Take me, take me to Crete,

and do not ask, do not ask me

why.

~ Oddysseus Elytis

Wednesday, April 23

Charlotte to Gatwick was a breeze -- the easiest, smoothest overseas flight I've had. And I had a magical experience as the day changed -- with a beautiful sunset out the left windows of the plane, and a gorgeous full moon on the right side by me. It felt touchably close, and filled me with wonder.

The British Air plane left us out in a field (or so it seemed), and we were shown onto buses. This was my only nervous moment, but the bus took us straight to the North Terminal for a very easy flight connection. I had forgotten how much I like Gatwick. I sat in the very nice waiting area surrounded by Greeks and meditated on the large plane just outside the window, with a large gold spiral in the center of each engine. It's a favorite design of mine, and it looks like a sign of good things to come. Then we boarded another bus and were taken back to the field. Although this plane was a bit smaller, it still had the gold spirals. The four hour flight to Athens, happily during daylight hours, took us over the fields of France, the endless white, craggy Alps (spectacular!) (worth the whole trip!), lots of ocean (Adriatic? Ionian?), and the most gorgeous, greenest, hilliest, topography I've ever seen. Greece or Italy? I am forever grateful for that window seat. I let the little girl sitting next to me climb over and take her turn. What a show!

The Athens Airport is small and very, very Greek. Although I couldn't have told you what "Greek" meant before leaving home, I quickly find out. Everyone smokes, and they smoke everywhere. After waiting two hours and searching in vain for the Olympic counter, a kind lady told me I was at the wrong airport. Aack! A shuttle in front took me and a number of others about 20 minutes away to an airport that only serves the Greek airline (odd concept), where I still had an hour and a half wait. Both airports are short of luxury, or even chairs, but I joined the several backpackers hanging out on the floor and rested a bit. After we boarded, the plane taxied out to the runway and then parked for another hour while work was done on the plane. Unsettling, but I'm tired and not too worried. This is my third and final flight, from Athens to Iraklio, the capital and major city of Crete. It's a rough one, but pretty quick. I grabbed my bags and approached the bus kiosk in the center of the parking lot in front of the small airport building. It was just large enough for about six middle-aged men to sit on straight wooden chairs in side, puffing on cigars and cigarettes. It's about 8:00 PM now -- I don't know how many hours since I left Charlotte. About 13 hours of flight time and maybe eight hours in airports. I still haven't realized yet that I don't know the language, or that this will pose some difficulties. I'm just wondering about these six men smoking in chairs, all eyes on me, in this tiny lighted building in the center of growing darkness.

They look at me and wait. I forget the correct word (which is "center"), and tell them I'd like to go "downtown." Some look at me blankly; another sounds the word out slowly and loudly ("dowwwn-towwwn). I think he is mimicking me, but perhaps not. Finally one says, "She wants a ticket to the centre," and I nod. The man by the window explains which bus to take and when it will arrive, and I'm grateful. I begin to roll toward the bus stop, when he changes abruptly, hastening out of the little building to follow me, stern-faced and barking, indicating that I'm trying to walk off without paying for a ticket. I've never bought a ticket before boarding a bus before! But I can't explain my mistake and he just wants the money. I hand him the change, take my ticket, and haul my rolling bags aboard the bus. I watch the signs go by, lapping up the city outskirts in the early nightfall. When we reach the centre area, easy to tell because of the many lights and the people and hotels and restaurants, I realize that I don't know where my street is. I have reservations at Hotel Daedalus of Daedalus Street. I say the name to the driver with a question in my voice. He shrugs! A British woman, also alone, is sitting across from me. She leans forward and say, "I know it. I'll tell you when to get off." And she does. Where did she come from? How did she know? How did she find me to lead me?

Daedalus Street is a wonderful pedestrian lane that runs between two larger streets of the centre area, bustling with activity day and night. The tavernas are in full swing with lots of diners talking and laughing the open cafes. bouzouki music plays for my ears and swaying lights strung across the streets make plays for my sight. The many people strolling the lanes and enjoying the night make me feel safe, and I relax. I have to walk the street twice to locate the innocuous hotel entrance, but the sight of it thrills me with visions of safety, a rest from decision-making, and sleep. A kind young man checks me in, and smiles at me. A good start. My room on the third floor (#302) is spartan but roomy -- with a large balcony furnished with two chairs, a table, and geraniums. Outside, the music is festive and continuous, but it's fairly quiet inside with the doors closed. I sleep at 9:30, long and hard.

Thursday, April 24

Pulled myself out of bed after thirteen hours. I've missed breakfast, and now I need sunshine and liquid. The balcony is warm and sunny, and to the right, down Daedalus Street and beyond, I can see the turquoise Sea of Crete with foamy white waves, and even mountains. At 11:30, I venture out in search of food, stop in a tiny bakery, and emerge with a yummy sandwich of tuna and sliced green tomatoes on a crusty loaf covered with black seeds, and yes, a coke. Solid travel food and only $2.70. I walk to the Iraklio Museum, which houses the archaeological finds from the Palace of Knossos, and have a wonderful tour. Many of the exhibits are not translated into English, but the pieces, mostly pottery, are deeply, deeply moving, for reasons I may one day be able to explain. They have the snake goddesses, which I love. My favorites are the tiny, primitive clay figures made inartistically to leave as offerings in the crevices of sacred caves. I love the idea that what they chose to offer to the gods was handmade, imperfect, and still in existence thousands of years later. And I love learning that what grabs my passion is not the golden jewelry or the intricately fashioned and painted pottery, but the simplest of shapes, and even more, the fragments that remain from a faith expressed in matter. I am deeply, deeply artistically inspired. There's a lovely courtyard garden inside the museum where I sat and contemplated my immersion in this foreign culture.

Found a post office and bought stamps, postcards, exchanged money at the bank, called home, and wandered the town. At the entrances to hotels and cafes, men stand and talk, fingering worry beads. Fresh octopi hang to dry outside cafes. Cats are everywhere, and the smell of the sea must be heaven to them. Around 7:00 I walked out by the old fortress and sea wall. I let the Cretan sea spray me and tasted the water -- rather pleasant! There are lots of fishermen.

I found Titos Church just as they started a Maundy Thursday service. WOW! An old widow dressed in black skirt and shawl and headscarf sat outside the door (speakers broadcast the service onto the square beyond). Simply sitting, with no outstretched palm. A young widow passed and handed her silver coins as she entered the church. Worshippers stop to kiss the icons in the church vestibule. Icons are believed to have miraculous powers, and each painstakingly exact replica is thought to have power equal to that of the original. Depictions of Christ and Mary are everywhere, but all are of the ancient variety -- there are no more recent artistic interpretations. The Greeks want the real thing, and each is looking for that miracle. Everyone lights a candle -- many light four. At a glance, I saw four, circular, quadruple-tiered candle stands. A man went from from stand to stand, removing those that had burned the longest, constantly making room for the constant offerings that never ceased to appear. I lit a long, skinny, crooked taper and stood in the back. The priest swung incense up and down the aisles to make certain the smoke touched every person, each of whom made a special cross as he passed. Lots of chanting. It was GORGEOUS! Back at the hotel, I mentioned this experience to the lady on the desk. She told me that later he will carry a black cloth representing Christ's body and lay it in the courtyard. I saw people entering the church with huge bouquets of flowers, and she told me they would be tied with black ribbon and laid beside the cloth. I'm touched. I've specially planned this trip to coincide with the celebration of Greek Easter, and I'm anxious to see and experience as much of it as possible.

When I settle onto my balcony in the evening, the music from the lane below is loud -- Santana, George Michael, and the Gin Blossoms. I feel good at how well I've managed my first day and all that I've seen. I'm very sore in the hips (?) and right elbow, and I become dizzy, weak, faint, and quite knee-impaired when I try to climb steps. I'm also quite dehydrated, and my throat aches. No complaints, just a mental inventory, and I'm curious to know how my body will change and adapt as the days pass.

I'm stunned at my experience of Crete in only one day. Everyone looks at you, unlike London, where it seems to be considered an impropriety, but when you raise your eyes to meet theirs, they look quickly away, unlike the U.S., where staring down strangers is a common violation. So what I feel is a sense of humanity meeting humanity, but with restraint and respect. It's very nice. The men have mesmerizing eyes. Their very hearts are emblazoned on their eyes. You can see everything they feel, but it isn't a naive vulnerability -- it's more a deliberate openness, an honesty and forthrightness -- sort of a blatant integrity, which I have rarely seen before. This is particularly strong in men over 40, and I feel a hunger for that openness. I haven't gotten a handle on the women yet, but several have been rather motherly toward me, which I've greatly appreciated. Bed at 10:10.

Good Friday, April 25

Well, I thought I was going to bed. I wasn't able to sleep until after 4:00 AM! All my early fatigue and sleepiness disappeared when I got in bed, and all I could think about was the fact that it was six o'clock at home, and my family would be having dinner together without me. The at 11:00, loud firecrackers began. At least, I think they were firecrackers -- they sounded like small bombs going off, or gunshots. Frankly, it scared me. It wasn't like a fireworks display -- they fired singly and sporadically, near and far, like call and response. This continued until 1:30, when loud chanting, rather like the gathering of a gang, neared just below my balcony. I jumped up and threw open the sash to find the air thick with smoke, a lighted fuse burning wildly and massively on the building just across the twenty foot wide lane and one story below me, and a throng of many, many people plowing down the street shouting in unison some unknown Greek phrases. I quickly ran to roll back my canvas awning so it wouldn't catch fire, locked up again, and hoped that was the end of whatever was going on. It did lessen, with another loud POP at 2:30 and one more at 4:00. Then I knew it was Chuck's bedtime back at home, and I was able to sleep easily as if in his arms. I think the festivities were part of the Maundy Thursday observance, but who knows? And what did it mean? The sporadic booms have continued into this day, and I was glad to spend hours outside of Iraklio. As I write this at 7:30 PM, they're becoming more frequent again. I'm glad I leave for Hania tomorrow.

Up at 9:00 this morning so I could easily make it to breakfast, feeling surprisingly good for only five hours of sleep and fitful dreams. Took a fairly good and fairly hot shower with the handheld sprayer in the corner of the bathroom. The makeshift "stall" has an inch deep indentation for drainage, three walls, and no curtain, but I didn't make too much of a mess. Had a lovely breakfast in the terrace room at 9:45 -- orange juice, tea, a slab of pound cake with sweet cream (no, I didn't order this! they just bring it), a six inch bun, and a hard-boiled brown egg in an egg cup. The room is filled with Cretan art and quite interesting.

In the morning I toured the market -- what a trip! Took lots of photos of things I've never seen before -- flowery artichokes, zucchini sold with the yellow blossoms attached meat sold whole and skinned with only furry tails and feet left intact. Some are cleaved in half lengthwise. Some rabbits are arranged as if hopping across a meadow, or two will be strung up like wooden marionettes dancing together. Goats hang from their feet, with eyes staring out and lettuce leaves in their mouths. The plucked chicken are dressed with big rubber chicken feet. Beneath the whole animals are trays of livers and various parts I can't identify. The fish market is wonderfully smelly, with buckets of huge, crawling snails, and plopping piles of octopus. One man had four plastic bags filled with them hung over the handlebars of his motorbike. Beautifully red strawberries. Tables of embroidered linens stacked only inches away from the blood of the butcher's wares. Tray after tray of glistening olives in myriad varieties.

I gave 100 drachmas to a widow sitting on the street, and then found the cathedral, Ayios Minas. In the left wing of the vestibule, a woman on a ladder was draping delicate white flower garlands on the large golden bier for tonight's funeral procession. A sort of service was in progress -- with the doors open and people streaming in and out. The cathedral is 19th century and extremely ornate, with vaulted and domed ceilings and frescoes from the New Testament. Impossible chandeliers. Large icons behind glass on wooden display columns, intricately carved, and a steady stream of people lining up to kiss the glass. A balcony along three sides of the square sanctuary seemed to have chairs, although there were very few places to sit on the main floor. Most everyone stood, reading along with the service in tiny black books. Priests (I think) were chanting and singing -- a group of five on each side of what I would call a chancel area. They alternated chanting in parts and in unison. On the right, beside them, stood an ornately dressed bishop with a long gray beard, his hand clasped and kissed almost as often as the icons. On the left side of the chanters stood a man in a suit whose hand was shaken. There was constant movement, and although the picture seemed so much more formal than say, an Episcopal service, there was no feeling here that worshippers had to stay put in reverence to the priests. It was much more an open expression of worship to someone or something much higher, and the priests merely served as the backdrop. I liked that. I liked the movement and the kissing. Velvet ropes stretched down the sanctuary to form a center aisle, and here people stood to await their turn to kiss the full-size image of Christ on the cross, draped with gorgeous wreaths and hand-strung garlands of both large and tiny white flowers. It was simply beautiful, and very moving. The song, the adoration, the total devotion,and the space all combined to create a deep, deep sense of mystery and awe. I don't think anyone could leave this scene without believing. There was simply so much faith that it swallowed me. I could have stayed for hours and soaked up this sacred and eternal moment, but the absence of chairs, the presence of cramps, and the inappropriateness of my low-slung long lens camera hastened me out and away far sooner than I felt ready.

I grabbed a picnic lunch (slices of feta, tomato, and lettuce on a long, skinny baguette for $1.68) and caught the bus ($.78) to Knossos, feeling more as if I should go than really wanting to go. The Palace is just outside of Iraklio, a brief and pleasant ride, and I was able to see the remains of the City Wall, which is huge, very, very high, stone, and supports a lovely wildflower habitat -- quite impressive.

The entrance fee at Knossos is $5.60. The Palace is huge, and surrounded by low mountains covered with orchards and farm rows. I looked for a spot that spoke to me, and finally settled on the ruins of a water trough room (the Minoans actually had plumbing!) that held a stack of circular cut stones topped with a stone basin, and ate my picnic looking over the Cretan plain.

Remarkably, this site has been occupied since at least 6000 BC, and is charmingly covered with wildflowers on this spring day (archaeolgical sites throughout Greece are protected by law, so no chemical spraying is allowed; therefore, wildflowers rule!). Knossos was known as the home of King Minos and the prison of the minotaur, killed in the labyrinth by Theseus with the help of Ariadne. There were earlier searches to see if evidence could be found, and then it became obvious that the palace itself is spectacularly labyrinthine in design. The ruins, which have been partially reconstructed as a teaching tool (and tourist attraction), date from the New Palace Period of the Minoans, about 177-1600 BC. Many huge pithoi jars in lovely, curving shapes remain on the site. Some are taller than I am, and I would need three sets of my own arms to reach around them. They are beautifully decorated. In earliest times, this was likely a communal sacred site, set in the center of fertile fields, to give thanks for abundant crops. The huge jars and giant, circular stone pits were used for the storage of grains, olives, oils, etc., and there are a number of altars throughout the site. My favorite aspect of Knossos is that there is no evidence of any form of weaponry or fortification, because this was a goddess society. And it flourished.

Took the bus back to town and walked down to the ruins of Ayios Petros, the stones of the former structure standing tall against the Cretan Sea and touting bouquets of native blossoms throughout the grounds. I watched the sun fall over the mountains from my balcony, dining on a pizza croissant and coke ($2.42) for my dinner at 8:30 (I'm getting Greek!). I think the Good Friday procession begins at 10:00, but I'm uncertain. Shall I mingle with Greeks and experience both their physicality and their faith, or remain in the sheltered safety of my balcony? Cold air and uncertainty kept me in, certain I would be able to hear and vicariously participate in the "mournful songs" of the procession after my experience last night. This night is silent -- no music from the tavernas and bars below -- an homage to Christ and a welcome quiet for me. About half of the shops were also closed today. I stayed up listening until 11:30, but heard nothing. So I fell into bed, happy to be feeling tired at last.

Saturday, April 26

Woke, exhausted, at 7:30. I thought I could doze until 8:30, but slept soundly until 9:17, much later than I had hoped. I throw on clothes so I won't miss breakfast. Now I'll have to juggle my shower with the cleaning lady's sudden appearance later, but I think I'll be able to get out by 11:00. I have no idea when check-out time is, or even if they have one. The breakfast room is packed this morning, filled with very nice-looking people that I have seen nowhere in the hotel. The room is buzzing with happy talk. My boiled egg is hot this morning, and warms me after a cold night. The orange juice breathes life into my still-dry body, and the tea cradles and mothers me. There is no hot water in the shower this morning, however, which helps hurry me along to an earlier departure. I had a sweet check-out with the same young man who checked me in three days ago, and who speaks to me kindly and remembers my room number every time I come and go. The posted room rate for off-season is 9600 drachmas, but I am only charged 7000 ($26.00), plus 1500 ($5.60) for each breakfast. An excellent deal. I managed my luggage well, if slowly, down to the bus station, which is a number of blocks away and on the water. I had to carry it (ugh!) over a long stretch of deeply grooved slate. I arrived just as the bus was ready to depart. Perfect timing.

My two and a half hour ride to Hania, also on the northern shore of Crete, but on the west side, costs 2600 drachmas ($9.70). The bus has big, comfortable, spotless seats, huge windows, and air conditioning. The first thing we did when we left Iraklio was climb right up the mountain I've been looking at from my balcony, and we had a wonderful ride along the sea beside and through the mountains.

Before coming here, I would have described some of these hills as rubble heaps. The soil is very rocky and littered with shrub herbs and few trees, lending it a barren and infertile look. I imagine climbing would be quite difficult, as it looks as if all the rocks are fairly loose. I immediately deemed the landscape unfarmable and undevelopable and was just as quickly proven wrong. Houses and hotels begin to pop up, along with neatly rowed orchards. Here and there are fields of goats and sheep. The sheep look like sheep, but are the size and weight of goats, rather than the fat ones I usually see. All along the highway are miniature church shapes on posts -- like large mailboxes. Some are elaborate; some simple. The front panel is glass and inside you can see icons and other things (votives?) -- in one I saw a tiny chalice. There are many, many of these (what devotion!), and I don't know how it's possible in some spots to stop a car or even walk along the narrow highways with the high speed traffic. But I've seen the pilgrims, and they find a way. I later learn that these are shrines built by individuals at the site of a serious accident, as a memorial for the deceased or in thanksgiving for survival.

We took a mini-tour of suburban Hania, which is immediately superior to Iraklio. We were dropped at a large bus lot/station, and I intuited my way and went straight to the port. Oh my God! How do I describe such a place?

Old Hania, which wraps her arms around the lovely inner harbor, consists of numerous winding slate streets (Ha! More like donkey paths . . . ) through the most remarkable Venetian villas. Balconies, long, painted shutters, cafe tables, cats, scrolled ironwork, flowering vines, brilliant blues and crumbling stone make up the town each way I turn my eyes. Almost every building rents rooms, and all are so enticing that I honestly wish I could spend several months moving like Goldilocks from bed to bed just to feel the flavor of each of these ancient spaces. Each building I pass is incredible, but mine is spectacular. Directly on the harbor, pink with blue shutters and iron balconies. I've splurged for this stay, reserving a waterfront double at the Hotel Amphora for about $60 per night -- way out of my targeted range, but I'll make up for it with other budget rooms. I just couldn't resist the words "???? century villa," even though now I realize that Venetian villas are everywhere around me. The only problem is that I can't find a way to the entrance, which is not on the waterfront, but apparently around the lane, wherever the lane is. After several attempts with the rolling bags which simply do not really roll on slate, I give up and enter the hotel restaurant, which is at sidewalk level and just in front of me. A waiter approaches me and I explain my trouble, too tired to care that he must think I'm an idiot, or an American looking for an easy way out. He explains the way, which seems to make sense. But I know there are steps involved, and I ask if I could please leave my luggage here until I've found the lobby and checked-in. He takes the bags from me and says he'll have them waiting upstairs. I trudge around, again, and find a lovely lane that curves upward toward a long row of slated steps. I can't really make out the topography of the town, but it's very hilly. All the narrow lanes wind and rise and fall, so that at any step, you are in a tiny environment that seems private and personal, and totally your own.

The Hotel Amphora has a lovely stone courtyard just beyond the outer door, and shuttered windows up the three floors that open onto it. (See photo at top of page.) A series of stairs leads me to the third floor, where the reception desk awaits. A very kind white-headed gentleman greets me, and then the waiter from downstairs appears at my side with my luggage, having carried it all up three flights of stairs, one only eighteen inches wide and winding. I thank him, uncertain whether this is a kindness or a gesture that begs a tip. I decide to graciously accept it as a kindness, and figure out how to make up for it later. As the gentleman on the desk shows me to my room, #11, which is just beside the reception desk, he hesitates. I look around and I am in heaven, and I smile broadly and tell him it is perfect. He says, haltingly, "Yes, but I am afraid that it may be . . . noisy. . . . If you'd like another . . . " Oh no! This is the room of my dreams, and he smiles and leaves me. Directly in front of me, two sets of French doors open onto a balcony with a small cafe table and chair. When I look out, or down, all I can see is water -- sparkling, clear, green water. If I step onto the balcony, I have a 180 degree view of the harbor, lined with villas and cafes and backed by the stunning Lefka Ori, the White Mountain. To my left, is the harbor mouth and Cretan Sea beyond. Heaven. The room is large, with knotty hardwood floors, a loft with a long sofa, a sitting area with another sofa and chair, an armoire, two adjoining twin beds, and a large bathroom with a tub. I may never leave . . . . He has shown me how to turn on the tiny hot water heater in the bathroom in preparation for a bath, and we talk about the possibility of direct dialing home from my room. It's possible, but "very difficult," he says, and we try with no luck. We'll find a way. Did I mention I'm in heaven?

Tore myself away from the "view of life" to actually walk around in it. The tiny shops are filled with the wares of talented artisans -- I particularly liked the glass pieces. At 4:45 I settled into a cafe chair on a narrow lane for my combination lunch/dinner. It's amazing how little food I need when all my senses are engaged. I wish I could photograph my dinner. My Greek salad is a large bowl of the reddest tomato chunks I've ever seen -- quite possible two whole tomatoes -- an entire cucumber cut into thick half-moon slices, a thin wedge of onion, one leaf (one small leaf!) of romaine lettuce, and three tiny Cretan black olives topped with a large, sliced hunk of feta cheese, covered with dried herbs and washed in olive oil, served with half a loaf of a peasant wheat bread and Danish sweet butter. The bread looked dullish and I was ambivalent, but after one bite I downed the entire basket. And the salad! So light! So fresh! So summery! So why-do-we-call-anything-in-America-olive-oil?! My dinner was ideal, and I felt very comfortable here. There was an indoor restaurant, and a number of tables outside on the side lane, but on my lane there were just four, each decorated with bright Gerber daisies. A cat dozed in a chair just across from me. A young couple with a baby sat at one table, and their presence was comforting. My meal was 1200 drachmas ($4.48).

After dinner, I continued walking in the early evening. I stopped along the waterfront at the Amphora Restaurant where I had given the man my bags and glance at the menu board on the walk. My eyes were caught by the words, "Recommended by Lonely Planet, and I did a double take to read the rest., slowly becoming aware of someone watching me. I looked up to see (apparently for the first time -- where were my eyes?) the waiter?/owner?/manager? whom I had spoken to earlier in my fatigue and frustration. He nodded in recognition, and I was stunned speechless to realize how intensely gorgeous he was. Dark, dark hair and eyes so intense that I smiled faintly and quickly moved along, more than a little nervous about all that energy and emotion -- was it coming from him or from me? In my American past, I've known many pretty Greek women, but no attractive Greek men. Here it seems just the opposite. From the moment I entered the waiting room at Gatwick for my flight to Athens, I was struck by the immensely handsome men. All dark-haired and dark-eyes, quiet and respectful. Cretans have a reputation for volatile personalities, and though I have not seen this, I can sense it. They don't speak unnecessarily, outside of politeness and hospitality, but their intensity is so deep and strong, and their words so direct and open. It is very difficult not to trust them completely, and my natural reticence is almost certainly misplaced here. But I take my time, nonetheless.

I left the Lovely Man and walked to the mouth of the harbor. This is the time of night that people promenade, and I become a tentative part of the dance for a few moments. I photograph the sunset from the city walls that separate land and sea, just capturing a pair of lovers kissing at the edge of my lens (rather a metaphor for my life at this point). Then I retreated, sitting on my balcony in the twilight watching the lights come on, the Lovely Man standing in front of his restaurant on the lane beneath me, just under the lamppost for much of the night. I wish I had the gumption to take his picture, but it seems either too uncouth, or an invitation of sorts, and neither is my goal.

At 8:45, I stepped inside for my camera to photograph the lights on the water, and when I raised the lens to my eyes, I noticed a haze, and suddenly realized a heavy (intense!) rain had begun full force in the 45 seconds I was gone, keeping me safely dry and protected (another metaphor enacted -- I'm not yet ready to experience the fullness of what's happening here). Everyone scattered below. I took the pictures, had a bath, and tried to sleep at 10:30, but the view even from my bed was so mesmerizing that I simply couldn't keep my eyes closed until midnight. There was a quiet smattering of Roman candles to celebrate Christ's rising, but in deference to Easter, none of the loud rock music that supposedly makes this room a challenge.

Greek Easter, April 27, 1997

Woke at 8:00, very tired, turned on my water heater, and dozed until 9:00. Slept cold under two heavy blankets, but the morning is warm and sunny. A good hot bath in the deep English tub, and then out for photos. Walking through the reception area, I noticed baskets of pastry and red-dyed eggs. The very sweet Smiling Man on the reception desk asked to show me to breakfast as I stood in the courtyard taking pictures. I hadn't planned to eat, as I've already spent too much on the room, but he is so kind that I can't say no.

He led me outside and around the corner to a separate, locked entrance, where we entered a breathtakingly quaint grotto room. It was tiny, but even so had two levels, with two high widows about a foot square, a stuccoed fireplace, and niches in the stucco walls. High beamed ceiling. I sat at a tiny, antique game table, beautifully set. Along one counter lay a buffet of delicious curiosities: swirled poundcake, breads, tiny rolled pastries, red-dyed eggs, marinated black olives, sectioned hard-boiled eggs, circular slices of avocado, cheeses, meats, a large platter of cucumber slices, orange sections, cereals, and what I took to be sectioned tomatoes but were actually red-candied orange rinds, all set out amid numerous jams and spreads and butters and heavy cream, fresh orange juice, and coffee. I went back for seconds on the platter of sectioned eggs and olives, and the friendly young blond girl refilled the platter to brimming, even though it was 10:30 and closing time.

Out to explore the deserted streets (I think everyone was in church), I quickly used two and a half rolls of film (all that was in my pockets), window shopped at leisure (everything closed), and discovered numerous tiny alleys that led to the residences tucked into the old town. Lambs roasted everywhere, creating an aroma that wafted down each lane. Last evening I passed no less than three kneeling women scrubbing their doorsteps, even though each had only one step, and even though they appeared quite clean to my eyes. It is a time of preparation.

After returning to my room to sit and write on the balcony, I heard a knock at the door. Anita, the nice girls who made and served me breakfast (in black velvet walking shorts), stood in the hall, asking if I had plans for the day. Well, no, I said. And she replied, "Today is Easter, and the lady who cleans your room has invited me to her village for the celebration. I thought I would ask you to join me." "I'm very shy," I said. "Yes, me too," she replied, "and if I'm alone, I know I won't go. She said I should come now, but I don't know anyone there, so I'd like to wait and go at 5:00 or 5:30." What to do? I told her I'd love to go. She said the village is nearby, about a thirty minute drive, and that if we're uncomfortable, we can leave. I'm doubting my good sense about now, but forging ahead anyway. I trusted her completely, a rarity for me, and what better way to see Crete?

Took another long walk and shot more photos in the golden afternoon light. Dined on Greek salad and coke at a taverna on the waterfront, watching all the families in their best clothes and combed hair. The remains of lambs are being picked from spits everywhere. I saw a young Asian man walk past the lamb at right, stop cold in his tracks, and bow his head in a moment's prayer. I'm guessing he was vegetarian. I'm with him. It is, to my heart, an incomprehensibly grisly scene for the celebration of Easter.

I'm getting a little nervous about tonight's adventure, even though I know it will be okay. I just don't have a comfortable, preconceived notion in my mind to fall back on. I always feel safe and secure when I know what to expect (and it's positive). But I realize that operating that way is only an approximation of real life.

There are lots of photographers out with their tripods this afternoon on the tilting lanes. Mostly older men, and we eye each other's shots with interest. One was photographing the lane just in front of the Amphora Hotel, and he told me I'd be a lovely addition to the photo. How sweet! Because the shops are closed and there are families everywhere, I ventured over to the oldest section of town, which I've been hesitant to enter. I was delighted to happen upon a large tour group just setting out, and I gratefully tagged along. Composed of old, crumbling, mostly residential buildings, it was a treasure. Few of the buildings have been reclaimed as cafes or shops, so they sit untouched, speaking of time and secrets. Afterwards, I found the roof garden just above my room, with it's incredible view, and sat awhile to soak up the sunny warmth and ground myself for the adventure ahead by connecting with the snow mountain for strength, and I was set.

Waiting for Anita in the reception area, I was given two cheese pastries by the lady on the desk. She said she, her mother, sister, etc. had cooked all day and made 300 of them. On the tables were the baskets of red-dyed eggs mentioned earlier and a plate of mildly sweet, light-as-a-feather (excellent) cookies -- these three are special Easter treats made in abundance to last throughout the three-day celebration. What great female bonding.

Anita arrives, and off we went in her small blue car on a lovely ride toward the snow-mountain. It's so huge, so imposing, so beautiful, so like an enigma in this hot Mediterranean topography and climate. I ask her if anyone climbs it. "Only tourists," she replies, and I laugh. Of course. Greeks are very, very practical, and mountainclimbing doesn't pick the olives, feed the sheep, or scrub the clothes. (Though they do take a day off to pick flowers.) The village we're heading to is named Pemion -- I think -- I forget exactly -- but the name of it sounds like "village of Pam," so I know then that I'll be okay.

We talked about many things, for two shy girls. Anita is young and German. She lived on Crete for three years with her "soldier" father and family, and then moved back here alone eight years ago, feeling that it was where she belonged, though not knowing why. And so she came. Her story is much like mine, although I am testing the waters, and she had made the leap. Along the pretty drive, she pointed to the wildflowers growing on the roadside, and told me that she and Christina, the woman whose house we will visit, sometimes travel here together to pick flowers from the prolific and untended meadows and fill the hotel with them.

When we reach the tiny village on the mountain, we greeted our hostess and the other guests, and then set off for a walk. I thought this was odd, but it pleased me, allowing me to ease gently into unfamiliar surroundings. We passed tiny houses, icon shrines, outdoor toilets, the village church, grape arbors on terraces, potted flowers, a herd of sheep, and orange and olive trees. It looked so ancient and eternal. Against such a rural setting, I was surprised at the number of cars in the village. Also pacing up and down the lane was a young Greek man, dressed for Easter and talking into his cell phone -- a total anomoly. Anita told me that the villages take on a new look during the holiday, because everyone -- with very few exceptions -- returns to their village at Easter, which is a much bigger holiday in Greece than Christmas. Our walk was peaceful and calming, and readied us for our return to the party. And then Anita explained what I would never have guessed -- that it was good to walk through the town, because everyone who saw us strolling would be proud that we had chosen to visit their village on this special day, and our hosts would be held in high regard because we had eaten at their house. Can you believe I did this? Can I believe I did this? She said she was so glad that I had agreed to come, because if she hadn't visited, it would have been seen as an insult to the entire village. Instead, we were able to give them a blessing.

We returned to Christina's terrace, which held six tables pushed together and covered with white cloths and the remains of an all-day feast. Full plates, half-eaten plates, empty plates, clean plates, all together in a jumble. Bottles of beer and every kind of soft drink. Anita and I were given clean plates and two napkins each, neatly folded (!) diagonally (!) by the husband (!!!) and brought dish after dish as though we were visiting royalty. Anita and I are both vegetarian -- an oddity here. When neither of us touched the first plate of lamb we were offered, a second was brought, and then a third, and then a fourth -- all featuring different cuts -- and I could see deep frowns and anxiety moving across Christina's face. So I broke down and took a bit, and that seemed to make everything all right. We ate Greek potatoes and cheese tarts and bread with a yogurt and cucumber spread (delicious), feta eggrolls, apples (Anita eats the apple seeds -- "to keep away the coldness" she said, meaning to avoid catching cold), huge kiwi, and cake. Of those at the feast, Anita knew only Christina, her husband, and their three grown sons (all gorgeous) and their attentive girlfriends, who make for quite an education on Greek courting rituals. There were many others there, at a simple house in a simple village, with a citrus tree beyond the terrace and plumbing pipes running down the outside of the home. Near the end of the meal, a woman came and stood behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. She began to ask many questions, using Anita as interpreter. After every answer, she oohed and ahhed, and then passed th information up and down the table in Greek (only Anita spoke English here) until everyone present knew everything about me. There were many bravos at my marriage, children, art, etc. They "couldn't believe" (how kind!) that I was old enough to have a 14-year-old. Throughout the meal, many toasts were made to the two of us, and we were sent off as the sky began to darken with many hugs and all best wishes. It was a lovely evening, and a totally unanticipated gift.

As we drove back to Hania, Anita gave me another tour -- this one through the neighboring port of Souda, where she lives, and home of the U.S. Navy base in Greece. In the dark, she pointed out the apartment where she lives with her dog, cat, and five newborn kittens. Anita is a very good driver, but I was once again startled by the way the Greeks drive. Even sweet Anita fussed about a driver "taking up the entire road" simply because he was driving in the middle of a marked lane. For some reason, lane markings are simply a challenge to Greeks; if there are two lanes marked, they try their best to drive four across, and at great speed, and seem particularly oblivious of curves and hills.

When we reached Hania, Anita found a parking space right near the waterfront and the hotel, and said that it was my doing -- that I had brought her luck. As we walked along the stone-floored and stone-walled lanes, I was struck by the beauty and magic of lamp and candlelight playing across the ancient, uneven surfaces. It was simply a fairyland, and in my fear of being out alone in the night, one I could never have seen without her safe escort, her kindness, and out mutual willingness to trust. I mentioned the apparent safety of being in Greece, something that is making me feel more and more secure here, and she replied, "No Greek will ever hurt you. They will not steal from you, lie to you, or harm you." And I believe her utterly. Life and love and God will come to you if you are willing to open your heart to the possibility. I wonder if I am strong enough to accept such abundant goodness?

When I returned to my room, a fax from my husband was slipped under my door. The best letter I ever got. Bed at 10:00.

Monday, April 28

I love waking up in my Villa Palace Room! My full length French windows face East, just the way I like; my head points North as I sleep, just the way I like. The sun comes brilliantly in to wake me vibrantly at 8:00 (just the way I like!). The sunlight bounces off the living water to create endless ripples across the high beams and plaster walls of my room, dancing in the day.

Another breakfast, same bountiful menu, in the lovely grotto room, and then coffee on the roof terrace. It must be about 76 degreees, with a sea breeze. I could sit here forever. The sea excites me, but the great white mountain centers me and keeps me in balance. In my mind, this is what Mt. Kilimanjaro looks like. That seems impossible to me, but in truth it really isn't so far away. When I go to Africa, maybe I will stop here afterwards to heal. I sense now that I might be going sooner than I thought. The notion of living in Europe, which has always been appealing to me, seems more and more possible, and such a natural and healing match for a personality like mine.

I strolled through the main shopping district, with it's storefronts featuring icons, needlework, and swinging censors. There was one whole store devoted entirely to chess sets, and many, many bridal shops, which surprised me. The dresses are white and full and festive, and it drives home the point that a proper marriage must certainly be a prime concern here. The archaeological museum and covered market are still closed. I browsed "leather lane," and happened upon a street blocked off to allow for excavation beneath it -- Minoan remains were being uncovered before my eyes, in the space between offices and shops.

I also found the Hania Artists Cooperative, which was a treasure, and featured varied works that I found quite pleasing. The blown glass that I've seen several places here is just gorgeous, but expensive, and of course -- fragile. I don't buy. Later on my balcony, I watch the tavernas just below me. The canvas covers sheltering them roll back to let the light flood in. I can peek down and see what people are ating, what the customs are, and the type of crowd that each attracts. By 3:30, I still have an uncomfortable coffee buzz -- the Greeks don't mess around with coffee, but the increasing sore throat that I had this morning is feeling better. Wrote lots of postcards. It's somewhat overcast now, and feels like it might be in the low 60's. I'm so glad to have brought a variety of clothes, and so happy to have to transport them only every three days. Today I dined (lunch/dinner) on the waterfront at the Amphora Restaurant (just below me) at 6:00 -- definitely "between meals" here, which makes me more comfortable. There are lots of young people milling about in the evenings, whereas during the day, most of the people I see are middle-aged. Perhaps they are day tourists. I have no idea where all these Greek yuppies have come from, although perhaps there is room for yuppies in a town of 65,000. They frequent the tavernas on both sides of me, but not the Amphora. I'm beginning to understand the lovely man's frustration. "???????????" saw this on a sign. Guess what is says -- ?????????!

Had a quiet dinner of vegetarian pizza (filling comfort food) and coke; wrote many more postcards. I received a 10 percent discount on dinner because I'm a guest at the hotel, and as a bonus, this was the only time in Hania that I could fully reconcile my bill (as well as the first time I actually received one on paper). With the total, I was presented a complimentary shot of something clear and potent. I wasn't totally unprepared for this, as I had seen it done during my spying from the balcony this afternoon, but it was still quite a surprise. Free! And after the meal! I wet my lips in it several times to be polite after the first burn-a-hole-through-your-lips-tongue-mouth-throat-warm-your-belly-and-stir-your-blood sip. It is very strong -- like a shot of straight, thick gin. Paid my 1550 drachma bill and left a large tip for the lovely man who had helped me with my luggage and brightened the view from my balcony every night, even though he wasn't nearly as attentive and adoring at dinner as I had imagined he might be. Perhaps if I had finished the ouzo . . . . And so I leave tomorrow, graciously departing without having left a trail a broken hearts.

I walked around the harbor in the 8:00 PM twilight to mellow the alcohol a bit, and was startled to hear the strains of a marching band. Around the point by the Banal Museum they marched, a fully uniformed battalion of Greek soldiers and a full band, parading down to the museum and then returning to stand in formation as the Greek flag was lowered from the northern point of the city wall. I sat on the watery edge of the stone promenade to watch, the sea lapping at rocks four feet below me and the last pinks of the sunset fading bwteen the empty flagpole and the Venetian lighthouse that flank the entrance to the harbor, and the air began to chill. Finally bold enough to be out alone in the night, I walked in the dark through my winding stone lanes, and found myself dumbstruck by the beauty of night lights on stone walls. The shops, open late, come alive, children play quiet ball games in the dark lanes, residence doors are open and the sights and smells of Cretan life spill out, and the restaurants! A few tables against stone walls or Venetian ruins, a few plants, candle and lamplight, and gentle, live Greek music, and every table springs to life in these magical grottoes. No doubt most people are drawn to the water, but these beckon with an even stronger call. I want to sit in each chair until it fills my pores with remembering. But I can't, and the memory of this sweet longing will always make me yearn for Crete.

Sleep at 10:19. How I hate to close my eyes! If only I could more of a child, I would sit and watch and feel all night long, and then again all through another day tomorrow, never turning off my heart.

Tuesday, April 29 (my love's birthday)

Awoke with the pretty pink sunrise at 6:20 after fitfull dreams (about which I will only say that they involved my husband, a waterbed, and a lot of sports equipment, and I was not present at the time) and went for an early walk among the streetcleaners -- a trick my dad taught me. Finally, I found the cruciform-shaped covered market open, but few people inside. The fish vendors were just receiving and arranging the morning fish. Can you believe I was too early for a street market?! Unheard of. On my walk back, the baker with the cats who sleep beneath the ovens was just stirring -- at 7:45! These Greeks . . . !

Walking along, I tried to determine the smoothest route for rolling my luggae from the hotel to the bus station. My emotions change so rapidly here. I'm feeling a little sad this morning. Sad not to be at home with Chuck and our children on this most special day, sad to be leaving this wondrous spot (and just when I feel so comfortable), and wary of another journey with luggage into the unknown. I am better prepared for this next trip, though (directly East to Rethymno), and while I am pleased at this, the preparation itself is quite tiring. Bus routes, schedules, hotel locations, city maps and money all need to be determined and considered each night. It's fun, but my daily experiences drain a lot more out of me than I sometimes realize.

I went down for a last breakfast in the pretty grotto: homemade bread already spread with sweet butter and homemade strawberry jam, sliced avocado, black olives, half of a hard boiled egg, a chunk of feta, half a lengthwise slice of banana, tea with cream, and fresh orange juice. I even ate the orange seeds "to fight coldness" in honor of Anita. The banana was the most delectable I've ever tasted -- very custardy and rich. How did they do that? After breakfast we said goodbye, and Anita gave me a gift. -- a large jar of homemade jam -- a yellowish potpourri sort that I can't identify, and I think she made it. She told me that if I have any trouble at all during the rest of my trip, I am to call the hotel, speak to anyone who answers, and they will find a way to help me. How can I be receiving such kindness and care from strangers? It touches and amazes me beyond words, fighting with all my pre-existing notions of human interactions. I took her picture with the nice man who works on the desk, paid my bill of 54,000 drachmas for 3 days (including 3 breakfasts at 2000/each) -- about $67.00/day. While planning the trip, I balked at the price, certainly inexpensive by most standards but still twice that of most of my stops. But I felt drawn here and came anyway, and I'm forever grateful. I left among many offers of help, and as I passed through the lovely front courtyard I heard cries of, "Bye! Bye!"