the Romans whose empire eventually retracted leaving the seas for the Venetians in the 1400s.  The martins still sail about as multi-million-dollar yachts and thousand-passenger cruise ships pass by.  What will they see in another century?  

I also appreciated the swallows and swifts, especially the latter, in the cities.  The traditional tile roofs, in use here for millennia, provide unlimited nesting and roosting locations.  It was a delight to sit on a rooftop in Chania, Crete, at sunset, the sky full of chirping swifts, filling their bellies before a night’s rest. Is this an instance where humans, by providing so much nesting and roosting, may have enhanced the natural population? 

From Mykonos, we traveled by sea to Santorini, using a high-speed catamaran to Naxos, and from there, riding one of the big slow ferries for the remainder—the best way to arrive at Santorini.  The island is a caldera; a remnant from a massive explosion that occurred in 1625 BCE. Arriving below the great cliffs as the slow ferry chugged along was ideal for appreciating the island’s natural beauty as well as the human impact. The relatively soft volcanic rock serves as a substrate for human occupation.  Much of the cliff face was inhabited. Habitations and buildings on top spill over the sides.  To me, from a distance, it had the appearance of guano.

Our own room was a small cave carved from the volcanic ash.  We had to duck to enter, duck to get in bathroom.  There was no view.  It would have been unacceptable except our friends had the room above us, complete with a large deck that we shared.

Fira, Santorini’s major town, resides in the middle of the caldera’s arc.  Oia, the other major town, could be seen to the north. The island’s lowlands are at the other end of the curve in the south.  Across the water to the west was the remnant of the other large arc of the caldera with a still smoking Néa Kaméni (new burnt island) in between.

Because of its beauty and reputation for shopping, especially for jewelry, the island can be quite crowded.    I wondered, who buys all this jewelry?  Frivolous man! But Santorini is more than the view and the shopping.  There are beautiful beaches.  I have been to several other so-called “red beaches,” but Santorini’s is, perhaps, the reddest because here the eruptions and earthquakes exposed soft, iron rich rock.  

Besides the beaches, there are ancient ruins, well-preserved because they were enveloped by the eruption.  Unlike Pompeii, there are no human remains at the buried city of Akrotiri.  Apparently, the residents recognized what was about to occur and fled, an event thought by some to have led to the legend of the lost city of Atlantis.  

Akrotiri was a Minoan settlement dating from the 5th millennium BCE, inhabited until 1625 BCE when the eruption occurred.  Left behind were spectacular palaces and gorgeous frescoes; two of the most famous being the “Boxing boys,” and “The Fisherman,” a reproduction of which hangs in our home.

After dinner, I watched nightfall from the caldera’s cliffside wall as the others went for a walk.  Next to me was a chapel.  With most travel, there is incongruity of religious symbols and their opposite, but in Greece, the contrast is more striking than anywhere.   Chapels are found on almost every property in the countryside.  They are tucked away on many busy streets.  Next to this one was a shop that specialized in reproductions of ancient sexual symbols and activities.  

Earlier that day, we walked through the old city to see the local museum.  The scenic walk passes through a series of archways where I photographed an orthodox priest in traditional garb.  What must he think, living in such a place? A place where excess consumption is the island’s livelihood.  Besides that, are all the shops with sexually oriented cards, calendars, and books.  His parishioners live off the hordes that come and buy jewelry and go to nudist beaches.  I suppose they just don’t think about it. I tried the door to the small chapel.  It was locked, fitting perhaps.

Back at the wall, I looked about, and I saw cats: slinking in the weeds, ascending the church steps, climbing over the wall onto a nearby balcony.  Greece is full of stray cats. One could think they were the Mediterranean equivalent to sacred cows.  

Finally, the descent of darkness was complete.  Such a contrast from the morning’s brilliance when the sea was a deep sapphire blue, and the white-washed and blue-trimmed buildings reflected soft yellow as illuminated by the sunrise.  Despite all the touristy affectations, Santorini has one of the most spectacular settings on earth.

After visiting Akrotiri, we ascended steep and narrow switchbacks to the top of the caldera to visit ancient Thera.  I again marveled at the industry of people who would supply a complex so difficult to reach. The city was founded by Dorian colonists sometime around the 9th century BCE, although there is evidence of occupation before 2000 BCE.  Here, the wind howled.  The vegetation leaned windward indicating that high winds were the norm.  At least residents would never have tired of the view.

I continued to search for wildlife, as with most of Santorini, there was little but House Sparrows. One small group of trees led me to exclaim I have found the Santorini National Forest.

We descended to a small fishing village.  At first, I thought there were no tourists, but as I examined the crevices and small caves for birds or sea life on our walking descent, I encountered a topless sunbather.  For lunch, I ate dogfish, later learning it was a small shark (Scyliorhinus canicular).  Having no bones, the tasty, but slightly cartilaginous flesh became chewier as the meat approached the back support.  We had ice cream for dessert, purchased from a woman in traditional dress, different from the clerks in the main towns who mostly wore impossibly tight pants with thong underwear.

Both of our trips ended in Crete; the only island we visited with Dad and Mary.  Both times, I was delighted to escape the din and crowding of Athens. The sights there are worth it, but I had enough city.

On our first visit, we spent a night in Iraklion. I was not impressed. Here I saw some of the few wild mammals I saw in Greece, rats and mice running in the streets. 

Being more traditional than the mainland, the contrasts were more dramatic.  We had selected a small outdoor taverna for dinner.  As we sat at our table, a large, new Mercedes arrived.  The parents and children that emerged were wearing expensive, fancy clothing and conspicuous jewelry.  And then, there was the old crone, the matriarch.  She wore the traditional black.  The family treated her with great deference as they entered and selected a table.  

I guessed the old woman was approximately eighty years old.  What had she seen, I thought.  Crete was renowned for its fierce resistance during World War II, followed by a barbarous German occupation.  She would have been a young woman then.  How much violence had she witnessed?  On our second trip, we drove the curvy road to Sougia passing through several picturesque villages with shrines to the WWII dead.  More than half of the inhabitants had been executed in several.  Many of the villages never regained their pre-war population.  We stopped in one and bought lemonade from a jovial old woman dressed in black.  She must remember.  Now, we understood why the Greeks were so anti-war and angry at the US about Iraq.

Noteworthy at Chania’s Naval Museum were the descriptions of German wartime atrocities.  Most of the visitors were Germans.  When we flew out of Chania, we noticed on the airport “board” 14 of 18 flights were direct to Germany and ours to Athens was mostly Germans Did the parents of these tourists commit these heinous acts? We asked a local about it.  He said, the Germans always say they or their parents were at the Russian front. That way there does not have to be a conversation.

Back to my thoughts of the old woman in Iraklion.  The Germans expected to take Crete in a day or two because there were no soldiers, just women, children, and old men.  Instead, they were greeted by farmwives with pitchforks.  They would stab paratroopers as they landed.   Was she one of them? The conquest took three weeks and the loss of elite German paratroopers so great, that Hitler forbade their large-scale use in future campaigns.

My Dad was enthralled with the story of the 10,000 GIs who were evacuated through the Imbros gorge.   Dad’s Mary had a sense of what that must have been like. Those poor frightened boys, she said.  For our part, we sat at the gorge’s overlook and enjoyed a traditional Sfakian Pie—a local delicacy consisting of cheese inside a fried dough, dusted with powdered sugar and served with honey.

Although Iraklion was dirty and sad, the museum and nearby ruins at Knossos are replete with magnificent art, such as the snake goddess, impressive tools such as saws and daggers. The architecture at Knossos included vast cisterns for gathering water; the Minoans were masters of their age.

From Iraklion, we drove to Southern Crete, our quick answer for what is your favorite region in Greece?  On both trips, our initial destination was Matala. The first time we were shocked at the crowd, but it was Sunday. The day-tripper buses soon departed, and all was quiet.  

Again, contrasts!  The cliff adjacent to the principal beach is full of small caves carved and used by the Romans or Early Christians as tombs.  In the 60s and 70s, however, they were inhabited by “hippies,” until kicked out by the church and military.  Now with camping prohibited, and, in truth, a little “shabby,” Matala was our kind of beach—not high end, but with enough amenities to be comfortable. Besides, there was that sign, reminding me, TOMORROW NEVER COME.

Over the hill, was Crete’s eclectic Red Beach.  Set in a small cove, there was evidence of those who lived there in the 60s and 70s.  There were modern carvings of a full-length mermaid, an octopus, finely detailed fish, and more.  There were also nudists.  Nearly everyone was nude including families. I spied a topless mom in a tiny thong throwing a frisbee with her teenage sons.  That was a little much.  Walking back, I saw a Pied Wheatear, black and white with a white rump.  Supposedly, the word “wheatear” is a corruption of the original common English name (white arse!).  

Both times in Matala, we ate at the restaurant Mystical View—an exception to my rule that great views indicate high prices and mediocre food.   We were above the town although we could see it and the beaches below.  We could also see far to the west, down along the coast.  We savored our wine and food as the sun set into the Mediterranean.  And the food? I have a love/hate relationship with seafood. I am reluctant to say it is my favorite because I complain about it so often, but when very fresh, there is nothing better.  Here I had thick, flavorful, sea bream, so fresh it might have been one of those I had seen snorkeling that afternoon.  

When we arrived with Dad and Mary on our second visit, we were excited to partake of the view and food once again at restaurant Mystical View.  There, chalked on a sign, was a note that the special was pasta with fresh mussels.  I love fresh mussels, but with pasta, not so much.  Typically, you are served a plate of spaghetti with something like a half-dozen mussels. Not worth it, in my estimation.  I ordered red snapper and all three of the others ordered the special.  I felt smug when dinner was served.  There were three plates of spaghetti, containing 4 or 5 mussels each.  I told you so, I said, just as the waiter returned with three large bowls heaped with mussels.   Fortunately, it was an enormous amount of food that was freely shared. I ate all the mussels I could. (Why have we never returned to Greece?)

We dedicated the entire next day to ruins and museums beginning with the ancient Minoan city of Phaistos, inhabited from 4000 BCE.  The Minoans were a Bronze Age civilization dating to 3500 BCE, with complex urban civilization beginning around 2000 BCE, and then declining from c. 1450 BCE until it ended around 1100 BCE.  The Phaestos ruins viewed the Messara plain cultivated for 4000 years.

We went to Gortys for the church of St. Titus, where Titus (of Paul’s letter fame) was supposedly murdered.  Here there are Roman ruins, Gortys being the first Roman Capital of Crete.  Under Roman rule the Code of Gortys  was chiseled into the wall, the first code of Greek civil law, considered to be the greatest contribution of Classical Crete to world culture.

From Gortys, on a tip from a local we met in Matala, we stopped to see the Museum of Cretan Ethnology in Vori.  The photographs were frightening. The various displays revealed Cretan eyes burning with ferocious intensity.  Little wonder they fought the Germans with such fury.

It was late, past time for lunch.  There were no signs indicating a restaurant, but there were tables in the small square.  We sat down.  A young man emerged from an ancient building.  We ordered Greek salads that took so long we speculated they were waiting for the vegetables to ripen. Finally, we were served a wonderful salad of tomatoes, feta, and the best tasting olive oil ever, plus great bread.  As we left, the waiter handed Dad four oranges.

Continuing across Southern Crete one passes through the mountain village of Spili. We were so intrigued on the first trip that we planned a night there with Dad and Mary.  The proprietors of the small hotel brought out marmalade and candied orange peel, and treated us like old friends.  While Dad and Mary rested, my Mary and I walked into town and enjoyed local yogurt, honey, and walnuts. We ate by the lion heads—a 14th century construction of the Venetians, consisting of twenty or more lion’s heads spouting water from a spring.  Nearby was a table of elderly men, dressed in traditional farmer’s clothing. Several were flipping worry beads.  If there was a downside to staying in Spili, it was that sleeping late was made impossible by the cacophony of crowing roosters, bawling goats, and the tinkling bells of livestock.  This felt like authentic Greece.

The following morning, we visited the Moni Prevali Monastery. Situated on a high cliffside, the landscape was reminiscent of Northern California.  I thought of the line drawings of wild ocean waves and wind-sheared pines that usually accompany the poetry of Robinson Jeffers.   Signs here again reminded us of how resistant the locals were to invaders.

Dad was enthralled by the beauty of the monastery, the intricate carved wood everywhere, the long-bearded monks, old chalices, and vestments.  He asked me if it was Catholic? I did not explain the history, better for him to not be aware of the enmity between the churches and the reason for their schism.  

Continuing, we made what we expected to be a brief stop at Vamos, because there was a waterway, supposedly good for viewing birds. There was an open table with food on it near where we parked.  A chef showed us a meter-long Amberjack and asked if we wanted to try it.  He thought we were part of a small tour that was arriving.  We were welcomed.  The fish was cleaned and cooked for our inspection with lemon and onions. It was served with “healthful mountain greens” (like radicchio and arugula). Dessert was mascarpone cheese with marmalade and raki.

On both trips we stopped at Frangokastello, where there is a well-preserved Venetian Fort.  Frangokastello had only one place to stay but it was located on a wonderful beach.  The restaurant/tavern had the usual excellent food, this time fish we selected in the kitchen, accompanied by fresh potatoes fried in local olive oil–best fries ever!  During dinner, the owner sat with us. He had lived in both New York City and Galveston, Texas.  He had gone to the US to learn the construction skills to build this combination hotel/restaurant/tavern.  Now, he was lamenting the lack of visitors, blaming it on climate change.   Summer is not the same anymore, he said.  It is too cool and cloudy. The tourists are not coming.  I noticed he was a chain smoker.  On our second visit, he was emaciated and coughing non-stop, appearing as if he did not have much longer to live.  

From Frangokastello, we drove to Chania with a stop at Rethymnon to see a 17th century mosque.  I marveled at the large dome. How did they construct it?  Adjacent was a small chapel where donations were made and wishes granted.  My wish was to return after we had been married 60 years.  That time is approaching.  Now my wish is to continue to have the ability, although I suspect we may have higher priorities.  

In Chania we walked in the old Venetian quarter. The streets were too narrow for vehicles; the buildings were very old.  I spied an elderly lady dressed all in black hanging wash on her balcony.  She beamed when I asked if I could take her photo.  After I took the photo and waved my thanks, she blew me a kiss. 

That first time in Chania, we could not find a place to stay and were directed to a semi-rural, small hotel, with big rooms, and a nice pool.   (We were fortunate to be directed there, because the large comfortable rooms were a refuge when I was struck down by food poisoning on our second trip.) The proprietor suggested we eat at the nearby Taberna Irena, where instead of a menu, we were invited by the matron to come see.  We followed her into the kitchen to inspect what was available and select what we wanted.  The eggplant (aubergine) stuffed with spinach dish I chose was genuinely a home-cooked meal.   

The second time we visited Chania, we reserved rooms well ahead of our trip.  Our hotel was a repurposed 14th century Venetian mansion in an area where cars were prohibited.  Dragging the luggage over the cobblestones was onerous, but the experience was worth the trouble.  

The building was labyrinthine with floors and hallways of different lengths and levels.  Our room overlooked the noisy harbor.  We enjoyed the rooftop view with a bottle of Cretan wine as the plethora of swallows and swifts filled their bellies before roosting for the evening.  Although we suffered the bother of disco music until 4:30AM, we could view the history in the architecture: new and old, Turkish, and Venetian. 

After dinner, we stopped at a traditional taverna.  The owner/greeter wore traditional leather garb including large boots. The occupants, who appeared to be locals, were singing loudly, and had already had too much to drink.  Soon they were dancing. We were invited.  Only Dad declined.  We had arms around each other’s waists. The dance was a skip, then a hop while putting one foot over the other and changing position.  We had a lot of fun and when we tired, one of the men bought everyone a shot of raki.

After delivering Dad and Mary to the airport in the morning, we drove to Sougia.  Following the advice of a young lady from our Chania hotel, we headed “down by the rocks,” and lounged on the beach.  It was private, quiet, and beautiful.  We had a wonderful dinner that apparently caused the awful bout of food poisoning I recounted elsewhere (See: The First Time and More: Learning to be Travelers).  After I recovered in Chania, we returned and a day later transferred to the top of Samara Gorge, which at 20k is Europe’s longest. 

The hike begins with a series of wooden stairs which drop hikers to the bottom of the gorge.  Later, by looking over the beach at the hike’s end and the number of boats which arrived to transport everyone to Sougia, I estimated six hundred hikers.  That was a lot of hikers so I was shocked to read later that there can be up to 3000(!).   

Some of the Germans were noteworthy.  Many were not in shape for such a hike.  They would be florid-faced, red-skinned from the sun, puffing stolidly along but would not stop. Their eyes were ahead or down on the trail, seemingly thinking one foot in front of the other, one more step.  One would never see so many Americans as overweight and flabby hiking more than ten miles. 

Many had inadequate footwear: flipflops, sandals or too light canvas shoes but they would never step aside. The trail was narrow, and the sections where passing was easy were few.  We were frustrated walking slowly behind.  We would watch ahead for a wide space and quickly run past.  None of them ever flinched or slowed down. 

Back at Sougia, we ate at a different restaurant.  I felt fine, sad we had to leave, sad about the lost day.  We had one more morning at the beach. I spent the last fifteen or so minutes simply twirling in the clear water, looking at the rocks, soaking in the beauty–telling myself I had to imprint the view, the ambience, permanently in my mind.  

TODAY IS LIFE. TOMORROW NEVER COME!