Ten Days in Crete

20 July 2012
Friday—Marathi, Akrotiri, Crete

Our brief time in northern Evia—four nights and four full
days—passed far too quickly. We were the guests of a friend that Jonathan has
known since 1980 (for whom he later worked as a publisher’s assistant) when as
a student of classics in Athens he answered the call for a position as a summer
gardener/waterer on a fertile, pine-clad valley that spills down to the Gulf of
Evia, just south of the large village of Limni. We were left to our own languid
pace, sleeping in (but never long enough for the children), staying up late by
kerosene lantern, swimming and strolling during the days.

Jonathan and Manny were comfortably housed in the stone kelli, the residence of the visiting
cleric who performs the Divine Liturgy at the small Orthodox chapel that sits beside it. Both buildings
are nestled in a fold of the valley, surrounded by stately pine trees, olive
and citrus groves, and splendidly maintained gardens. Little has changed in the
nearly thirty-three years since Jonathan first arrived as a twenty-year-old
American living abroad. While there he mused about how this special place
became his inspiration for a different way of life—which came to fruition eight
years later in eastern Maine: a house in the woods, walking distance from the
ocean, with the natural world at arm’s length, the homesteading arts a focal
point of life, and the pretense of self-sufficiency in God’s abundant garden.

Meanwhile, Ann and
the girls resided in the guest annex of our friend’s stone house, higher up in
the valley and with a stunning picture of the ocean at arm’s length. We joined
them on the upper veranda for meals by lamplight--the lamps not lit until 9:30
p.m. owing to the long, pastel hues on the western horizon.

In addition to our time on the beach, Jonathan’s morning
runs, a family walk to the village of Limni, Manny’s evening fishing outing
with Gabriel (an English boy living in town)—we enjoyed several other
highlights. One was our visit to the nunnery at the end of the gravel track,
heading south along the coast from Limni. Ayia Nikolaou Galataki hangs on the
lower reaches of Mount Kandili (elev.: 4000 feet) with a commanding view of the
Gulf of Evia. This Orthodox monastery, built circa 1100 ad, rests on the site of an ancient temple to Poseidon,
whose original columns were incorporated into the Christian basilica. The
original frescoes depicting the life of Christ and various saints, many of
which were defaced by the Germans and Communists during the Second World War,
reach from walls and onto the several domes, from which the Christ Pantocrator
looks down upon humanity.

The nuns remembered Jonathan’s earlier visits, over the many
years, and recognized his friendship with our family’s English host. We were
given a tour of the monastery grounds, within the secure walls, and treated to loukoumia (aka “Turkish delight”) and
shared the story of our lives in America. The nuns would not let us pay for
various religious items—kamboskini (prayer
beads), icons, incense, and the like.

Another memorable excursion during our stay in Evia was a
trip aboard our friends Jane and Nikos’s speedboat. Although the bourina (a short-lived but intense
southerly gale) was blowing, Jane’s son John agreed to pilot the boat close to shore as far as the valley near
Mount Kandili. Eight of us set off at around 8 p.m., encountering some intense
winds along the way. John, who is studying to become an airplane pilot, did a
first-rate job ensuring a safe journey.

When we returned, in the last light of day, we all met for a
planned picnic on the beach. Everyone contributed something—dips, spreads,
bread, olives, wine. We spread thick blankets on the stone beach. Some lively
eating, drinking, and laughter ensued—until well past 1 a.m.

The following morning we enjoyed a last swim, hike, and
lunch, then gathered our things for the ride to Limni, where we caught the 2:30
bus for Athens (a four-hour ride). Entering Athens after nearly a month in
Greece’s rural bucolic is like entering Dante’s Inferno: insufferably hot,
grimey, and rife with desperation. Thanasi, our dear friend and koumbaros, met us at the Kato Patission
metro station in Athens. (Koumbaros,
in this sense, means “best man”—from our 1992 wedding; the other sense would be
the godfather to one of our children; in either sense koumbaroi (the plural) form
a special spiritual relationship that joins families for life and even for
generations to come.

We were so grateful for the meeting: Thanassi was able to
take several of our “spillover” bags (mostly items we should never have
brought—warm clothes, rain gear, those pesky swim suits) and the sundry things
we have acquired along the way, freeing us to be a bit more “light.” Also,
critically, he brought our tickets for the overnight ferry to Crete.

Working our way to Athens’ port of Pireaus, we boarded the
400-plus-foot S/V Elyros and sailed at 9 p.m. The five of us shared a
four-berth cabin, spent a good part of the journey exploring this massive
vessel, before and after enjoying a wonderful meal in the ship’s cafeteria—with
all the Cretan trimmings.

Kriti—Crete

Jonathan’s paternal family hails from western Crete, an
island he first visited as an archaeology/classics student in 1980. Greece’s
largest island and among its most southerly (a mere 150+ nautical miles from
Egypt), Crete has been a crossroads for 5,000 years and was home to Europe’s
oldest civilization, the Minoans. Occupied by the Ottoman Turks for more than
350 years, bravely fighting the Nazis in World War II, enduring a brutal
occupation from 1941 to 1945, the island has emerged as a major force in Greek
culture, politics, agriculture…and tourism.

Cretans consider themselves…Cretan. Yes, we are Greeks, but
we are a people apart—a fact recognized by Cretans and Greeks alike. Saying
that you are “Cretan” results in appreciative nods and an altogether different
kind of respect. Justifiably famous for both their unlimited hospitality and
zest for life (a traditional Cretan wedding celebration can last five or six
days), Cretans are not taken lightly: ferociously independent, expert knife
wielders, consummate outdoorsman. Cretans, at least in the deepest tradition,
either love you and will gladly lay down their lives for you…or they will
quickly dispatch you, as though you were a goat for the table. The Germans, who
suffered terrible defeats in 1941 (and, conversely, exacted brutal revenge)
learned all of his in 1940, during the Battle of Crete—where tiny Crete and its
British allies (English, New Zealanders, and Australians) “fought the good fight”
and nearly prevailed against all odds.

Crete is a place steeped in thousands of years of history,
beginning in Neolithic times and extending to the present moment. Here, history
lives in the present.

Day One

Our ferry arrived in Suda Bay at 5 a.m. and we were met by
cheerful relatives, Katerina and Yioryios. We had the good fortune of being
given keys to a villa owned by Jonathan’s father’s first cousins, and were
shown the basics of our new abode. We were also given the “basics” of Cretan
life, all produced by Katerina’s father and primary elements of their filoxenia (hospitality): a two-liter
bottle of wine, a one-liter bottle of raki,
a package of olives, and a bottle of olive oil. Raki is the beverage that separate the shephards from the sheep,
the boys from the men, the Greeks from the Cretans. A distillation of the
skins, pits, and detritus of the wine-making process, this industrial-strength
floor cleaner (masquerading as a beverage) sanitizes the consumer from the top
to bottom. It is highly a volatile clear
liquid that was described to Jonathan as a form of “medicine.” Presumably not
to be left in the sun or shaken too violently.

The view from the
villa’s veranda is like none other in the world. Looking down on the vast,
azure expanse of Suda Bay, with a snow-capped eight-thousand-foot range as a
backdrop, the property is a fenced island to a multitude of goats, a sea of
olive trees, and is a veritable visual feast.

Our hosts led us to the house and left us to settle in. We
drove to Hania, the region’s capital city, and walked the warren of medieval
streets, reconnoitering the many shops and restaurants for future reference. At
midday, we swam in Marathi, on Suda Bay, then retired for siestas. In the
evening we were invited to a nearby panayiri
(a celebration of a saint’s holiday, in this case the Prophet Elias
(Elisha)) in the village of Kounoupidia.

Hundreds of celebrants sat at long tables listening to a
stellar trio that played lira (a
violin-like instrument that is supported on the knee), a louta (a larger, older, and more resonant cousin to the bouzouki),
and an electric keyboard. The group provided the music for the dance company,
all wearing traditional dress, that perfomed on a patio around the tables. The
male dancers, dressed in the traditional Cretan britches, high black boots, and
festooned with the black mandili (netted
headscarf) performed pyrogenic jumps and leaps, never missing a beat.

The audience warmed up with plates of cheese, olives, xortopites (wild greens and cheese
pies), and large jugs of sweet wine. The servers then brought plates of roasted
lamb, baskets of bread, and rice pilaf. The feast continued until well after we
left (2 a.m.), just around the time that bottles of frozen raki were delivered to the tables along with platters of cut
watermelon.

Somehow we negotiated our way back in the darkness to our
house.

In the morning, after a few hours of sleep, we set off over
the mountains that form a ribbon through the center of the island, following
new roads that cross mountain passes (rising to over 8000 feet) and gorges,
ending in Souyia on the Libyan Sea. From
there there is nothing but open ocean to North Africa (Egypt and Libya lay due
south). It was a long drive “just” for a swim but was well worth the effort,
even for those in the back seat. The little settlement of Souyia, with its
pebble beach, is a great draw for hikers and trekkers, mostly from Germany and
Austria. From Souyia there are a number of spectacular hikes—toward the plain
of Omalos, east toward Paleohora, or down the Irini Gorge. Swimming in one’s
birthday suit is the norm at Souyia, although a solid base tan is strongly
advised.

In defiance of the legal driving age (not to mention the
caveats of the rental company, where 23 years is the minimum age), Jonathan let
Manny drive our sporty five-speed back to Hania—and even managed to doze while
Manny drove.

--------------------

Settling In

We explored the old harbor of Hania, with its multitude of
shops and its labyrinth of Venetian streets and architectural wonders, during
our first days here. Among other stops, we checked in at the old public market,
to visit the family Comatsoulakis family’s cheese shop. Now run by Spyros, the
son-in-law of Jonathan’s recently departed Uncle Kosta, this family business
has been in operation for nearly one hundred years. Spyros is married to Eri,
Jonathan’s second cousin.

A brief word on the Comatoulakis family, who are the branch
of Jonathan’s maternal grandmother’s family. Jonathan’s grandmother was one of
16 children. Her father, circa 1840, fell in love with a girl from a nearby
village and asked her father for the girl’s hand in marriage. Having been
refused, he vowed to never marry—a vow that lasted all of twenty years, when he
married his true’s love’s daughter. Jonathan’s great-grandfather Emmanuel
(Manoli) was by then in his early 40s; his bride, Anna, was all of 16 or 17.
The union resulted in the aforementioned 16 children, progeny that guaranteed a
multitude of second cousins and other family through marriage. (On the
paternal—Aretakis—side a mere 12 children were produced, one of whom was
Jonathan’s grandfather.) In short, Jonathan and his children have a broad
constellation of relatives, both here in western Crete and in the United
States. Fourteen of the sixteen children emigrated to the United States, many
returning to Crete with their families throughout the early twentieth century.

Jonathan’s second cousin Eri and her brother Yioryio are but
two of these cousins. We were invited for dinner at their mother’s house last
night. The evening was spent eating, drinking, and recalibrating all of the
family ties—so that our children (Manny—who is named after the family
progenitor—Lucia, and Evyenia) can begin to scratch the surface of this large
family tree.

Our children’s third cousin, Konstantino, who is the same
age as Manny, endured the typical father-son dialetic regarding his planned
night out with friend’s on the Hania waterfront. His father Spyro warned
sternly, “you must be home by 3 a.m, no later”—disappointed by the imposed
early curfew, Konstantino offered to bring along Manny and Lucia…but his curfew
is not our curfew.

Monasteries on
Akrotiri

Akrotiri is the large, fertile peninsula just outside of
Hania that forms Suda Bay, site of a NATO base and a place of enormous
historical signifance—from the Minoan period, four thousand years ago, right
through the twentieth century. The naval portion of the Battle of Crete, in
which a combined force of Cretans, Greeks, British, Australian, and New Zealand
troops fought a desperate, pitched battle against the Nazi onslaught in May
1941. The suffering and devastation of
that recent history is found everywhere—most of all in the heart and spirit of
Cretans.

Akrotiri is also the home of a dozen monasteries and
nunneries (Evyenia declared the former as “monkeries”), including the one in
which Jonathan’s grandmother Evanthia Comatsoulakis was once a novice—plucked
from her calling and send to America, sight unseen, to become the mail-order
wife of Andoni Aretakis.

Yesterday we visited Agia Triada, an enormous monastic
complex that was formed by two brothers in 1606. Today just six monks are
holding down the fort, as it were, but the monastery is assisted a loyal cadre
of agriculturalists and is justifiably famous for its hundreds of stremata of organic olive groves, grape
arbors, and gardens. Their olive oil regularly wins international
competitions and they are famous for
producing “organic” raki—the
aforementioned industrial strength floor cleaner masquerading as volatile
spirit. Their raki is offered to
visitors…in order to “put them in the spirit,” as it were.

Brother Maximos was an enthusiastic host, showing us the
monasteries many treasures—including icons dating to the twelfth century,
illustrated liturgies and Bibles, masterpieces of carved wooden altar pieces,
and ancient silk vestments. The brother was impressed with the extent of
Jonathan’s Greek-speaking skills and encouraged him to impart this to his own
children, who are fourth generation Cretan Americans. He said: “You can loose
your wallet; your home can crumble; but you can never lose the language of your
forebears. Greek is one of the three oldest languages in the world [the other
two: Chinese and Hindi] and the ability to speak and read a language of such
power and wealth is the greatest gift you can give you children.” It was an
admonition taken to heart.

We then visited an equally old monastic center known as the
Monastery of Gouvernetiou, a few kilometers away from an isolated gorge.
Although the monastery itself was closed for the day, we hiked through the
grounds and vowed to return early the next day.

And return we did, at 8 a.m., after a scant five hours of
sleep. (Our meal with the Comatsoulakis family broke off at 2 a.m. that
morning—with a final plate of watermelon and a few more glasses of raki). With sturdy shoes and daypacks
with swimsuits and extra drinking water, we set off for a one-hour hike to
visit the caves that lie in the gorge that descends to the ocean. Words can
hardly describe the remote beauty of this place.

Lacking powerful headlamps, we used Manny’s i-Phone light to
descend deep into vast caves, places of Orthodox worship that had been occupied
since Neolithic times. Huge vaults with stalagtites and stalactites, an
environment thirty degrees cooler than the outside world, a subterranean world
of fascinating beauty—we were in total awe.

We arrived at another, now abandoned, monastery—the victim,
we were later told, of pirate attacks in the nineteenth century—and the narrow
cove that provided an unlikely, invisible, harbor facing the Cretan Sea to
north. With no one else anywhere in the vicinity, we swam in incredibly crystal
clear water.

After siesta (the temperature at 3 p.m. approached 106 F.
with almost no humidity: broiling in the sun, cool and pleasant in the shade)
we joined up again for another night with the Comatsoulakis family, this time
in the port of Suda. Another late night (2 a.m.), with plans to rise early (6
a.m.) and beat the heat, driving over the mountains to Paleokastro on the south
coast, for another day on the Libyan Sea.