Crete in full-er, Part I - Irakleio

(For those desiring chronology, the comes after Athens and before Oxford. You may recall I have mentioned Crete before, but only in passing in order to describe a catharsis on a bus ride.)

Irakleio was my first destination. The day that I arrived, my host was away on very important business, so her daughter greeted me, got me settled, and left me to my own devices. Meanwhile, my remote host kept up a steady, hospitable stream of text messages to make me feel welcome and give me ideas of things to do. As great as these ideas were, one of my first priorities (as always) was to visit a grocery store.

A side note: I cherished these “chore” moments, despite how stressful they sometimes were. In Greece, for instance, avoiding food allergies and translating foreign words had the added challenge of requiring transliteration of Greek characters into the Latin alphabet (at least until I figured out I could download the additional alphabet to my phone). I love(d) the mundane, intimate perspective I received in each city I visited. Even in my home country, everyday encounters, however mundane and loathsome they can be, carry the potential to surprise me with quiet, intimate reverberations that are absent from grand and flashy places and events.

Getting back to my story,
I found a couple grocery stores online, then descended to the streets to walk to the nearest one. In this way I became really familiar with Greek traffic for the first time. In Athens, I had not wrestled with vehicular traffic very much, partly because, in the vicinity of the Acropolis, a lot of paths are pedestrian only, and as I got further away I simply happened to walk on less-traveled roads. Irakleio was a very different story. Partly due to the small size and concentration of the population, it seemed (even if it probably was not) busier, many roads were narrower, and even on minor lanes there was a chance or risk of meeting a car or motorcycle.

Never before have I paid such complete attention to the roads or felt quite so vulnerable as a pedestrian as I did on Crete. Drivers seem not to see or care about walkers, even if you are at a “controlled” intersection, or even if you are already in the road (more than once I wondered if I would have been struck if I stumbled or paused). Thus every crossing was a moment of exhilaration and daring. I don’t interpret this as malice; it was simply how traffic operates there. It was different, and a bit scary, but I became somewhat used to it in my eight days on the island.

Another thing I got used to, specifically in Irakleio, was garbage. I hesitate to mention the trash situation - first, because I began to worry that I am some kind of weirdo, obsessed with the unsavory aspects of city infrastructure. This is now the third time I have talked about a city’s refuse! In my defense, I am analytical by nature and a bit obsessed with systems and efficiency. I also speculate that my odd life circumstances have fomented this fascination, since I have neither been completely shielded from the messy parts of life (no lap of luxury for me), nor completely buried in them (I’ve enjoyed a fair bit of comfort). I suppose that I am fascinated by the intersection of sacred and profane, if you will; Dionysus and Apollo, beauty and ugliness, cleanliness and messiness. Or, in the words of W.B. Yeats in the poem “Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop”, “Love has pitched his mansion in / The place of excrement.” In other words, one zone of the body simultaneously generates desire, pleasure, and life, but also repulsion and filth.

My second fear in talking about stuff that we typically interpret as negative and unpleasant, like garbage, is that I insult the people and cities that so graciously welcomed me. How would I like it, for instance, if someone stayed in my home and explored all of my favorite spots in my beloved town, but after they left they didn’t mention the food I cooked, or the museums I pointed them to, the great theater or art shows or historical walking tour; no, instead, they just told people about the smell in my bathroom. How would I feel? Professional guidebooks may mention the downsides of places, but the predominantly polish and praise.

Does it help or hurt my case to say that it is just a fact that part of my experience of and affection for Irakleio was its refuse? It is only one of many things, but it is part of the texture, it is part of a memory that is wholly affectionate, just as every place I visited - Roma, Napoli, and everywhere else - enjoys very warm territory in my heart. I love all of the experience, and for whatever reason that discarded boxes and broken bottles stuck out to me, that is now part of what I love. I do not mean that I love garbage; it’s not as if I went wading in it or brought some home with me as a memento. Instead, neglecting to catalog it feels like neglecting to fully embrace places and people that I want to cherish in their entirety.

At this point, I have given far, far more page space to this than I would have if I were not trying to apologize for it, so it will glare even brighter now. Therefore, let’s try to move on and celebrate everything else.

First full day in Irakleio: the Palace of Knossos. In a word, wow. This site is the tip of a veritable iceberg of archaeology in Crete. I regret that the hours I spent there were on a very, very hot morning during which I mainly hurried from shadow to shadow, attempting to evade the malevolent glare of a more intense sun than my pale skin is used to. Therefore I could not fully immerse myself in the wonder of this sprawling palace complex, or the partial restorations of buildings and artworks that provided a unique supplement to what, in many ancient sites, is an effort of imagination. The Minoan kingdom was truly magnificent.

The land is likewise magnificent: like so many vantage points in Crete, the Palace lies in view of a long line of colorful hills. Ramps and stairways descend from the complex, through partly-intact gates, into a scribbled perimeter of cool trees and brush. This was to be the first of many times I caught myself with my mouth hanging open, entranced as I was by the majestic scenery of this island.

Day two: first, a short, morning bus trip to Amnissos Beach. There appear to be debates about what is the best beach in the Irakleio area, but this is just evidence to me of a classic case of “embarrassment of riches.” For two Euro, I settled myself in a comfortable beach chair under a broad umbrella and beside a tall, flapping banner (bonus insulation against the sun, my ally and my enemy). After a couple of hours, I moved to a broad, open air veranda that was playing soothing techno music and which served juice and food. I enjoyed some kebab, let the Aegean Sea entrance me, and watched my fellow beach-dwellers enjoy the sun, sand and water. Was it bittersweet to be so close to the water and not in it? Yes. Someday I will find a sunblock that does not give me a rash.

That afternoon, I returned to the city center and went to the Archaeological Museum. Did I mention the staggering amount of history that has been, and continues to be, unearthed in Crete? Wonder after wonder revealed itself here. Many of the artifacts and original frescoes from the Palace of Knossos are preserved here, as are findings from a number of civilizations that settled on Crete, such as the Myceneans which followed the Minoans, and dating back as far as 6000 BC. The sophistication and scale (both large and small) of the tools, pottery, and artworks impressed upon me just how talented and capable humans were so long ago. I confess there has been a bit too much of the “earlier means dumber” bias in my historical thinking that was revealed, and hopefully healed, by what I observed here. Where on earth does this misconception come from, I thought then and now, as I gaze in wonder (standing before it again in my memory) at a precisely-formed, golden sculpture of a fly that is only a quarter of an inch across, or at intricately carved seals used to identify craftsmanship, or painstakingly decorated pots and immense paintings? What dumb ignorance, to diminish and disrespect our ancestors so.

At twilight, I belatedly followed my host’s previous-day advice and visited a small, local restaurant. Its name was Kagiampis, and it was the epitome of the hole-in-the-wall. It had only a handful of tables inside and a few more on the sidewalk. Every inch of its walls was covered in photographs of figures I am sure have significance and which I am sure it would be rewarding to learn about. Slow, intense rock music was playing on the stereo while two cooks and one server furnished the food as well as a relaxed, friendly atmosphere. I took a table outdoors and settled in to relish the slight cooler evening air and the rainbow of colors that slowly faded into the darkening stacks of two and three-story buildings that surrounded me. As I ate tasty, seasoned pork medallions and a big, delicious bowl of pale beans in artichoke paste, I watched a rooftop civilization of feral cats across the street perform their own, inscrutable tasks. There were little ones and adults, from four to six at a time, stalking along gutters, inspecting one another, fighting and making up, and occasionally leaping up and down to the street by way of a conveniently- placed car (and how on earth they would get up to their tall city if the car was not parked there, I do not know). To finish my dinner, my server provided me with a complimentary, digestive drink (very, very strong liquor that I managed to down two shots of) and a sort of caramelized sauce with cherry and banana pieces, served in a tiny dish with a tinier spoon. Every bit of it was delicious!

My evening ended in embarrassment and grace, as I tried to pay my bill with a 50 Euro note. The looks on their faces instantly told me the story. Mortified, I apologized and promised I could give them part of the payment then and return with the rest the following day. They asked what change I did have - I assembled every other coin and dollar in my pockets, which added up to about 7.50, or about 4 dollars short of the total charge. “This is good enough,” one of the cooks said, and all of them smiled at me. I apologized again, and thanked them profusely for their generosity and the amazing food (the next day, I would consider returning but ultimately decided against it because I feared this might offend their hospitality).

My last full day in Irakleio: Following another of my host’s great suggestions, I climbed to the top of the ancient walls of the city and walked a good bit of their length, enjoying sprawling views of the town both in and beyond the walls, as well as the many treats to be found upon them. Among these discoveries were a garden area with the Tomb of Kazantzakis, the famous Greek author, a broad, overgrown area populated by wheat or some type of grain, a small grove of trees, and a large, paved square that seemed to be a recreational area.

As the sun rose higher, I descended once more into the city, this time to visit Irakleio’s history museum. This was another profound experience, where I was impressed again by the deep, rich, tumultuous history of Mediterranean civilization. Here I learned more about the walls - an inescapable feature of the city - which evolved and expanded, a bit like tree rings, as history and competing empires washed through Crete and as the city itself grew. In the museum I met an American-Polish woman who was on vacation with her husband, and we had a lovely conversation near an ancient wall-mounted fountain, that had been enhanced with some sort of sensor so that the entire time we stood near it, water tinkled from tier to mossy tier down the wall.

Among the final exhibits I saw were a complete recreation of Nikos Kazantzakis’s personal study (he willed the entire contents to the museum with the request that they recreate it as such). This installation moved me greatly, and I cannot explain why. I don’t believe I have ever seen a writer honored in this way, but more than that, this glimpse into what was once a hallowed, generative space of imagination operated like a wordless incantation that inflamed my desire to find a permanent place among the ranks of word-makers.

At last, there was a wartime exhibit with a particular focus on Crete’s World War II experiences. It is good and terrible to remember the terrible we are capable of. May we redouble our efforts in service of the good.

Well, I have carried on for quite a while - this is what happens when one does not faithfully journal during the trip. One plays a lot of catch-up. To be continued, with more reflections on my time in Siteia, Vai, and Rethimno. See you next time!