Temenos: July 2009

22 May to 15 June

A Retrospective

Several friends and family members commented that "Temenos," our family sabbatical blog, fell eerily silent shortly after Ann and the girls returned to the States on May 11th, about five weeks earlier than originally planned. Jonathan’s mother was diagnosed with an aggressive myeloma shortly after the five of us arrived in Greece in mid-February. Although she remains a very independent eighty-something, mom’s treatment regime would necessitate a steady house companion. Jonathan’s siblings took turns during the early stages, and were then followed by Ann’s mother for nearly a month. For her part, Joan is now on the fast track for canonization.

Ann and the girls offered to fill in a large gap as caregivers (for about five weeks) until Jonathan and Manny’s early return in mid-June, four months after they flew out of New York City—but about two months sooner than they had planned to return.

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

Soon after bidding their goodbyes to mother/sisters and wife/daughters at Athens’ Eleftherios Venizelos Airport, Manny and Jonathan set off on a dizzying tour of Greece—a month-long vagabond trajectory that began in Athens, skipped south to the Saronic Gulf, veered back north to Athens, ricocheted further south across the open ocean to Crete, then north yet again to the island of Evia—with a final frenzied retracing of their footsteps back to the southern Peloponnese, where it all began for our family in early February. Common sense required leaving the laptop behind, the boys’ perambulations across Greece made all the more easy with light backpacks, complete with the two-boy tent, sleeping bags, minimal clothing, and a small pocketful of euros.

Manny and Jonathan’s final month of travel is now reconstructed from the more predictable world of Connecticut’s leafy suburbs—where is it too many degrees cooler than the glimmering eastern Mediterranean, wetter, decidedly darker, and (if the truth be told) slightly less romantic.

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

The boys returned to Pireaus, the busy port of oversized Athens, following a relaxing five-day stay on the Saronic island of Spetses, birthplace of Jonathan’s maternal grandmother. They left Spetses aboard the Friday morning hydrofoil, which allowed a brief detour to nearby Hydra island. While Spetses is, in theory, devoid of vehicular traffic (exceptions being made for the police, a pair of taxis, and a handful of billionaires), Hydra’s car-less-ness is actual. The boys parked their rucksacks at an accommodating harborside cafeneion and set about Hydra’s alleys and side streets for several hours before catching the afternoon hydrofoil back to Pireaus.

The Baptism

Father and son settled into the Erechtheion Hotel, located in Theseion on the northeast slope of the Acropolis, for a two-night stay—compliments of their friends Aki and Mania. The Parthenon was clearly framed at the end of their balcony, seemingly close enough to touch—near enough for the benefit of their furtive, classical imaginations to run wild but just beyond the reach of the incessant tourist blather, the tour buses, and the kitschy paraphernalia.

Their reason for returning to Athens—one needs a really good reason for spending time in a city that an old friend and lifelong resident describes as the “Nairobi of the North”—was the much-anticipated baptism of Lydia Maria, the angelic daughter of our dear friends Akis and Mania. On Saturday the boys traveled with our friends Thanasi and Koula and their daughter Dionysia to the seaside resort of Voula to witness the joy of this Orthodox Christian sacrament.

The baptism, held at the tidy white-washed chapel dedicated Ayios Georgios, was attended by many of the parents’ friends and family members. Lydia Maria, for her part, was as brave as any one-year-old could be given the circumstances: fully immersed in the baptismal font, slathered with olive oil, feted, photographed, and loved by so many fawning admirers.

Later in the evening they joined Akis and Mania and a collection of the parents' friends and family for an elegant dinner back in Athens—at the Zappeion, within the Athens National Gardens, with a birds-eye view of the north slope of the Acropolis, where the marble of the ancient citadel is illuminated to a supernatural iridescence on summer evenings.

By the time Manny and Jonathan returned to the hotel, it was nearly 2 a.m.—a relatively early summer night by Greek standards.

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

On Sunday morning, while Manny was sleeping, Jonathan set off for a run around the east side of the Acropolis on Dionsyiou Areopagitou—which he remembered fondly as a seedy hangout during the late 1970s, but today is a spiffy pedestrian walkway in the shadow of the new Acropolis Museum—and then he veered off to the Pnyx Hill, another of those rare verdant oases amid the concrete edifice that defines Athens. Among other notable sites on this lonely stretch of wooded hillside is the (so-called) Socrates’ Prison, the remnants of Roman-era aqueducts, and sections of the post–Hellenistic era city walls, still traceable through the thicket of pine trees and cactus.

While these lovely walls may have once temporarily checked the fourth century’s Gothic invaders they have done little to corral the capital city’s wild dogs in our present era. Jonathan came upon six or eight (he didn’t expend much energy counting) very aggressive, feral beasts: they snarled and lunged at him from three directions and proved quite intimidating. The cornered harrier took off his shirt and began waving it all around, screaming bloody murder (among other phrases) hoping to draw the attention of several languid police officers who were smoking nonchalantly in the distance. (Like many of their American counterparts, they are a totally unengaged, donut-gobbling collection of uncivil servants counting their days toward retirement.) The standoff continued for several minutes, Jonathan flailing his shirt, yelling out, kicking gravel, and doing all he could to preserve his left flank and ultimate retreat. It was an unnerving experience and would be his last run into Athens’ green margins without the benefit of a large rock in each hand.

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

Jonathan and Manny checked out of the hotel at noon and spent most of the afternoon with Thanasi and Koula in their neighborhood, Kaisariani, located at the foot of Mount Hymettus. The overnight ferry to Hania, Crete, was not scheduled to leave Pireaus until 9 p.m., and spending an entire afternoon on the streets of Athens in the summer is the purview of masochists and tourists: if the traffic and pollution doesn’t kill you, the extreme heat of afternoon will. The two opted for the civilized alternative: a social visit with great friends and then a nap under the awning.

Ferry to Crete

Once the sun slanted sufficiently, the two worked their way to Pireaus—in atypically Athenian form: by foot, by bus, by Metro, and finally on the “electric train”—arriving with plenty of time to spare, boarding the good ship “Lato” as the setting sun angled on the concrete jungle of Athens, turning the now-distant cityscape into a long, soft pastel of blue, red, and orange—an incongruous kind of beauty only made possible by the aura of Mediterranean sunlight.

The “Lato,” a five-story car ferry that has clearly seen better days, would be their home for the next eight hours—a more than 100-mile steam across the open Sea of Crete.

Manny and Jonathan used the dying light to reconnoiter the ship—vying with “fellow” Cretans and the ever-present gypsy (Roma) families to claim a piece of “ground,” park their sleeping bags, and pass the time…from bow to stern and between the decks.

Crete on the Horizon

Let a Cretan have the first word on Crete, ancestral home of the Aretakis family:

“Crete’s mystery is extremely deep. Whoever sets foot on this island senses a mysterious, warm, nave force branching through his veins, and his soul begins to grow.”
Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco

Hania

The ship arrived in Suda Bay, on the northwest coast of Crete, before the first rays of dawn. Having by now grown accustomed to a scant four or five hours of sleep per night, the boys were primed for their arrival—with several Nescafes serving to cement their early-morning resolve.

They were met at the limani (port) by Jonathan’s “uncle” Kosta, his father’s first cousin. Although the cousins, who had spent lifetimes separated by great oceans, had in fact never met, the two had always spoken lovingly of each other over the years. The now-famous photo of Jonathan’s father George and his five brothers in U.S. military uniforms, circa 1944, graces refridgerators around the globe: the six Aretakis “boys” are forever twenty-something palikari (brave young men), the natural continuation of the Cretan line of guerilla fighters, “battling Turks since 1669.”

A retired cheese merchant and one of more than seventy first-cousins on the Comatsoulakis side, Kosta is the paradigm of Cretan hospitality—kind, generous, gregarious, opinionated, and totally selfless to a fault. Kosta insisted, at 6 a.m., that they stop in Hania town for a Cretan specialty, bougatsa, a sheep-cream-filled, sugar-coated breakfast food especially designed to engender heart disease. The little shop served bougatsa and nothing else—not even coffee, sadly. This wondrously fatty comfort food is cut from a larger piece, weighed on a relic of a scale, and served with ice cold water. Yumm!

Kosta’s father and Jonathan’s father’s mother were siblings—a fact that necessitates a slight narrative deviation into the realm of family history.

The Patriarch

Jonathan’s great-grandfather, a shepherd named Manoli Comatsoulakis, was born in the early 1840s in Ottoman-occupied Crete, in the region known as Sphakia. Even today it remains a remote hinterland and a place of stark beauty for the first-time visitor, located where the mountains tumble down to the ocean, on the gloriously cobalt Sea of Libya. As a young man, Manoli fell in love with a girl from a distant village. As was the custom, he proceeded to ask the girl’s father for her hand in marriage, and was told—so the story goes—to “go away: you’re from the wrong village, and our people don’t cavort with your people!” Manoli vowed that if he could not marry his true love, then he would never marry. End of story. But not quite….

Twenty-plus years later he married the daughter of his first true love: Manoli was forty-four, Anna was fourteen (a good age spread even by Cretan standards). By all accounts, the marriage was a happy one, producing sixteen children and countless grandchildren (of which Jonathan’s grandfather and uncle Kosta were just two). Both Manoli and Anna lived into their mid-nineties, having endured the humiliation of the Turkish yoke (their house was twice razed in the late 1800s by the Turks during their periodic genocidal forays beyond the walls of Hania), the poverty of consequent serfdom, repeated violent, bloody revolutions, and finally the joy of liberation and independence (in 1898). We share, later in this narrative, a lovely picture (c. 1905) of an old man surrounded by a younger woman and a multitude of children—at the entrance of their one-room stone house, a compound that still stands today. At the end of their Cretan tour, Jonathan’s son Manny (Manoli) was photographed in the same doorway.

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

Hania, Crete

Kosta and his wife Rena would be generous hosts during the boys’ first three days in Hania. The site of ancient Kydonia, Hania (or Chania) is considered by many the spiritual capital of Crete. A picturesque city built within the walls of the medieval Venetian castle, the place remains steeped in three thousand years of Cretan history—within the stone bastions one can find remnants of Europe’s earliest civilization, the Minoan (c. 2500 bce ff.), followed chronologically by the classical age, the Roman period; and from the early Middle Ages, the Venetian period, with a architectural, artistic, and cultural splendor that lasted until 1667; followed, chronologically, by the scattered evidence (minarets, mosques, fortifications, etc.) of the two-hundred-year darkness that typified the brutal, murderous Ottoman stranglehold of Crete; and, in our era, the clear scars of the barbaric German Occupation of 1941–1945. Needless to say, amid all of this suffering history, Hania has survived, often thrived, and today showcases all that is wondrous, unique, and rich about Crete—Greece’s largest island, a place teeming with superlatives.

In their short time in Hania, Jonathan and Manny were fed copious quantities of food, entertained, befriended, and loved unconditionally—not only by friends and family, but by total strangers. This became the pattern during their stay in western Crete.

Using Hania as a base for excursions, they took several notable day trips. The boys rented a car twice in order to explore western Crete, a circuit that features some of the most treacherously scenic roads in all of Europe—and a coastline that is second to none.

Falarsana

When the discussion turns to beaches and coastline, and the guide books mention the “finest beaches in the entire Mediterranean,” two Cretan beaches often top the list: Falarsana and Elafonisi. Both are located in western Crete, home to some of the island’s loneliest and least-explored coastlines. Although both places have been long “discovered,” early June is still a quiet time and the effort in reaching them is well rewarded.

Many of us have our favorite beaches in the Mediterranean—but what sets these places apart is the unparalleled quality, particularly the curious color, of the water and sand. Falarsana, on the western tip of Crete, on the base of a rugged, largely inaccessible peninsula, is approached by an impossible circuit of cliffside hairpin turns that descend from a barren mountain range—and when the blessed beach finally comes into view, a five-mile stretch of golden sand greets the visitor.

No more than a smattering of buildings, most of them large plastic greenhouses (thermokipia), predominate. The cliffsides are pock-marked with cliffs and rock outcroppings; it is a veritable rock climber’s Eden complete with a multitude of hidden hazards.

Falarsana is located to the west of Kastelli (Kissamos). The ancient city of Falarsana dozes beyond the main strip of beach. Manny and Jonathan explored the ruins of the ancient city before swimming, climbing a steep cliffside in order to gain a better vantage. Amid this barren landscape Jonathan was drawn to an especially large cave—a few steps inside the cave and the boys were surprised by a large-horned wild goat with unresolved psychological issues concerning “territoriality.”

Their reactions, luckily, were spot-on: the boys dove for cover behind a warren of house-sized boulders and quickly made their retreat to the beach proper. A place with tanned skins and cool drinks seemed like the better alternative. As far they were concerned, they could skin that goat and eat it too.

Elafonisi

According to the map, the ride to Elafonisi, on the extreme southwestern coast, looked doable with the six hours of daylight remaining. They had been warned about the roads in this corner of Crete, but forged on—leaving Falarsana to the north and climbing a range of naked cliffs, the road winding left and right, right then left, ad nauseum. With each passing kilometer the road width diminished. Within an hour of setting off from Falarsana, every approaching corner necessitated a steady lean on the "mighty" Fiat’s horn—indeed a truly diminutive rental car with an oversized horn. In several places entire sections of road had fallen away into the sea—six or seven hundred feet below—leaving a mere five or six feet of rubble-strewn road to navigate. On other corners, the intrepid beach-goers were occassionally greeted by scores of wild goats or sheep.

They were clearly running the capricornian gauntlet in a netherland of rock and sea. But even worse were the encounters with other approaching vehicles. With no room to maneuver, and nary a guardrail, both vehicles would come to a screeching halt—often inches apart—horns blaring, drivers gesticulating. Then a friendly wave: yeia sou file, kali meri (“hello mate, good day!”)

This vertiginous circuit continued for about two hours—past Sfinari (high on a cliffside and somehow famous for its…fish?) and then Ano Sfinari (that’s “upper” Sfinari!, even higher) and finally they stopped rather spontaneously at a cliffside watering hole—in lieu of being run down by the sheep-milk truck, which tail-gated them for the better part of an hour--in a place called Amigthalakefali (“almond head”). The proprietor treated us to large glasses of industrial-strength floor cleaner masquerading as a beverage (called tsikoudia in Crete; the version in the southern Peloponnese, called tsipoura, could not fuel a fighter jet as effectively)—a welcome and convenient confidence builder for the coming descent to Elafonisi, which was even more treacherous.

More by instinct than prior knowledge, Manny habituated himself to a kind of spontaneous wailing while approaching various blind corners--“SLOWWWWW DOWNNNNN!, we’re going to die!!!”--and in almost every instance he was right on: the dynamic duo would be met by a racing tractor or a reversing backhoe or a herd of goats or a landslide on the blind side of the corner. For his navigational skills Emmanuel Giovanni was awarded the Cretan “bronzed” star… by his bronzed father.

It would be a bold lie to say that they found Elafonisi “deserted”—but compared to a July or August day, or a weekend, the place was relatively quiet. A long lagoon connects to an island, and the entire area is one of the EU’s “Natura 2000” sites.

It is a remarkably beautiful place: the water color is a bluish-green, the sand a stunning pink, the dunes themselves home to several endangered species of flora, including magnificent cacti, otherworldly wildflowers, and a uniquely Cretan fauna: naked Scandinavians. Jonathan retreated to compare tans lines (his and theirs) while Manny set off with his camera—apparently focusing solely on the flora.

Cave at Trikalaria

Setting off from Elafonisi, ever cognizant of the need to be off these mountain roads after sunset, Jonathan and Manny made good time heading back north toward Hania, following the only road over the spine of mountains that separate north and south—a serpentine stretch of macadam that brings new surprises at every bend.

Before climbing out of Elafonisi, they stopped at a shoreside Orthodox monastery called Khryssoskalitissa, another of the evacuation points for Allied troops heading to Egypt by ship, after the fall of Crete in May 1941. It was easy to imagine the horrors witnessed on this still barren, exposed ridge sixty-eight years earlier: after a perilous ten-day retreat through the mountains of western Crete, the exhausted and hungry Allied troops (Greek, English, Australian, and New Zealand) were constantly strafed by German aircraft, knowing full well that legions of German storm troops were pursuing them relentlessly through the same narrow passes. There was the incessant heat and the uncertainty surrounding the evacuation of so many thousands from an inaccessible, rocky coast. Defeat, disaster, and suffering are written along the ridges, caves, and open fields. The good monks of Khryssoskalitissa, the brothers of the brothers who would give cold water to Jonathan and Manny that June afternoon, offered the same kindness a generation ago—sometimes at a terrible cost to their well-being.

Quite by accident, while negotiating the perilous stretch of road north, Manny and Jonathan stumbled across a massive cave that clung to a hillside above the road, in a village called Trikalaria. Not just any cave, this was an early Neolithic site and also a Christian shrine, Ayia Sofia. The boys parked and walked up a staircase cut into the rocks, entered the cave, lit candles in the sanctuary and—once again regretting that they had left their flashlight back in the car—crawled as far as they dared, fearful of plummeting many stories into the chasm. The cave could have accommodated several thousand people, its central vault huge by any standards. These were the sorts of caves where Jonathan and Manny’s ancestors found refuge from the Ottoman Turks during their frequent genocidal pogroms against Christians; the same caves where resistance fighters, in a more recent time, hid from German patrols. The place was totally silent but for the drip-drip of water from the ceiling. The stalactites, silhouettes in the filtered daylight, were silent sentries.

A small cafeneion at the base of the rock stairs offered a cool drink. A man dressed in the traditional black mandili (head scarf), complete with black shirt, black breeches, and tall black leather boots, offered the weary travelers several glasses of his homemade tsikoudia—another shot of courage for the drive ahead.

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

By the time they had descended into the hill country above Hania, the soft pastels of early evening were reflecting off the old harbor and along the horizon to the north, a gaping and silent Sea of Crete.

Kosta and Rena awaited them back on the fourth floor of the high-rise, a wonderful aroma of traditional Cretan food seducing the hungry travelers.

Keramia

Taking full advantage of the rental car, Jonathan and Manny rose early the following day and set off through the hill country immediately south of Hania. Their final destination was the village of Tsakistra, birthplace of Jonathan’s grandfather.

Located in a storied region known as Keramia (=mia [one] kuria [“lady” or Virgin Mary]), on a high plateau just below the pitched rise to the still-snow-covered peaks of Lefka Ori (White Mountains), this area consists of 17 mountain villages, famed today for its rich agriculture (grapes, olives, currants) and pastoralism (there are clearly more sheep than people) and in yesteryears for its fierce, bloody resistance to would-be occupiers––Venetians in the Middle Ages, Turks (1669–1898), and Germans (1941–1945).

Jonathan’s grandfather Anthony (Andoni) left the village in 1906, at age 14 or 15, bound for a new life in America. As a boy, in order to help feed his desperately poor family, he was said to have climbed the peaks of Pahnes, where he collected ice in burlap bags and then walked to Hania to sell it to fishermen. Andoni returned to Greece, along with his twin brother Kosta and a collection of patriotic Cretans, then living in New York City, to fight the Ottoman Turks in the First Balkan War in 1912. His brother Kosta was decapitated in battle by the Turks, an event witnessed byAnthony. The brothers fought in a series of engagements on the Albanian frontier, north of Janinna. Jonathan’s great uncle Kosta is buried somewhere in that northern hinterland.

The entire Keramia region, like other mountain areas throughout Crete, was the sight of ongoing pitched battles between local andartes (resistance fighters), led by kapetania (brigand chieftains), and the Ottoman Turks. (In fact, Jonathan was told there was a legendary kapetan Aretakis active there in the mid-1850s, about whom songs have been written.) The Turks were infamous for, among other brutalities, abducting the residents’ children and torturing the parents—a preferred torture method was flaying (that is, skinning alive)—those who resisted. The long history of this barbaric carnage, inflicted by the Ottoman Turks for two hundred years, is written large on the souls of its residents. The Turks regularly slaughtered women, children, priests and nuns, the elderly, and the infirmed—so often in the name “religion.” Two centuries of such genocidal behavior created a very steely and long-suffering Cretan temperament.

In the 1940s, all of the island and western Crete in particular witnessed ferocious battles, pitting poorly armed Cretans against the might of the Nazi war machine. The Battle of Crete is one of the most heroic chapters of World War II. British Prime Minister Winston Churchill summed up the Cretan courage and valor aptly during these dark hours, when he famously said: “Until now, we knew that Greeks were fighting like heroes; from now on we shall say that the heroes fight like Greeks.”

Greece’s refusal to capitulate and the tragic events that followed placed Crete, our father’s ancestral home, at the center of world history. Many of Jonathan’s Keramia relatives were executed by the Germans during World War II, including boys as young as twelve.

In short, Keramia is a place of unrivaled beauty that has seen six hundred years of untold suffering. The people are a fierce, proud, and determined lot—a force to be reckoned with. Also, they are remarkably kind, generous keepers of the age-old tradition of filoxenia (literally, “friends to foreigners”), people who would gladly give you the shirts off their backs and the wine from their barrels.

Manny and Jonathan took the circuitous route to Keramia, climbing the hills outside Hania, through the Theriso Gorge to the eponymous village. Theriso figures singularly in modern Cretan history.

Throughout the 1800s, and culminating in the Theriso Revolution of 1905, this mountain village was the gathering place of the Cretan revolutionaries, led by the Cretan hero, future prime minister, and European statesman Eleftherios Venizelos, in the final chapter of Crete’s overthrow of Ottoman dominance and union with Greece. The final chapter of a miserable two-hundred-year struggle began in this village, a natural fortress in the foothills of the White Mountains.

During World War II, the Theriso gorge was one of several evacuation routes for the thousands of defeated Allied troops, who were relentlessly pursued by the Germans—through the gorges, over the 8,000-foot Lefka Ori range, and then nearly chased into the Sea of Libya. One finds the remnants of that retreat everywhere: anti-aircraft guns left on the sides of the road, the twisted hulks of armored vehicles, a plethora of monuments to slaughtered civilians and fallen soldiers.

Jonathan and Manny stopped in Theriso for some morning courage—the shepherds drink tsikoudia with the boldest of pretexts: “have one for strength! have one for courage! have one to build your appetite! and have another for digestion. One for parting?” Ooopa!

The road leaving Theriso twists and turns to a yet higher plateau, the back door to Keramia (elevation roughly 3,000 feet). Of course, it feels higher, because the journey begins at sea level. Before heading east toward Kamboi, the boys ventured up an exceedingly steep grade to the highest village in this area, called Zourva. It is a place of dramatic beauty, on the cusp of a deep gorge, accessible by the narrowest of roads.

The place has special significance for a family friend: more than one hundred years earlier the friend’s great aunt threw herself off the cliff, several hundred feet into the gorge, rather than marry the old man to whom her father had promised her. She was in love with a younger man but was forbidden from seeing him, no less able to marry him. Jonathan’s friend believes that her suicide was cause for what he described as a “family curse” that has afflicted the male line for more one hundred years. He is currently renovating the family’s home, which was once owned by the village’s Turkish pasha—an amazing structure with the attached harem room still intact.

Father and son drove carefully from corner to corner, on the edges of cliffsides, negotiating rock falls and wild goats, toward Kamboi. This is the name of a central village: a brisk walk away lays Tsakistra, a satellite community that, following the German atrocities and subsequent depopulation, was reduced to little more than a settlement. Shortly before reaching Kamboi, the boys stopped at the area’s administrative village, Gerolakkos, where several years ago Jonathan obtained a copy of his grandfather’s birth certificate. The village has a wireless Internet connection, and in a matter of minutes the helpful official, Yianni, had presented Jonathan with a document stating, “Andoni, son of Georgio, born in Kamboi in 1891” along with the relevant books and page references. The document was presented in quadruplicate, officially stamped and signed by the mayor. It included a large glass of tsikoudia—“to celebrate finding your roots.”

Tsakistra—the birthplace of our family

Manny was on the edge of the passenger seat as we turned the last hairpin corner into Kamboi. While Jonathan knew the way to Tsakistra, he lost no opportunity to “kibitz" with the locals—in this case, a small collection of old men at a table under the village plane tree, near the village’s sole establishment, a cafeneion. The men twisted their oversized moustaches, sipped tsikoudia, and clicked away at their koumbaloi (worry beads).

“Good morning gentleman. My son Manoli and I are Cretans from America with roots in this village.” It was a pronouncement that guaranteed two chairs, two glasses of tsikoudia, and a bowl of fresh cherries. Father and son brought the locals up to speed: who they were, why they were there, the relatives they hoped to visit. A second glass of tsikoudia and some directions and they were off on the final kilometer to Tsakistra.

The roads have improved markedly since 1992, when Jonathan and Ann first visited Tsakistra. One week after their wedding on distant Spetses—coincidentally, one of Crete’s greatest benefactors during the centuries of resistance to the Ottomans, delivering weapons and personal to occupied Crete under cover of darkness—Jonathan and Ann “discovered” the village. They took the one daily bus from Hania, were dropped off in the Kamboi village square at 6 a.m., and soon felt just a bit like castaways as the bus rolled away. “This is part of our honeymoon, right?” his new bride asked inquisitively. Just then a figure stepped out from the morning mist, a boy shepherding a small flock of sheep. Jonathan shouted over the din of bah-bahs: “My grandfather was born here in 1891. His name was Aretakis. Is there anyone by that name in this village?” The boy’s answer was the starting point of a relationship that has endured for nearly twenty years: “My mother. Follow me home.”

This little boy, now in his early thirties, took us to a small house at the lower slopes of fabled Mount Pachnes (elevation 8,000+ feet) and introduced us to his mother, Yioryia. As we soon learned, Yioryia’s grandfather and Jonathan’s grandfather were brothers, and both had survived the German slaughter of civilians. (Jonathan’s grandfather survived by virtue of his absence.) The long-lost American relatives were greeted—at 6:30 a.m.—with many hugs, a bowl of salted almonds, and multiple glasses of tsikoudia: “For family! For strength! For digestion!”

Jonathan has returned to Tsakistra a half dozen times since 1992; has exchanged Christmas and Easter cards with the family; and have watched his second counsin Yioryia’s (and her husband, Yioryio’s) five children grow into adulthood. The family lives the quintessential, traditional pastoral existent––they raise sheep (several hundred) for meat and milk—the latter collected by the region’s milk truck several times a week—cultivate several stremata of grapes, and have large vegetable gardens in addition to olive orchards, figs, and nut trees. Their life revolves around nature, family, God, and nation (the “nation” being Crete). If ever the phrase “salt of the earth” could be aptly applied, it is with our distant relatives in the mountains of western Crete.

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

Our family sabbatical in Greece had many purposes in mind: first and foremost, an opportunity for an extended residence overseas; a desire to learn (or perfect) modern Greek language skills; a reconnection with our Greek Orthodox faith; hikes and excursions amid 5,000 years of Greek history, culture, architecture, and life ways; and lastly, and perhaps most importantly, an opportunity to connect with our long-lost family in the “old country.”

As one of the few grandchildren who speaks Greek and has a pathological love (and knowledge) of the family heritage, Jonathan fancies himself in a curious position: a kind of human bridge between the Old World of his four grandparents—two from Crete, one from Spetses in the Saronic Gulf, and another from Naupaktos in western Greece—and the generations born in the New World. And now, in 2009, with the family’s emigration to the New World one hundred years in the darkened past, with the fleeting remnants of that “other” world dead or dying, his are the unlikely arms that reach in both directions: metaphorically touching the old generation (through nothing more than fading memories) while literally holding court with the “new” generation (that is, his own children). Perhaps to some this is gushy, self-serving nonesense: but after seventeen trips to Greece, including several residencies there (1979-1980; 1981-1982), with a working knowledge of language and an intimate familiarity with that unpruned family tree, he is in just a position to keep the flame of memory, culture, and language alive in his children. And perhaps, someday, they might do the same for their children. Or lest the connecion to "whence we came" will be lost for future generations.

And so one goal for the journey was finding family. And what better place for family than Crete.

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

An Afternoon in Tsakistra

Yioryia had been forewarned of the American relative's arrival. Over the past several years Jonathan had spoken of his family’s plans for an extended stay in Greece--for the reasons already mentioned. Regrettably, their circumstances--that is, the duration of their sabbatical--changed: the original plan for the family of five to spend three months in the southern Peloponnesse and then three months in Crete was abbreviated by necessity. Ann and the girls had returned to the States in mid-May to care for yiayia during her cancer treatment. Now it was up to Manny and Jonathan to pay homage, however briefly, to the Cretan side of our family. We had done so in Hania, with the maternal (Comatsoulakis) side; now we would do the same with the paternal (Aretakis) side.

Little had changed at the family homestead since 1992: Jonathan’s second cousin and her husband still raise sheep, with the help of their now-grown children, who come and go during the week: one works in a Hania grocery store; another attends university in Herakleion; another is married and has three young children (Manny’s third cousins, whom he met during their brief visit to the village).

The boys were greeted with the obligatory glasses of tsikoudia, plates of locally produced fruit and cheese, bowls of nuts and currants. They sat outside on the porch, around a table where multigenerational life has its most profound exchange, all in the shadow of the snow-covered peaks of Lefka Ori, the legendary “White Mountains.” In a rapid-fire exchange, Jonathan told Yioryia about his family’s life back in Maine, their stay in the southern Peloponnese, the unfortunate circumstances that necessitated the early departure of Ann, Lucia, and Evyenia. She was surprised and disappointed that the five had not spent several months on Crete—in defense, all Jonathan could say was that they would one day reconstitute this part of their trip. Someday...if not sooner!

You know your family loves you when they slaughter a sheep to honor your visit. Lunch consisted of roast lamb, potatoes, raw artichoke hearts, homemade cheese and bread, salads, and copious quantities of the family’s wine. In the heat of mid-afternoon, Jonathan and Manny set off on foot with Yioryio and his granddaughters to help bring in the sheep from the pasture—actually, a steep, unfenced hillside near the village church, Ayio Ioannis Eremitis (St. John the Hermit). Manny was slightly indignant that two girls, ages 10 and 12, with little more than their own wits and the guidance of an elderly grandfather, could transfer two-hundred-plus sheep from an elevated pasture to one closer to the house. The move put the sheep into position for their twice-daily milking.

Jonathan and Manny then helped Yioryia prune the vineyard, while keeping a wary eye on the sheep. Whenever a sheep strayed toward the vineyard, the clap of a hand or a well-aimed pebble would startle them back into the unfenced thicket near the milking stalls.

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

Saying goodbye to family in Greece is always difficult. The family urged Jonathan and Manny to return and spend a night with them, especially if they were planning to hike Mount Pachnes—the summit trail lay another hour by 4x4 truck, well beyond where the paved road ends. It is a six-hour hike…"if you don’t get lost." These are dangerous mountains for the uninitiated, without clear markers, without water, and pocked by deep ravines. The White Mountains, a veritable labyrinth and deathtrap for the crack German mountain troops during World War II, might have proved too much for backpackers with minimal equipment and a diminishing timeframe. At least this time. This particular mountaineering adventure would have to wait—but it remains on the A list for next year.

Yioryia also suggested that Jonathan consider returning next September for the wedding of her youngest daugher, Despina. A Cretan mountain wedding is a force to be reckoned with—for starters, such events are known to go on for days, often lasting a week, and they are punctuated by a constant barrage of celebratory gunfire amid the reveling, drinking, feasting, and dancing. The celebration gives “friendly fire” and entirely new meaning. A few days earlier, Jonathan’s Hania relatives had described such a wedding that occurred earlier in the spring: there were 1,400 invited guests and the wedding lasted six days, and among other activities, envelopes of cash are thrown at the bride and groom—a practical alternative to the “bridal registry.” The bride, who is obligated to dance with every male present, was said to have required some intermediary hospitalization—but the wedding party continued apace—and she was later returned after a short hiatus to complete her obligatory dancing.

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

On the way out of the village, Jonathan detoured down a gravel track past an old stone wreck, what he recalled from previous trips as being his grandfather’s birthplace. Stopping at the next house along the path, he was greeted by Christo and his wife. Explaining his connection to the village and asking him to confirm the location of the house, Christos insisted that they first enjoy a few glasses of tsikoudia. After accomplishing this vital task, he led Jonathan and Manny to the Aretakis homestead.

By all accounts the family’s ancestral home, occupied for a few hundred years, was destroyed by the Germans in the early 1940s in retribution for guerilla activity in the mountains and for the family’s probable involvement in the resistance to the German occupation of Crete. The sign in the village square lists the family members who had been executed by the Germans. It was not the first time the family had defended their turf from ruthless invaders—and if history is any judge, it may not be the last. The "people from the north" (the ones wearing plastic sandals and carrying multicolored beach chairs) are gradually working their up toward the hill country. H deuteri katohi (the "second occcupation") is coming...

The view of the mountains from the front door’s stone archway is stupendous—with hints of snow remaining on the highest peaks even in June. Jonathan spent several days after imaging a cement mixer and trowel in his immediate future.

Hania…Again

Manny and his father negotiated the descent from Keramia back to Hania in the dying daylight. Kosta and Rena, eager to learn of their adventure, had a full dinner waiting. A little later, their son-in-law Spyros offered to take the American relatives . . . bowling! He would not take “no” as an answer, and so off they went to a large, gleaming facility located along the shores of Suda Bay—a combination bowling alley, arcade, multiplex, restaurant/bar/cafeneion—a veritable hang-out for Haniotes of all ages. The three enjoyed a second dinner at around 10 p.m. By the time the boys returned to their shared double bed it was well past midnight.

Palaiohora and Kandanos

Fighting the desire/need to sleep in, the boys were up early, their day packs ready with all the essentials: maps, cameras, beach towels, snacks/drinks, and beach reading. A beach day seemed perfectly in order for the day before setting off on their big hike on the Samarian Gorge. So with “beach towels and rubber duckies” loaded in the rental car they set off south through a pass that led to Palaiohora, a small town with a strip of pebbly beach on the Sea of Libya.

A summertime haunt for the mostly German tourists who visit there (described by a British friend as the “love-on-the-beach crowd”) Palaihoro had not yet approached its summertime favor. And, of course, this summer—with the worldwide krisis, the Greek word for “crisis,” a utilitarian stand-in for “recession”—all of the popular places would prove to be…less popular.

Every north-south trip through western Crete requires navigating an exceptionally stunning stretch of road, with seemingly impossible turns through mountain passes with one storied past or another. The trip from Hania to Palaiohora would be no different. The boys headed west from Hania toward Kissamos-Kastelli, by now a familiar stretch of the National Highway, the only relatively straight road on the island, lined beautifully with flowering pikrodafni (oleander) but regarded by the locals as their own private Autobahn.

Still determined to find the German cemetery near Maleme, the resting place of Hitler’s more than four-thousand fallen paratroopers, they found instead signs leading off the highway to a service road--“servicing,” it seemed, a veritable multitude of tourists. It was chock full with two-week merrymakers from northern Europe. After passing several miles of postcard stands, plastic umbrellas, and legions of rosy-skins Brits in plastic shoes, the boys begged a convenient retreat, crossing the national highway at Tavronitis in search of the roads heading south—away from the ticking madness of beach chairs. The dead Germans would have to wait until next time.
When one crosses the east-west highway, leaving the north’s coastal strip, not only does the scenery change but the “real” Crete emerges, though sometimes in fits and starts: gradually, though, one is transported back to an earlier time, before Crete succumbed to the unregulated charter flights and the package tours that afflict so much of the north coast.

Careening through the foothills and into the mountains, the sense of relief became palpable: goats and sheep populated the “main” roads, the side roads now dominated by active agriculture rather than by passive tourism.

About halfway to the south coast, one passes unavoidably through Kandanos, a large village that was utterly destroyed by the Germans in response to its fierce resistance during World War II. A copy of the occupier’s sign—rendered in both Greek and German—remains in the (now rebuilt) town square: “Here stood Kandanos, destroyed as retribution for the murder of twenty-five German soldiers, and never to be rebuilt.” After many tears and much bloodshed, the people of Kandanos had the final say.

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

Aside from its Venetian ramparts, serviceable markets and eateries, and resort establishments, Palaiohora’s main draw is it’s long pebbly beach (called, oddly enough, Pebble Beach) and, further east, Sandy Beach—the latter famous for having fewer pebbles than the former. Like most seaside villages along the southwestern coast, the road ends abruptly: heading west or east along the coast, although feasible in a 4x4 or motorbike along uncertain gravel tracks, is best left to energetic legs.

Manny and Jonathan spent several hours on the beach—an utter bore for Manny, but a welcome break for his father—disappearing their tan lines and enjoying the surf. Whenever one swims off the coast of southern Crete, there is that curiously extreme sensation of having nothing between you and Egypt or Libya. The next continent is but a determined Australian crawl away.

From Palaiohora’s western strip of sand, one clearly sees the island of Gavdos fifty kilometers distant—it is Europe’s southernmost landmass, a barren sandy strip with a handful of year-round locals and a scattering of permanently naked Europeans amid the sand dunes.

By late afternoon they were returning to Hania the way they had arrived. Jonathan and Manny stopped at the memorial in Kandanos to take a closer look, taking time to speak with an old man who, as a child, had survived the 1941 massacre and destruction of the village. The three chatted for a few minutes and then the boys set off again, returning to Hania in time for another stupendous meal, courtesy of our gracious hostess Rena.

Hiking the Samarian Gorge

Defying their own fatigue, the boys beat the odds and managed to wake before dawn’s first light, strap on their backpacks, and head off through Hania’s still sleepy streets to the public bus station. The bus service in Crete, and in Greece generally, is reliable, consistent, and relatively inexpensive. Public transportation, as a rule, is far superior—cheaper, cleaner, safer, and hands-down more efficient—to its counterparts in the United States.

This was stage one in the culmination of their Cretan adventure: hiking the Samarian Gorge.

The Samarian Gorge, the longest in all of Europe, is one of Greece’s national parks, and an immensely popular destination for foreign hikers—either as a daytrip or part of a longer excursion. Jonathan and Manny were banking on the latter. Most hikers leave on the coastal ferry from the small village of Ayia Roumeli, at the terminus of the 18 km hike. The ferry is bound for Hora Sfakion, the nearest place with roads. From the ferry landing there, a bus transports weary, foot-blistered day hikers back over the mountains to Hania. It can be a dizzying 90-minute trip. The boys chose (based on Jonathan’s experiences there) to recover in Ayia Roumeli for several hours and then hike east in the dying light, in the direction of Hora Sfakion. Sfakia would take another eight hours of hiking time--it best done as a series of day hikes. The attraction was clear: a desolate stretch of pristine coastline, the chance to introduce Manny to the alpinist subculture “recovering” at the beach-cum-oasis at Ayios Pavlos, and the possibility of hiking yet another gorge—more remote, steeper, and vastly less peopled.

The hiking in western Crete is unparalleled, which explains its draw for northern European alpinists. Where else in Europe can you technical climb over ravines, trek through snow-covered peaks, and then spend the afternoon lazing on a pristine beach--with water so clear that a 1 euro coin is visible in 50-foot depth of water?

The Samarian Gorge has become a little too popular in recent years—one can easily encounter caravans of tour busses at the entrance--but in late May or early June it can still be relatively quiet. A hike any earlier than mid-May (or later than mid-October) brings it’s own hazards: spring or fall can be a dangerous time in the gorge, as flash floods can prove deadly. (In 1993 a group of hikers were washed out to sea in such a torrent.

With all of these caveats in mind, the boys’ choice for a time of year to hike could not have been better. The bus climbed its impossibly steep grade from Hania, negotiating sharp turns, one after another, passing through sleepy villages, barely clearing the balconies in the narrow streets at the village of Lakki, and then finally arriving on a high mountain plateau called Omalos. The air temperature is at least twenty degrees cooler than in Hania in the early morning.

The steep descent by foot into the gorge follows the xyloskala or “wood staircases,” a narrow path of well-worn and alarmingly smooth rocks. Despite their best efforts at culling items from their backpacks, the weight of each one remained a bit prohibitive—added to the essentials, which included minimal clothing and a minor array of camping gear, was much needed food, water, and energy drinks.

The scenery is alpine, each turn worthy of wordless awe and wonderment. The hike itself takes anywhere from five to seven hours, with breaks for snacks, photographs, and exploration of signposted points of interest: rare and endangered fauna, medieval chapels, the “ghost” village of Samaria. The remaining residents of Samaria were relocated to coastal Ayia Roumela in the early 1960s when the gorge became a national park.

The narrowest section of the gorge, called the sideresportes or “iron gates,” should be approached with care—not just because of the marginal footing and the raging stream, which must be crossed several times, but for the falling rocks. The smallest pebble falling six hundred feet in this narrowest section could prove deadly for a loitering hiker.

The photos that follow highlight some of the Samarian Gorge hike.

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

Arriving in Ayia Roumeli at the heat of the day (2 p.m.), Jonathan and Manny settled in for food and drink at “Pahnes,” a taverna run by Stelyios and his French physician wife Claire. Jonathan had met them on several other occasions, during previous hikes, and they were their usual friendly, welcoming selves. Stelyios let Jonathan play the “taverna guitar” while the tired hiker rehydrated, and both Manny and Jonathan watched the parade of hikers pass down the path near their table, walking briskly to catch the day’s last ferry.

Manny sought Claire’s medical opinion on the state of his feet, which were particularly blistered. His father's suggestion of another five miles of hiking in the afternoon sun seemed more open to debate. Jonathan suggested setting up the tent on the sand dunes east of Roumeli, but Manny was determined to hike to Ayia Pavlos before sunset. Once the sun had declined slightly and the beach stones cooled somewhat, the two strapped on their packs and headed for the goat trail that led along the coast. But not before stopping on the Sea of Libya for a swim—it is mandatory after emerging from the gorge hike.

The pebbles on the beach were so unbelievably hot, even at 4 p.m., the boys dare not remove their shoes until just inches off the water’s edge. (Later that day a camper had told us that by mid-afternoon you could cook a raw egg on a flat rock in less than a minute—a culinary phenomenon that he proved to himself and was pleased to demonstrate to us.)

The pictures that follow document the hike from Ayia Roumeli, the gorge’s terminus, east toward Ayia Pavlos—a beach of black pebbles which would be their home for the next three nights.

Camping at Agios Pavlos

Jonathan has camped on the beach at Ayios Pavlos at least twice in every decade since the late 1970s. The beach is named for the ninth-century Christian chapel built into the rocks, which commemorates Saint Paul’s landfall there (as described in the biblical Acts of the Apostles). For years, the place has remained desolate—a perfect resting spot for wayward shepherds or tired trekkers, and notable for, among other reasons, the ice cold fresh drinkable water that percolates to the surface of the beach and then flows directly into the warm ocean.

In the early 2000s a small taverna was built near the chapel by a family with roots in Ayios Ioannis, a tiny depopulated village on the edge of the plateau above the ocean (it is an ambitious two-hour hike straight up the cliffs from the beach). Ayios Pavlos is accessible only on foot or by boat—there are no roads, no electricity, few tourists…except for passing groups of German/Austrian/French and other European hikers who know about this gem and come and go like the flocks of wild goats that visit the beach for a cool drink.

The taverna is run by Yioryios, an affable thirty-something Cretan man who Jonathan first met several years ago. There are no menus and the choices are generally limited to goat (roasted, baked, or boiled), fish (when caught by Yioryios or his mates), tomato salad, bread—and a small array of pleasant elixirs. You pay when you leave—after a day, a week, a month. Jonathan and Manny spent their days there swimming, lounging under the canopy with a backgammon board or a deck of cards, and—need it be said?—eating/drinking. After a strenuous hike through the White Mountains, Georyios’s no-frills establishment is the finest tonic for tired bones and blistered feet.

On this particular visit Ayios Pavlos was populated solely by a small cadre of young Haniotes—affable thirty-something men and one woman—and, at least this time, nary a foreigner. It was a perfect (re)introduction to traditional Cretan hospitality and the simple pleasures of low-impact living. Jonathan hoped for some rest and recovery before attempting the hike up the Adrianou Gorge, a trek that begins on the coast another hour east of Ayios Pavlos and heads vertically toward the plateau village of Anapoli and then over to Agio Ioannis, where one can pick up the old mule track and return back down to the ocean. But is a demanding hike, at least twelve hours in the open sun, and getting lost is real possibility. Manny’s feet were in a desperate state and another long trek, even carrying just light daypacks, seemed unreasonable. And so go the plans of mice and men: instead of a second, modestly incapacitating hike, they would loiter on a stretch of isolated beach—drinking, eating, swimming, playing backgammon. Roughly in that order. On the second day the boys retraced their footsteps with light daypacks, hiking the hour or so back to Agio Roumeli, where Jonathan got to play Stelyios’s guitar and the boys reprovisioned at one of the village’s small grocery stores.

The boys were no worse for lounging at Ayios Pavlos. In short order they developed some good friendships, exchanged addresses with “the guys”—including Mihali, a honey merchant whom they would later meet at his apothiki (warehouse) just a few kilometers outside of Hania, for a taste or two of honey-flavored tsoukoudia: “dangerous,” we were warned, “because it goes down too easy.”

Ayios Pavlos was yet another convenient address for eating and drinking themselves silly over a period of three days and three nights. Manny was even able to go spear-fishing with one of the “beach people,” and Yioryios let him skipper his super-fast skiff offshore--with nothing between Crete and North Africa but an open ocean.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Jonathan and Manny hitched a ride on Yioryio’s skiff back to Ayia Roumeli, where they took the ferry, teeming with that day’s beleaguered gorge hikers, down the coast to Hora Sfakion. One of their new beach friends, Niko, gave them a ride over the mountains and back to Hania.

California Connection—Meeting Cretan-(American) Family

Jonathan and Manny spent several more days in Hania, licking their proverbial wounds—and meeting more family, this time our own California-based, Cretan-American family—before heading back to southwest of Crete, to the sleepy village of Souyia.

Several months earlier Jonathan had received an email from a member of the California branch of the Aretakis clan—a great-granddaughter of one of Jonathan’s papou’s brothers. Dimitri had gone to California in the 1910s, via a mining job in Wyoming, and had made a life and started a family there. Jonathan’s “cousin” (technically, Manny’s third cousin) Nancy and her German husband, Chris, were visiting Crete on holiday. It was a wonderful coincidence to meet American family for the first time...on Crete.

Live Music—Lyriaki in Hania

Back in early February the two distant relatives resolved to meet in their ancestral home at the end of May. And sure enough, Jonathan/Manny and Nancy/Chris spent several nights together in Hania—thoroughly enjoying each other’s company and basking in the recognition of common ancestors. The four enjoyed several meals together, and best of all had a few memorable visits to Lyriaki, a tradition Cretan lyra musical establishment hidden in one of the narrow back alleys of Hania's Venetian quarter—where one can sip tsikoudia, dance, or just sit back and be entertained.

The lyra is the Cretan “violin,” a curious and ancient instrument that is played in the upright position, balanced on the knee. But the word "lyra" also describes a particular genre of Cretan music that has survived for centuries—and currently thrives—on the island. Posters of the best known lyra players are plastered on walls throughout the cities and towns of Crete, where “tradition” is a living reality. The best lyra players are like the Jimi Hendrixes or Eric Claptons of modern Crete—“guitar hero” as “lyra hero”--with a rapt audience that crosses all generations.
The singer/player’s music can tell a multitude of stories, and the tunes are either renditions of classic pieces or are extemporaneous "Yianni-on-the-spot" creations. The lyrics often touch on the long history of Crete itself: songs of love, songs of loss, songs of suffering and triumph. The other stringed instrument (which resembles a kind of guitar with a bent head) is called a laouto; it has four double sets of strings (strung like a mandolin or bouzouki but tuned differently) and is used either as an accompanying instrument, often percussively, or as a solo instrument in its own right.

Running the Venizelia 10K

While in Ayios Pavlos, Jonathan had exchanged contact information with Mihali, a honey merchant who lives outside of Hania. His family, from the mountain village of Theriso, at the same elevation but slightly west of the Aretakis ancestral village. Mihali, his father, and uncles manage more than 600 beehives and ships their sweet product throughout the European Union. They were even making some headway in the U.S. market before the worldwide financial order (aka, capitalism's latest meltdown). Mihali had invited the boys to visit his apotheki (warehouse) whenever they were back in Hania. It seemed like the perfect way to spend the morning—with an important a mission for the day.

With Mihali’s warehouse address scrawled on a piece of paper, Jonathan persuaded an accommodating taxi driver to take them to a lonely stretch of side road about 10 kilometers west of the city. Mihali greeted them at the door and gave a brief tour of his goods. His desk and computer were surrounded by crates of honey, pallets of glass jars, and reams of order forms. He was, quite literally, a man buried in a mountain of honey and honey paraphernalia.

Mihali pulled out a bottle of his family’s honey-flavored tsikoudia. On an empty stomach, it was like drinking really flavorful kerosene—a nice bouquet, if slightly volatile. The three sat and “talked beekeeping” for an hour or so, finished the half-empty bottle of tsikoudia, and then the boys got a ride back to Hania with Mihali.

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

Late in the afternoon, while negotiating Hania’s old Venetian quarter and fighting off the need to nap, Jonathan noticed a poster pasted to the glass door of a cafeneion: the 68th annual “Venizelia,” a 10-kilometer road race, would be held at 4 p.m., the first event in an international track and field meet. With less than 40-minutes to prepare, the boys dashed back to the hotel in the old port (they were now renting a room in a walk-up pension) so that the slightly inebriated harrier could change into race clothes and grab his running shoes. Jonathan’s sole nutrition leading up to this endeavor was honey-flavored tsikoudia. Confidence was about to trump reality.

The race started at the very modern Eleftherios Venizelos stadium, on an Olympic-quality tartan track, exited the stadium into the car-choked city streets, and then proceeded to climb through various neighborhoods toward the Great Man’s tomb, located in a leafy park at the highest point of the city—on a bluff overlooking the old harbor, the tops of Turkish minarets visible from afar, and the open ocean to the north. The course returned whence it came, reentering a now full stadium teeming with spectator approval. At 4 p.m., the temperature was hovering at around 95 degrees Fahrenheit, with hardly any humidity and not a puff of wind.

More than 150 runners showed up for the event, which was covered by Greek television. The participants included a dozen exceptionally fit-looking American servicemen from the local NATO base, a contingent of hardened Greek runners, and a smattering of foreigners—most of whom appeared to be sober, hydrated, and properly prepared for an athletic event. And Jonathan--having eaten nothing all day, having “hydrated” with tsikoudia, now on the cusp of the naptime of his existence. Recalling that over the years he had arrived at starting lines in worse shape, he remained steely in his misguided determination to run a first-ever race in Greece.

The gun went off and a lead group set off at an alarmingly fast pace. Jonathan positioned himself between the lead group and the rest of the pack—a lonely void in the top third of the field. He had asked a local runner before the start if there were any hills. “Just one,” he replied. And in fact, he was right: the entire first half of the race was straight uphill, with no breaks.

A determined uphill runner, Jonathan gradually picked off all of the servicemen, their upper-body physiques inconsequential mass in an uphill run in the extreme heat. But it nevertheless proved a punishing effort, and the downhill segment hardly made up for the uphill section. Jonathan finished 11th in the field—delighted to be done, his temporary catalepsy notwithstanding.

Gramvousa (Balos)

The next morning Baba shook off the tsikoudia cobwebs, which is no easy task, and rented another car: a fuel-efficient glorified golf cart with two doors and a capacious trunk. A rental car is the only reasonable way to see Crete, a very large and mountainous island, and the buggy served the boys well for several more excursions, including one to the peninsula known as Gramvousa, about 30 km west of Hania. The ultimate destination was Balos, a veritable gem tucked into the craggy head of the peninsula. Balos is a remarkable turquoise lagoon that is generally accessible only by sea—or at least that’s the recommendation of the guidebooks, as well as the fervent hope of the car rental company.

Jonathan was determined to put the car, a sky-blue Daewoo, to a punishing test by choosing the overland route—little more than a track carved out of the rock, barely wide enough for a single vehicle, paralleling steep cliffs that spill down into the ocean. The way was chock full of the usual Cretan road hazards: wild goats, rock slides, and tourists in rented 4x4s.

Climbing over the barren center of Gramvousa, they seemed to enter an entirely different climate zone, traveling from the familiar Mediterranean subtropics to an environment more like the Scottish Highlands, all in a matter of just a few dozen kilometers. At elevation, large puffy clouds and mist floated across the road, adding to the otherworldliness of the place.

Several times along the track, they faced off against oncoming vehicles. After a few such encounters they learned that the cliff face was available on a first-come first-served basis—an act of self-preservation that forced the other drivers toward the cliff edge side of the road. Further encouragement for such defensive driving were one or two twisted metal hulks pinned against rocks several hundred feet below—presumably “considerate” motorists who had yielded to oncoming traffic.

After a final rise and corkscrew turn the road ended abruptly on a level stretch of coarse gravel with wild thyme in full bloom. Several dozen rentals vehicles were parked there—an incongruous sight in the middle of nowhere. Now all that separated them from the lagoon was a 45-minute descent by foot through a fragile landscape of endangered flora (so said the signs) strewn with house-sized boulders.

When the vast expanse of Balos first comes into view, one can’t help but stop and behold the magnitude of raw, unadulterated beauty—the horizon, in every direction, is full of stark sights: sharp cliffs, rolling sand dunes, and the nuance of ocean colors. A steep set of cut rock steps, a minor feat of engineering and hard labor, leads down the final kilometer to the beach. From a distance Manny was the first to notice a half-dozen para-surfers tearing through the lagoon: men in black wet suits attached to harnesses that are tethered to enormous kites, which drag them across the open water at terrific speeds. It was an intriguing sight, indeed—and one best viewed from a safe distance.

A strip of multicolored sand leads in a broad S to an island that forms a natural harbor to the north—the sensible ones arrive there via charter boat from Hania or Kissamos—and a shallow lagoon to the south, beyond which an angry sea pounds the headlands. This is the extreme northwest tip of Crete, capturing the full fury of the westerlies along the the open length of the Mediterranean.

An unapologetic Pisces, Jonathan’s only disappointment was that the high winds and driving surf made swimming a challenge. He nevertheless settled onto a beach towel while Manny disappeared with his camera in the direction of the para-surfers.

Some time later, dozing slightly but sensing, as parents often will, the hovering presence of their own child, Jonathan opened a single eye and noticed Manny standing over him, defeat writ broadly across his visage: bent over awkwardly, his glasses askew, sand in his hair and ears, his shirt torn, his prized camera dangling from his shoulder—it was not his most natural posture. Father sat up abruptly.

“Dear, Lord! Did you fall off a cliff or get butted by a wild goat?”

“I just got run over by a para-surfer. Over there. We collided.” He pointed in the direction of the hot-doggers who just moments earlier were gliding across the water on the edge of control in the midst of unsuspecting beachgoers. Jonathan had the sense that a dozen eyes were being averted.

“Promise me you won’t go over and say anything” he implored. “The guy was really apologetic, and he got hurt too. Please don’t do anything….stupid! Or something you’ll regret later.”

The story: Manny was filming the para-surfers at a safe distance, many meters from the water’s edge. A half gale was blowing and the activity was exciting to watch and to film: it was the quintessential extreme sport. He was focusing his lens on one surfer in particular then he turned away for a moment to film another. The last he could remember, there was a loud shout, a last-second warning before the collision, just enough of a distraction for him to turn his attention back toward the water in time to see the oncoming missile—flesh on flesh, mano-a-mano. A gust of wind had suddenly lifted the surfer airborne toward the sand dunes, where the action photographer was standing. It was a direct hit with great force, the para-surfer “took out” Manny—and Manny, for his part, took out the para-surfer. Both were down for the count: the surfer’s thigh hit Manny’s chest, and the two tumbled several yards through the sand, a colorful mix of boy, board, sail, and neoprene man. Manny was the first to get up, a bloody gash on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The other surfers ran over to assist. Jonathan, thoroughly oblivious to what had just transpired, dozed in the sand several hundred meters away.

The out-of-control surfer, a Greek, was said to have apologized profusely. “It was entirely my fault, it was nothing you did. I’m very, very sorry.” Manny stumbled back to find Jonathan and relayed the entire episode, making him take the aforementioned pledge not to say or do anything “stupid.”

“Baba, he was very concerned for me, and he got hurt too. Really hurt. It was an accident, there was a terrible gust of wind just as I turned away and he lost control…” Jonathan wanted to do something stupid but resisted the urge. He would find something else to do—maybe even more stupid—later in the day.

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

Manny's accident effectively ended our day at Balos. Father debated whether to take son back to the hospital in Hania for x-rays, suspecting a broken rib or ribs, but Manny would have none of it. Needless to say, the hike back up the cliff to the car was excruciating for Manny. As was three hours of serpentine driving to Souyia, in southern Crete. Moreso sleeping on the hard sand for two days….

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

Souyia, Lissos, and a stop at the Irina Gorge

Uncertain about their next course of action, the two stuck to the original plan—setting off across the island in the direction of low-key Souyia. Like Paleohora, it is a village on Crete’s relatively undeveloped southwest coast, a place with a heavy German presence in the height of summer but still no resorts, a place of small pensions and a lovely pebble beach. It is right-sized, smaller and far sleepier than Paleohora, and most accommodating to freelance campers—there are sandy dunes within walking distance of the village and a smattering of scrub pines and tamarisk trees, providing a hint of shade from the deadly afternoon sun.

Souyia is the terminus of the Ayia Irini Gorge hike and a setting off place for points west (ancient Lissos and modern Paleohora) and east (Ayia Roumeli) on the E4 hiking trail. Best of all, Souyia, at least in early June, felt like Crete in the off-season—just a simple, naked beauty, with excellent food and stunning scenery. The ocean temperature and water quality of the Libyan Sea is ideal.

With a smattering of seaside tavernas serving traditional fare and local wine, Jonathan and Manny ate themselves silly both nights before stumbling contentedly down the beach in a nearly full moon, back to the relative comfort of their tent.

On the second morning they hiked to Lissos, the remnants of an ancient Hellenistic settlement accessible only by foot or private boat, a two-hour trek over the mountain from Souyia, along a path that winds through a narrow gorge and then a descends into a tight valley. The boys poked around for several hours, swam in the pint-sized harbor, and admired this vast site largely alone.
In the early evening of their last night in Souyia, they played backgammon at a cafeneion by the ocean, sipping tsikoudia and watching the sun set over the purple haze of ocean. By 10 p.m. the last of the sun’s rays had vanished and it was time for their last supper in Souyia—roast lamb, papoutsakia (eggplants and zucchini stuffed with spiced meat), kalitsounia (savory pies with wild greens and mizithra cheese), salads, saganaki (kasseri cheese fried crisp in extra virgin olive oil and sprinkled with lemon), and local wine and bread. As with most tavernas in western Crete, after paying the bill the customer is treated to a sticky sweet (halva) and a flask of tsikoudia. Three cheers for digestion!

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

Saying goodbye to Souyia the next morning was no easy task. Jonathan enjoyed one last swim, just after sunrise, while Manny slept. After gathering and packing up the tent, sleeping bags, and cushions, the boys set off through the mountain pass that would take them back toward Hania. They stopped briefly at the entrance to the Ayia Irini Gorge and hiked about 1 kilometer into the gorge, just as a large herd of sheep arrived from every direction--the hillsides to the right and left, and from behind them on the path. In a matter of minutes the boys were surrounded and outpaced by a large number of snorting ruminants, the sounds of their clanking bells echoing through landscape. At the entrance to the gorge, two Cretans manned a snack bar—but it was not your average roadside establishment. Even with no customers in sight at 10 a.m. the owner and his friend were roasting fine cuts of lamb, steaming zucchinis, and drinking shots of various types of tsikoudia—some honey-flavored, some cold: “it goes down easier if it’s cold but you don’t get the full-bodied taste” (of jet fuel?) they advised. The were playing Cretan lyras through a PA and seemed very happy, lack of customers notwithstanding, and were eager to share their feast with Jonathan and Manny. It would have been the height of rudeness to walk away from such hospitality. An hour later the boys were back on the roadway.

The road curved up and away from the tiny village of Ayia Irini, past an array of newly installed windmills—enormous structures that covered several mountain ridges as far as one could see. Circling past Hania in the north, they headed back across the same the mountain range, this time about twenty kilometers further east, and then crossed the mountain passes and headed south back toward Hora Sfakion, where they had been hiking just the week before. The exact plan was uncertain: would they camp in the sand dunes in the shadow of the crusader fort at Frangokastello? Or find a room back in the village of Hora Sfakion?

Stopping halfway to Hora Sfakion at the plateau of Askifou, they detoured to the “Battle of Crete” museum, a low-budget project run by a local family. It is a vast collection of rusting war materiel that sprawls across the front yard and creeps into their living room. The curator-grandfather, who was a young boy during the German invasion of 1941, spent the postwar years collecting a phenomenal array of war objects: SS motorcycles, assault rifles and pistols, German uniforms, British anti-aircraft pieces, mortar shells (some unexploded, with scrawled placards reading “Do NOT touch!”), whole parachutes, German maps, paratrooper lighters in the shape of winged eagles—the list goes on and on. From Nazi to Newcastle, Himmler to Hardscrabble. This was one man’s passion, a legacy now dutifully maintained and showcased by his son and granddaughter. A self-funding “museum,” this private collection receives no support from the Greek government and (as a sign explains) survives on the good graces of its visitors alone. The government is apparently fearful of disturbing modern German sensibilities by reminding today’s tourists of yesterday’s brutalities.

Frankokastelo, Hora Sfakion, Adrianou Gorge

The Frankish castle on the coastal plain east of Sfakia, known as Frankokastello, is one of the best preserved crenellated castles in the eastern Mediterranean—another fine example of Venetian defenses. But the setting is everything: backed by impenetrable wall of mountains, the fortress is fronted by the cobalt Libyan Sea.

Bored with his father’s insistence on frequent swims, Manny sat in the car editing photos while Jonathan frolicked in the surf near the castle. The two then set off for a cool drink at a local café, where they had an unfortunate encounter with a Moroccan who served them. He noticed that Jonathan had given Manny a very small glass of beer—the two were the only customers at this establishment—and returned to their table with a hysterical diatribe issued in spotty Greek, colored by a heavy Arab accent. “You, my friend, are a very bad father! Letting your son drink alcohol is a violation of God’s plan! I am a Muslim and what you are doing is the worst of sins!” Jonathan politely thanked him for his point of view—but the man refused to let go. He was Muslim visitor to Crete with bad case of righteousness. Our ancestors had spent 200-plus years ridding themselves of this scourge.

He continued spewing a tirade of quasi-religious fulmination. All of this moralizing was starting to give the evil father a bad headache. The Turks had already given barbarians a bad name—this guy wasn’t doing much to rectify history.

Rather than engage this "visitor" to their ancestral homeland, they quietly paid their bill and left for Sfakia, a twenty-minute drive up the coast.

Arriving in Sfakia after the final hoi polloi Samarian Gorge hikers had departed on the day’s last bus, the village was eerily quiet—far removed from the frenzy of the afternoon crowd. Finding a clean room with a terrace overlooking the ocean was easy—for just 30 euros a night with air conditioning (which was unnecessary). The breeze from the open ocean was comfort enough.

Although the sun had just set, Jonathan was eager to show Manny the top of the Adrianou Gorge—the hike they never made after Samaria on account of Manny’s tortured feet. They set off in the trusty rental car up the cliffside toward Anapoli, a six-mile stretch of switchbacks best traversed in full daylight. As they rose higher and higher, the view south toward the open sea, with its early evening changing pastel, was a precious sight for tired eyes. They arrived in Anapoli at dusk, stopping at the local (and only) taverna. Jonathan remembered the proprietor, Poppy, from previous visits and she was happy to treat him to a glass of her homemade tsikoudia. The boys showed their gratitude by ordering a plate of papousakia (literally "little shoes"--eggplant stuffed with meat) and roast potatoes. Then, in defiance of the dying light, they drove across the open plateau, a narrow road winding past fields of boulders and scrubland toward Ayios Ioannis, and then slowly crossed the nominal bridge that spans the Adrianou Gorge.

Several hundred feet deep, the gorge carves its way toward the ocean, a few miles distant. Only in recent years has it been spanned by a narrow metal bridge, complete with now dry-rotted wooden staves. Driving across the little bridge makes for incredible heart palpations—one is utterly convinced that this remarkable feat of engineering, which is the sole connection for the little village of Ayios Ioannis with the rest of the known world—will collapse at any moment. Jonathan parked the car and in the twilight “made” Manny walk to the middle and look down. It was the “whoaaa!” heard around the world.

The descent back to Sfakia was tricky in total darkness: there are sections of rock slides on the road, goats dash across the meridian without warning, and there is a hairpin turn just about every few hundred meters. Jonathan and Manny were both quietly relieved to park the car in Sfakia and find a place to sit down for a cool drink in the dying light of a summer night.

---------------------
Akrotiri: Pithari, Marathi, and Stavros, and the Monasteries

Knowing full well that the rental car needed to be returned to Hania by noon, the boys set off from Sfakia—a sharp uphill climb over the same mountain pass they had now crossed three times in just one week—heading back to the north coast. They stopped at Vrysses, a crossroad town, for a plate of that village’s famous sheep’s milk yogurt and honey, and then continued on to the outskirts of Hania.

The large peninsula to the east of Hania, called Akrotiri, forms Souda Bay, and is home to dozens of villages, some very fine and ancient monasteries, and a smattering of exceptional, beaches—several of them popular weekend destinations, others "secret" coves familiar to aficionados of serenity. Akrotiri was also the birthplace of Jonathan’s paternal grandmother, Evanthia, in 1892. She was one of sixteen children born to Emmanuel and Anna. And to reiterate: at the time of their marriage, Jonathan’s great-grandfather was 44, his great-grandmother a tender 14, and it was a happ--and exceptionally fruitful--union by all accounts.

The family lived in the village of Pithari, in a compound located at an important crossroads. The Ottoman Turks twice destroyed the family house in the late nineteenth century, but it was rebuilt through the power of steely determination and a refusal to capitulate. (Jonathan’s paternal grandfather apparently called them “the vicious and evil Turks” for good reason.)

Jonathan wanted to show Manny not only the family compound but the Comatsoulakis tomb—the marked burial place of Emmanuel and Anna. Below are photos of the family house: the first is a picture of Emmanuel Comatsoulakis's great-great grandson--who was named after him--taken nearly 105 years after the one showing the family patriarch, his wife, and some of their sixteen children (c. 1905). It is the same doorway, slightly remodeled/plastered, more than a century later. Jonathan's grandmother Evanthia is standing in the back row (right), wearing a white blouse.

From Pithari they visited the quiet beach at Marathi for a swim, before returning to Hania to persuade the rental company to let them keep the buggy for the balance of the afternoon—at no extra cost. (They agreed.) The boys left the city behind, dashing the dozen kilometers back to Akrotiri for an afternoon of swimming (at Stavros, a public beach on the ocean side of Akrotiri--and then later at an isolated beach where the relevance of clothing is questioned) and then, finally, for a spat of “monastery hopping”: first to the exceptional seventeenth-century Ayia Triada and then to nearby Gouvernetou.

These are places of great beauty and of spiritual sustenance for the larger Hania community. Ayia Triada is famous for its ethic of sustainable agriculture, with highly productive organic olive orchards, vineyards, and gardens. Along with superb wine, the monastery also produces 100 percent organic tsikoudia, distilled with the ultimate spiritual experience in mind: their motto may well be—“See the light, or see the floor!”

Ferry to Piraeus, Car Ride to Evia

The boys boarded the same ferry they arrived on, the “Lato,” at around 8 p.m. By 9 p.m. the good ship “Lato” was belching its way up Souda Bay, rounding the head of Akrotiri’s tip in the twilight, bound for the open ocean.

Manny and Jonathan staked their ground with sleeping bags and managed several hours of sleep before arriving at Pireaus harbor just before sunrise.

Arrangements for a rental car had been made by phone the day before, with a pickup at the Athens Airport scheduled for 8 o'clock on Sunday morning—as it happened, this was election day in Greece, the people voting for delegates to the European Parliament. It was another event in the birthplace of democracy, and during the lead up a fine excuse for street rioting.

By 8 a.m., the boys were heading north on the national highway, with Athens in their mirror, bound for the island of Evia.

Limni (northern Evia) and Koskina (southern Evia)

Evia (Euboea) ranks just behind Crete as Greece’s largest island. A seahorse shaped body, its middle section practically touching the mainland and accessible by bridge, Evia is a beautiful “island apart” with a remarkable diversity, peculiar demographics (a large Albanian population that dates to the Middle Ages; several large gypsy encampments; a once-thriving Jewish community in Halkida), and an exceptional topography. The mountainous, verdant, pine-clad north is so very different from the craggy, desiccated south—but both regions, though quite different geographically and culturally, are noteworthy.

Jonathan has several friends and colleagues in the northwest, on the inland gulf near the town of Limni, and another friend in the south—English by birth but with lifelong commitments, abiding love, and due respect for their adopted home. The plan was to stay in the north for several days, and then spend an evening—or at least an afternoon—with their other friend in the south.

Aside from the national elections, this was also the weekend of Ayio Pnevma (Holy Spirit), known in the West as Pentacost. Falling as it did on a weekend, the roads were packed with weekend holiday-makers, mostly Athenians who were fleeing to the country for a brief excursion, a taste of life beyond the concrete mass posing as civilization. As a result, the roads were a dangerous place as they so often are anyway in Greece, even at the quietest of times.

After so many days of hiking/camping and weeks of insufficient sleep, driver and junior navigator did their best to stay awake and alert. Halfway to Limni they stopped at a roadside taverna for the standard breakfast fare—local yogurt with honey and walnuts—and the all-essential Nescafe frappe.

Jonathan and Manny spent three nights with friends who have lived in a settlement outside of town for a generation—a bucolic, quiet, and restful valley where the pine trees grow to the shore, the cicadas hum a magic tune, and the conversation is always thoughtful, engaging, and pleasantly provoking. It was the perfect tonic for weary travelers—in the embrace of genuine kindness, off the beaten track, beyond time and schedules. It was also—gasp!—the start of what would be their final week in Greece. Accommodations were in a masterfully constructed stone cottage known as the kili, the home traditionally given to the visiting priest. It is located beside a small stone chapel. There is no electricity, no phone; after sunset a soft yellow light issues from kerosene lanterns.

During their stay in northern Evia, they swam, hiked, fished, and spent long evenings on the porch, engaged in stimulating conversation, eating the fruits of the garden and drinking the local wine. On the second morning Jonathan ran 10 miles with a former college professor (from his 1979-1980 academic year in Athens), following the gravel roads that wind through the mountains. A nice run followed by—what else?—an ocean swim.

On Wednesday the boys set off on an epic journey at 6 a.m.—traversing the entire length of Evia in order to visit another old friend. Jonathan and Philip played music, together with a third friend, back in the early 1980s in Athens and had managed to keep in touch all these many years. Regrettably the visit was far too brief, but it was nevertheless a chance to see one another and tour his new, thoughtfully conceived house now in the final stages of construction. Phil's is a traditional village, also located off the beaten track—from his veranda a lush, green valley spreads out like a thick carpet, surrounded—almost incongruously—by the sight of enormous windmills dotting the distant ridge: development of the sort that speaks volumes about the “new” Greece and its fledgling efforts at energy independence.

The ultimate destination was southern Messenia, many hundreds of kilometers away at the very southwestern tip of the Peloponnese. The boys decided, rather spontaneously, to say a last goodbye to their former “home” of Finikounda—ending their journey where it had begun in February, along a two-kilometer stretch of white sand facing out toward the Sea of Crete.

Getting there required a full day of driving that began on the deck of a small car ferry crossing the gulf from Eretria in Evia to Oropou on the northern outskirts of Attica, followed by a circumnavigation of Athens, a mad dash to Corinth, the long road south through the Peloponnese—past Tripoli and Megalopoli--then the winding descent to Kalamata. And finally, the familiar 50 km dash to their destination, past a vast horizon of olive groves, citrus orchards, and vineyards. By the time they passed Nestor’s “sandy Pylos” and the Venetian castle of Methoni and arrived in Finikounda the summer sun’s slow retreat into the Mediterranean had begun to broadcast shadows on the sand—but there’s always still time for a swim, a run, and then another swim.

Goodbye Again Finikounda!

Jonathan and Manny shared a peculiar sense of “coming home”—in the three months that the family lived in Finikounda, they had cemented so many friendships, discovered a plethora of favorite haunts, and practically became a part of the landscape itself. Jonathan, Ann, Manny, Lucia, and Evyenia: individually and collectively they had ingratiated themselves with this welcoming community of foreign residents and Greeks alike.

Their British friends Gordon and Wendy, who they had called the previous day, graciously offered the use of their large motor home, a comfortable “snail” parked semi-permanently on the edge of the ocean at Thines campground—with the sound of the nearby crashing surf, the chirping of exotic songbirds, and the gentle shadows of palm and eucalyptus trees. Their generosity and kindness mirrored that of so many others.

After settling in to their new temporary home, Jonathan and Manny took a walk through the village center, along the waterfront—the same place they had left with such tearful goodbyes just five weeks earlier. Initial stares of disbelief—from proprietors and from friends at the cafes, the tavernas, the sweet shop—were followed by warm hugs and kisses and unfettered acts of hospitality. Our old friend, Panayioti, said matter of factly: “we knew you’d be back. We just thought it would be next summer!”

It wasn’t easy to explain their premature return to the village—so soon after a notable send-off. The boys had come, partly, to complete some unfinished business, but this was a fact better kept to themselves. A better reason—and true to American form: “Have car, will travel!”

They had a scant seventy-two hours to repeat their favorite pastimes: Sweets and coffee at the zaharoplastion on the terrace above the harbor; dinner at “To Steki” (in order to verify Manny’s claim: “The best bifteki in all of Greece!”); hanging out on the stools at the waterfront brew pub with our British friends—Chris, Rose, Alf, and others—in order to watch the world go by; eating souvlakis and pitas at Dionysia and Alexandros’s shop; and, of course, lots of lively conversation with friends Dimitri and Yioryia at the butcher shop.

Gordon and Wendy invited the boys up to the villas in Finikes for a swim; Dimitri and Yioryia invited the boys to their house, on a bluff overlooking the village and the broad, still ocean, for dinner— a feast of roast lamb, fresh garden vegetables, and wild greens all washed down with Dimitri’s homemade wine. The previous day they drank some wine and talked politics and poetry with Nikos. Their realtor-friend Yiota invited them for sweets in her office. Earlier in the day they stopped at the olive oil factory and bought a five-kilo tin of extra virgin oil from Andoni, the factory owner. He gave them the nickel tour of his latest processing equipment, so proud of his half-million euros worth of stainless steel separator and crushers, sieves and filters.

Now that he’s fourteen and all grown up, Manny had several opportunities to drive the rental car on the agricultural roads that snake behind the main road; Jonathan got to swim to his heart’s content, squeezing every bit of Mediterranean goodness from that crescent of white sand, dealing a final three-day blow to “whiteness” in a determined campaign of tan-line eradication; and the two enjoyed a stupendous lunch one afternoon with their former landlady —who, true to form, hovered over them for the duration, refilling their plates with food, their glasses with wine.

They wished it would never end—but end it must. A few of their friends warned them: “you can say goodbye but you can never really leave.” It sure sounded like the lyrics from a bad 1970s American pop tune, but the boys understood. And Chris joked: “Hey, we’ll see you next month when you come back to say goodbye again!”

On Saturday morning, with big lumps in their throats, the boys said goodbye—for a second time but they suspect not the last—to Finikounda and headed over the mountain toward the village of Kaplani, bound for Kalamata the back way, and then on the long road back to the Athens’ Venizelos Airport. The rental car drop-off time was set for 3 p.m.—nearly three hundred kilometers later they pulled into the arrivals terminal…at 2:58. This was one driving adventure that had had a happy ending.

Goodbye (for now) to Our Athens Friends

With just two days left in Athens, Jonathan and Manny made the best of their limited time. Ensconced at the Hotel Erechtheion, in the shadow of the Acropolis, they engaged in aimless walking in the flea market, under the pretext of “shopping.” Shopping seemed a high priority—but not nearly as high a priority as spending time with our koumbaroi, Thanasi and Koula, and their daughter Dionysia, whose kindness and generosity was boundless.

They spent our last two afternoons and evenings with our friends in the neighborhood of Kaisariani, far from the hustle and bustle of downtown Athens, on the lower slopes of Mount Hymettus.

On our last night, we enjoyed a meal together at the Plateia Kasariani, watching the world go by and breathing in the last of a warm Athens night.

Jonathan set off for a run at 6 a.m. on the morning of their departure—circling the Acropolis at sunrise, climbing the Pnyx Hill with a broad view of the Pireaus, watching a hot summer sun rise on the concrete mass of Athens. Even Athens has its moments of austere, sensuous beauty. This was such a morning.

Still Don’t Know What I’m Looking For: An Epilogue

What seemed every bit like a transformation of sorts ended on June 15th, after just four and half months in Greece. Their trip had been cut short by at least six weeks, perhaps longer for Jonathan, owing to life’s unpredictability—but, alas, they had no complaints. Well, maybe they could have had one more swim....

Manny grew two inches and gained eight pounds, all of it muscle; Jonathan shrunk an inch and gained twenty pounds, most of it fat. Both were speaking much better Greek than when they had arrived in early February. They had learned to cope with the bureaucracy of the most maddeningly archaic civil society in Europe; had come to the realization that sleeping is for babies and napping is for adults; and had rediscovered the joys of food, drink, dance, and laugher. The kindness of strangers had had an enduring effect on them.

More than anything, the entire family comprehends the power of possibility: nothing could prevent them from returning to Greece—to Messenia or to Crete or to any as yet unexplored corner of Greece. Making a life there, even on a temporary or occasional basis, finding a place in a society that not so long ago was thoroughly monolithic but is today multicultural, multiethnic, and forward-thinking….all of this was possible.

In a practical sense, Jonathan and the kids are but a few centimeters away from achieving dual citizenship status—that is, obtaining EU passports and the realm of possibility that comes with citizenship. In fact, by all accounts they are just two burning hoops and several cartwheels away from this goal.

One of Jonathan’s aged uncles asked his mother shortly after they returned: “So what does he find so great about Greece? Why does he want to keep going back there? What’s so special?”

Asked the same question about jazz, the life-blood of American music, Louis Armstrong was reported to have said: “If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”

Maybe it’s a different song, but it’s the same kind of answer…

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

Temenos

Friday, July 24, 2009

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Followers

Blog Archive

About Me