Crete in full-er, Part II - Siteia, Vai, Rethimno

When I arrived by bus in Siteia from Irakleio, it was mid-afternoon. The day was Sunday, the heat daunting. I hoisted my main bag onto my back, grabbed the day pack in one hand and in the other, a weighty bag of dry foods I’d bought in the last town. My hopes that being closer to the sea would mitigate the heat evaporated as I trudged a half-mile from the bus station down a broad, shadeless sidewalk (past the closed grocery store - no fresh produce today!) and then turned to follow a highway along the coast for another 1.5 miles.

The walk offered beauty and a grueling test of my endurance at the same time. On one side, and about ten feet below the sea wall: brilliant, blue sea, lazy bathers, and waves foaming and receding from the bright, rocky toes of a beach. On the other side: a two-lane highway, oppressive heat, fast Greek traffic (about which I had perpetual, very low-level nervousness) and armies of cicadas forever reminding me, “it is hooooooooootttttttt.”

This 30 minute walk dilated to about 8 hours, measured in physical labor. My bottled water quickly dwindled, my body ached from about 40 extra pounds of freight and beneath my pushed-up shirt sleeves and pants I swam in sweat. I started to get a headache and feared heat exhaustion. I cursed myself for not getting a hotel in the city center. What was another 50 or so Euros a night compared against dying out on the road from heat stroke? What if I turned around now, went back and got that expensive hotel room even though I was also still paying for the first hotel? It would be worth it, wouldn’t it?

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,

Regret, Nostalgia, Present Purpose: before I talk about Crete, lets talk about talking about Crete

I’ve hidden from this blog for almost two weeks. I returned to the States almost a month ago. More than three months ago, I lost my job. For the better part of the last ten years (or maybe longer) I have paced the perimeter of a rectangular, American yard bounded in barb wire that stretches between the standard posts of job, belly, bed, and discontentment. Upon this wire and wood I dependably rub my life raw.

A couple of days ago, I reflected on my toxic engagement with my past, future, and present. From each point in time and space, experiences fall behind me, loom before me, and coincide with me. Past and future are easy (if dangerous): small, potent fictions I manufacture and abuse with simple thoughts and gestures, easy to destroy and in the creative destruction of which to be mutated or blown apart, but how do I engage the invisible and enormous present with its endless power and obscure intent? How do I grapple with an imperceptible, unavoidable proto-thing that my feet step in and upon and which also steps in and upon me? How do I speak this brand new language always being born in my ears and on my lips, read words that are written for the first time every time? How do I touch or let go of a thing in our mutual moment of immediacy and formlessness?