Travelogue 3: Crete

Natural World

I love airports and the adventure they portend. The very idea of plane travel excites me. I love going early to the airport, not to be timely but to savor the sweetness of a new adventure. It is sometimes the sweetest part. All anticipation and no rain, illness, or bad choices to challenge the expectations you hold. The beginning of a trip is all possibility and Schrödinger’s cat is always alive.

Jostling onto the plane is less fun. I pack lightly for the cabin for ease of movement and access to my needs. I have traveled enough to know what to pack. Music, a good book to read, my notebook and some snacks. My laptop is there too, though I rarely take it out except when traveling for work. A light jacket with a hood that can double as a pillow for my neck if I need it. One set of extra clothes rolled up just in case, some gum for the change in air pressure on both ends of the runway, and a toothbrush if the flight is long. (Later I added disinfecting wipes but that is another story altogether). Sometimes I like to talk with my seatmates, other times I prefer the solitude of my own mind and imagination.

Dreamtime

I sit in the plane, at the back. I pull out my music and my notebook.

I see a snake shed its skin as it grows larger and larger. Then it swallows its own tail. An ouroboros. The words “one is all” appear in the center. I see these words in both English and Greek simultaneously. Then it catches fire.

A bell rings. I raise my head from my notebook. The captain is announcing that it is time to prepare for landing. I wonder if I have eaten. I take out a stick of gum and pack away my belongings under the seat in front of me as instructed. The temperature is cool in the airconditioned plane, but I can almost feel the heat of my sun-drenched ancestral land. It gets really hot in August. I then remember the Ouroboros bursting into flame. There is a fire in my belly. Maybe I am hungry. But for what?

Natural World

Crete is a land of harsh contrasts with fierce mountains opening to a beautiful clear blue sea that invites you, like a siren, to bathe in her beauty. Apart from the minotaur, who is said to cause the occasional earthquake in his rumbling underground, there are no dangerous creatures (except for humans) on Crete. This has been variously attributed to the Labors of Hercules or the Apostle Paul who lived there for two years. There is also archeological evidence of Crete being inhabited by humans 130,000 years ago. It is steeped in mythology, history, and drama with influences from Europe, Africa, and Asia over the centuries.

The people are like the land, a bisection of fierce and easy going, living fully both exultations and lamentations, demonstrating a strong sense of family and community, interspersed with feuds and vendettas. The enigma of Cretans is, in some ways, encapsulated by the paradox originating with Epimenides of Knossos: Epimenides the Cretan says, all the Cretans are liars.

Cretans are fiercely proud, after all this is the birthplace of Zeus. Moreover, the first kings of Crete, offspring of Zeus and Europa, began the first European civilization. I like to joke that I am a direct descendant of these Minoan kings as my surname literally means descendant of the crown. Crete is also the birth and final resting place of my ancestral mentor, Nikos Kazantzakis.

Kazantzakis was nominated nine times for the Nobel Prize in Literature. We are both storytellers and truth seekers though I would never compare my literary skills to his. He was a giant, I merely hope to stand on his shoulders. He passed away a decade before my birth, but I visit his birthplace and resting place whenever I am back. It is a form of pilgrimage. His tomb rests in the Bastion of Martinengo in Heraklion. Perhaps that is apt as the garrison was as resilient as he for it held out for a further 21 years after the rest of Crete had fallen to the Ottoman Empire. His epitaph reads “I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.”

After gathering my belongings, I grabbed a taxi to the villa I rented for my stay (it is cheaper to book if you call the owner and speak to them in Greek). I didn’t tell any of my family I was visiting. If I had, I would have been immersed in their hospitality throughout my stay and I was seeking time for reflection.

The villa I rented was this beautiful one-bedroom white stucco bungalow on a cliff overlooking the sea. It is not the blue door and shutter variety you might imagine from the photos of Santorini you have probably seen. The contrasting colors were more muted and earth tone. There was a large open yard space overlooking the sea with one small round white table and two blue wooden chairs. The fence protecting one from the cliff was made of stone with the mortar and stone caps on top painted white. Beyond the fence, you could see the cypress trees and shrubs below hanging precariously onto the earth in defiance of gravity. I still remember the smell of rosemary and oregano. There were a couple of requisite olive trees as well in the yard. No other garden here just solid earth and stone underneath but there were beautiful red potted flowers that were climbing up the walls. A bottle of Tsikoudia (Cretan moonshine) was generously waiting for me inside but that was for later. I longed for a swim.

The best beach here was in the protected bay of the village where you could also find the restaurants and kafenia (café bistro) when you need a reprieve from the sun and require some sustenance. I promptly changed my clothes and packed a small backpack with the essentials: my notebook, a towel, and a bottle of water. I donned my hat, something essential for a bald man, and began the fifteen-minute walk down to the village. The owner had left me a scooter I could use but I prefer walking when I can. Our bodies were built for walking and it is a form of meditation. It is also a way to become part of a place. First through your feet’s unity with the earth then up through the rest of the body and the senses. I acknowledged the people I saw along the way with a simple kalimera (good day) and a smile. I also acknowledged the stones, trees, shrubs, feral cats, blues sky, and the waves of the sea with each step. Walking can be prayer.

This story is part of a collection of stories I am working on that are being birthed into a book. It is a form of autobiographical fiction. Mostly true depictions with poetic license to bring in truths of experience in addition to the literal facts. I hope you enjoy them. Any and all feedback is welcome. As indicated in previous stories, the stories also travel between normal and nontypical states of consciousness, weaving them together like a tapestry of the mind.

Check out:

and this poem that dives into the Cretan Spirit:

Many thanks to Patrick Ohana and Anthi Psomiadou whose writing have invited me to share stories about my ancestry.