Crete, final days

Final Days in Crete

Our time in Crete draws to a close. Where have these eleven
days gone? we ask ourselves. We packed much into our final four days, despite
the fact that the temperature continues to soar and the humidity levels rise.
Taken with the fact that we are sleeping less and less—we’re often out until 1
or 2 a.m. and then wake early to the marching orders of a taskmaster who will
go unnamed—and siesta hours are being replaced with afternoon swims, the five
of us are fraying around the edges.

Shopping

We spent most of Thursday shopping in the bazaar, back alleys,
and side streets of the medieval city of Hania. One would be hard-pressed to
find a better medium-sized city for finding just about anything: traditional
crafts, useful household items, and both the bizarre and the unexpected. We
have certainly far exceeded our weight limits and will be testing the limits of
jet propulsion when we finally fly off from Athens to London, and then on to
Boston, next Thursday. Our shopping day began with an early morning run
(Jonathan) and concluded with a lengthy swim at Marathi beach (all five of us),
near our house.

Kerameia

Jonathan’s paternal grandfather hailed from the storied
region know as Kerameia, a mountaineous plateau (elevation: 2400 feet) above
Hania. The average Haniot gets dreamy when you say you are visiting relatives
in Kerameia—its 17 remote and pastoral villages are justifiably famous for
being the “authentic” Crete, where knife-wielding, gun-packing, raki guzzling shepherds rule outside the
realm of law and order, and where a fierce independence and mind-numbing
hospitality reign unmolested.

In 1992 Jonathan and Ann, shortly after their marriage, met
the Aretakis family in the settlement of Tsakistra (population: 12), shepherds
whose village lies in an uppermost valley beneath the high peaks of Pahnes
(elevation 8,200 feet). Over the years, we have cultivated a relationship with
Yioryia, her husband Yioryia, and their adult five children. Yioryia and
Jonathan are second cousins, their grandfathers (born in the 1890s) having been
siblings from a family of 12.

We drove to Kambi (the larger village) by way of the
Therisso Gorge and the eponymous village, which was famous in the final
revolution formented against the Turkish occupation during the late nineteenth
century, and more recently as a place of vicious resistance and subsequent
atrocities during the German occupation of World War II. Six of our common
Aretakis family members were executed by the Germans there in 1943, punished
for their part in guerilla activities against the region’s last unwelcome
occupier.

In Therisso we briefly visited the Museum of the Resistance,
which has gathered tales and artifacts from this bloody history, and retains a
living memory of the events. For the people of Kerameia, the turkokratia and the German occupation
are events that happened “yesterday” despite the passage of time. Everyone
knows each family’s role in the four-hundred-year history of conflict—against
not only occupiers and encroachers but against each other. The stealing of
sheep and blood feuds are part and parcel of life in the mountains.

Leaving Therisso we traveled to even greater elevation,
arriving at Tsakistra in time for a never-ending lunch that included goat,
lamb, and garden vegetables—all washed down with copious quantities of raki (a distillation of the remaining
grapes skins, pits, and other matter remaining from the wine-making process)—as
previously mentioned, a “beverage” with all the qualities of industrial
strength floor cleaner, one that separates the sheep from the shepherd, which
is consumed throughout Crete with reckless abandon. The drink is referred to as
farmaka, which has a double meaning
in the Modern Greek language: the word, aptly perhaps, can mean both “poison”
and “medicine.”

We were greeted with the love and hospitality that only a Cretan
mountain family can express: either they love you unequivocally or they slice
your throat with the long blades worn in their belts. Happily for us, they have
always expressed the former sentiment.

Spending nearly five hours with the family, we were treated
to a video showing the traditional wedding and dowry ceremony of their younger
daughter. The dowry segment, an ancient ceremony that is codified in Cretan
tradition, begins at the house of the prospective groom. In short, a large
feast is made there, with voluminous amounts of food, wine, and, most
alarmingly, the firing of automatic weapons. The dowry party then travels to
the home of the prospective bride, where the party continues: more food,
unfathomable amounts of wine (all served by the new family) and then a most
unbelievable ransacking of the home of the parents of the bride to be. Several
dozen men enter the house and take whatever they want: furniture, weavings,
plates/table service; then outside, they take goats, sheep, chickens,
firewood---all of which is loaded into a convoy of pickup trucks and then taken
to the groom’s village (in this case, downtown Hania, an urbane, modern city 40
kilometers away). During the entire process, men stand at the table and fire
off handguns into the air. Several men pulled out AK-47s and fired volleys of
automatic rounds (entire clips of 40 shells in a matter of seconds) in the air.
It is all good-spirited but nevertheless representative (as in the old days) of
the dominance of the groom’s family over the bride’s family.

The hour-long video shows the groom’s family’s convey
returning to Hania. On the steps of his city house, in a dense urban
neighborhood, “stolen” rabbits and goats are slaughtered (right on the
sidewalk!) and volleys of gun fire continue. We are told the police would never
dream of interfering in this age-old procession. At this point, the third feast
and drunk-feast commences. It is a wonder that no-one is killed.

Before leaving, we were implored to change our return
tickets and stay in the village for another week or more, so that we could
travel up the mountain for the annual summer movement of the flocks to higher
ground. The family (along with others like it) live in circular stone buildings
at extreme elevation, together with their sheep, for months on end. Alongside
these ancient structures are stone cheese sheds, where hundreds of wheels of cheese
are left in the cool, dark dryness to age.

Alas we were unable to join them on this most special
journey but promised that in the future we would find a way to take part in
this ancient pastoral ritual.

We were sent off at sunset with a two-liter bottle of
homemade raki and several gallons of
their wine, gifts that custom and protocol would not allow us to refuse.

Falasarna

Knowing that our time on Crete was drawing to a close, and
that a full beach day would be mandatory, Jonathan took the family to extreme
western part of Crete on Friday for a full day at Falasarna. This is a
two-mile-long stretch of beach that has received the “Blue Flag” rating for
exceptional Mediterranean beaches—90 percent of which are located in Greece.

With nothing between western Crete and Malta but open ocean,
Falasarna is an incredible spot, justly famous for its exceptional ocean color
and—on this day—pounding surf. The
pictures tell the story of our day
there.

Sfakia

Much like Kerameia, Sfakia on the Libyan Sea is a place of
raw beauty and, for the mountain climber, a place of exceptional challenges:
not just for the alpinist, but for the driver.

With a scant four hours of sleep under our belts, we set off
at 5:30 a.m. on Sunday. Unfortunately, the meltemi
(Greece’s occasional extreme summer gale from the north, which is known
from antiquity) made swimming utterly impossible. Instead we drove up the
mountain to the plain below Mount Pahnes, to an austere village named Anapoli,
and then to the top of the Aradena Gorge, which has in recent years been
spanned by a narrow wooden bridge, clinging more than 600 feet over a gaping
depth of stone edifice and dry (in summer) river bed. Although we drove over
the bridge—with its dry-rotted wooden planks—walking over it on foot (in order
to take a few photos) proved a greater challenge and a genuine danger. With
gusts of fifty miles per hour ripping through the gorge, we all held hands and
stayed low. Even Manny, the consummate photographer, sensibly retreated (on
hands and knees) to the relative safety of a concrete embankment. The gale-force winds required two hands on the
camera—but no one dared take a hand off of something solid.

We then drove back to the Libyan Sea to see the Crusader
castle named Frangokastello (“the Frankish castle”) but found ourselves in an
unrelenting sandstorm. We were hopelessly sandblasted and in the end retreated
back to Hania and the shelter of Marathi beach, where a swim helped to wash the
sand out of our hair, ears, and deep pores.

Last Supper

Tonight we will drive back into Hania for our last supper on
the waterfront before our final day on Crete. We will also post this (perhaps
last) blog entry from an Internet café.

On Monday night, our ferry departs Suda Bay for the
eight-hour overnight journey back to Pireaus, the port of Athens. Our last two
days will be spent in Athens—packing our bags, visiting the new Akropolis
Museum, and spending time with our friends and koumbaroi Thanasi, Koula, and Dionysia.

This time next week we will wake up on our homestead on Maine’s
eastern tip—grateful for the good fortune of our journey, and thankful for the
kindness of family, friends, and strangers alike.

Greece is a special place—much changed by time and
circumstance, but still a rich and formidable land that has a special place in
our hearts and in our memory.

Western Crete--from north to south

Paleohora, Pithari,
and Kallivia (Iraklion Prefecture)

We roused ourselves at 6 a.m. on Monday, about the time a
nearby herd of goats makes its early descent from the stony ledges above our
house, with their symphony of tinkling bells, the growing racket of hooves
against rocks, the approaching snorts and bleats, as the sun rises from ocean,
making its way above the scrub-land to the east. By prior agreement, the
children stumbled with us speechless to the rental car, their day packs set up
from the previous evening—towels, swimsuits, computers, reading materials all
at the ready.

We drove through Hania, picked up the so-called “National
Road” heading west: a terrifying two-lane improvement over the old road, with
only a few sections of center divider and a narrow breakdown lane that is used
to force slower vehicles to the margins while faster vehicles (including
over-packed agricultural vehicles) overtake them. We strove to maintain 140
kph, despite a cacophony of backseat objections, exiting the highway 30 km east
of the city. We then headed due south, crossing the mountainous spine of
western Crete, negotiating hairpin turns, passing flocks of goats and sheep,
giving way to occasional careening sports car and kamikaze
motorcyclist—arriving at our destination, Paleohora, on the Libyan Sea, within
an hour and half.

The last major town before Paleohora is Kandanos, which the
Germans exterminated and leveled during
World War II, in retribution for the “murder” (i.e., self-defense) of 24 German
soldiers. The town square includes several reminders of this act of barbarity,
including an exact copy of the Third Reich’s original plaque marking the event:
“At this site, once stood the town of Kandanos, which exists no more and will
never be rebuilt.” A few feet away a wall lists the names of the village who
were massacred there in 1943—men, women, and children ranging in ages from 16
to 87. Of course, the town was indeed rebuilt and thrives today.

Paleohora itself does not lend itself to much poetic
description, but the beaches that stretch east, several kilometers from town on
a gravely track, are brilliantly clean—most with a plethora of brightly
colored, polished stone, and the last section with fine grayish sand. But like
several other places of such austere beauty, a sort of “second occupation” has
occurred in recent years, a god-forsaken proliferation of beach chairs, umbrellas, and the usual
bric-a-brac that accompanies development of any kind. Thankfully, all of this is
right-sized construction of two or three story buildings. And none of it
detracts from the ocean’s magnificence.

Almost anywhere along southern Crete, the ocean color and
quality is without compare anywhere in the world—crystal clean, aquamarine,
with visibility at tremendous depths. Whenever we swim out from shore, we
engage in one of our favorite fantasies: we are swimming, without any
obstruction, directly to Egypt. Or, with some deviation, directly to Libya.

The following morning, back in Suda/Hania, we drove from our
house to the nearby village of Pithari, where in 1892 Jonathan’s grandmother
was born (as were all of her 15 siblings) and where the family house, several
hundred years old, still exists. We found the graves of her parents, Manoli and
Anna, who were both born before 1850 and are still remembered by the local
people generations later. The Comatsoulakis family is well known throughout
Hania, a city of 60,000, and those 16 children resulted in a widespread and
diverse family tree. We are being fed by many of those branches!

On Wednesday morning, now having defied anything approaching
normal sleep cycles, the five of us set off on the “National Highway”—which, by
necessity, remains permanently in quotations—for Rethymon, Crete’s third
largest city on the north coast—and like Hania to the west and Iraklion to the
east, a city steeped in many thousands of years of history. As we approached
from the west, in the first light of morning, we spied the well-preserved
Venetian castle on the heights. Skirting most of central Rethymon, we cut south
toward the Libyan Sea, our destination the small village of Kallivia in the
Kofinas region. Getting there required negotiating an endless series of hairpin
turns, ascents and descents, and some breathtaking vistas.

This is a remarkably abundant olive-growing region and a
place seemingly unmolested by rampant tourism, steeped in traditional Cretan
values of family, religion, and vibrant agriculture. We thought that the
Kalamata region (Messenia in the southern Peloponnese, where we lived in 2009) was
a “forest” of olive groves, but this area’s olive cultivation is on an even
larger scale. Our drive took us through the rather grimey trading towns of
Timbaki, Mires, and Agi Deka and then into an impossibly large valley with
literally millions and millions of olive trees and vineyards, surrounded by
desolate mountain ranges with dizzying heights (8,000--foot elevation). It felt
like we were driving through California’s Central Valley, for the agricultural
richness, but with a desolate backdrop of the Hindu Kush and a smattering of
the Gobi Desert.

Our old Athens friends Akis and Mania, and their lovely
four-year-old daughter Lydia, rescued us from a nearby village as we became
hopelessly lost in a maze of roads. (The old Downeast saw—“you can’t get there
from here”—might also apply in this region, but in the opposite sense. There
are multiple tracks that lead to practically every village, so asking for
directions or using a map, which we attempted dutifully, seems an act of
futility.) We followed our friends to Mania’s parents’ house, enjoyed
refreshments and a tour of the gardens, and then set off in a convey to their
swimming beach, called Tsousouras, down a switchback mountain road that leads
to the Libyan Sea. It proved well worth the effort: connecting with our friends
and swimming for several hours on this gorgeous, sandy beach. At 5 p.m. we set
off on a track further east to the village of Dermatos, for a late lunch, and
then retraced our track back toward Tsousouras—seduced by another swim at 7 p.m.,
then a coffee on the waterfront, we were late in leaving. Our late departure
put us on some dangerous roads at night, which we had hoped to avoid in our
tired state. By the time we returned to the Suda Bay exit, just east of Hania,
our nerves were utterly frayed by the journey. We had a meal at midnight, overlooking
Suda, and found our way back to the village of Marathi and bed by 1 a.m. This
was our earliest night in a week. As we clasped our veranda shutters, the beach
party was just warming up below.

Ten Days in Crete

20 July 2012
Friday—Marathi, Akrotiri, Crete

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kriti—Crete

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

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

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

Day One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Settling In

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

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

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

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

Monasteries on
Akrotiri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Images from Evia

The beach a few kilometers run from our cottage in Evia--as you can see, it is utterly packed with throngs of visitors!

Sunsets on the beach near our house are spectacular, with soft hues of pastel colors. We are swimming several times each day. The best swims are at dusk.

Our little stone house stays wonderfully cool during the day, even when temperatures reach 105 F. or better.

Cruising the Gulf of Evia with our friend Jane and her family, aboard their powerboat. The mountains tumble right down to the sea. We anchored off Mt. Kandili and swam off the transom, which was a singular pleasure.

From the Sporades to Evia

We spent our penultimate night at the small but protected
harbor at Neo Klima on the island of Skopellos. A freshening breeze from the
northwest became a minor gale (a number 6 on the Beaufort scale). Come morning
we decided we weren’t going anywhere until the wind dropped off slightly. Any
crossing from Skopellos to Skiathos would have presented some large swells and
whitecaps. We opted instead to swim the lee of the town jetty at Neo Klima.
Lambros and Cynthia snorkeled along the rocks in search of a octopus and
instead came face-to-face with a moray eel, which they watched warily cross a
safe distance. But where there are eels there are octopii, so the search for a meze (appetizer) continued.

Jonathan ran four miles at around 6 p.m. when the day’s high
temperature of 40 C. (about 104 degrees F.) had sunk to the high 30s (mid-90s
F.). A little later the eight of us strolled to a nearby taverna with wireless internet and everyone
reveled in our new-found connectivity: the children on their various devices,
the adults checking emails, bank balances, and a few messages from distant
publishing clients—out of sight but never entirely out of mind. We had dinner
in the same taverna, at around 10 p.m., with a nice view of the sailboat. Our
lines were holding nicely even though the wind continued to blow.

The following morning we delayed our depature, deferring to
a big sea and a continuing gale. Finally, at noon, we untied and set off for
Skiathos, a twelve-mile open water crossing. With the head sail hoisted and the
trusty Penta diesel chugging dependably, we rode over the six- to eight-foot
swells effortlessly, the sailboat performing like a surfboard or a snowboard
crossing a mogel field.

Skiathos harbor was chockful of sailboats and motor yachts
of every description and it appeared that each slip and most moorings had been
taken in advance of the weekend. We attempted a stern-to approach at the town
pier but our anchor hooked another boat’s anchor and the cross winds made
disengaging difficult (the boat has no bow thrusters). Then, seeming out of
nowhere, the 300-foot car ferry arrived in the harbor, adding another dimension
of uncertainty. It was a harrowing moment, during which our skipper remained
calm while his crew scampered around the deck, fending off other vessels,
tending the dingy, and holding on for balance to stanchions, cleats, and
winches. The ferry’s wake was large and the vessel’s propellors churned the
water, causing the moored boats to swing unpredicably. We remained stationary
between anchored boats and the ferry—which made us feel like a dingy beside the
Titanic in a heavy chop. As soon as the car ferry departed we disengaged from
another boat’s anchor line, hoisted our own anchor, and retreated to a quieter
nearby cove, where we ended up spending our last night on Skiathos. The cove was protected from the predominant
NW wind but was exposed to the open ocean. Fortunately the wind remained
northwest and we were protected by the steep headland.

We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming off the transom
in about 40 feet of translucent water, clear enough to see straight to the
bottom.

Another reason to avoid Skiathos harbor was the general
drunken rowdiness that issues each evening and carries across the open water,
making sleep all but impossible in the harbor. The clubs don’t open until
midnight and the party continues until 6 a.m. Adding to the general pandemonium
was the international Mr. Skiathos competition, a gathering of gay men from all
over Europe. On Saturday the participants and onlookers began to
arrive—boatloads and planeloads. In the town we passed hordes of young men
dressed in feather boas…and little else. Our older children found this rather
entertaining. Our boys—Manny and Alexander—were quick to remove the blue
toenail polish that Nia had applied earlier in the day.

-----------

The following morning, we hoisted anchor at an ungodly hour
(from the big kid’s perspective) of 8 a.m. and motored back to Skiathos harbor,
where we would catch the hydrofoil back to the mainland. The detritus of the
previous evening’s mayhem were apparent—empty bottles, lost boas, and abandoned
partners slumbering on park benches by the waterside.

Back on the mainland, we found a slow ferry heading to the
large, adjacent island of Evia, where we had planned to visited British friends
that Jonathan has known for more than thirty years, in an oceanside valley a
few kilometers south of the town of Limni.

On the ferry Jonathan struck up a conversation with an Evian
firefighter named Archelaos. He was traveling with his wife and child to the
northern tip of the island for an afternoon swim. As he said, “the beaches here
are virgin and it is a perfect place for children to swim”—a fact that Jonathan
has known so well since 1980, when he first visited this mountaineous, heavily
forested place. During the course of our trip, Jonathan and Manny have taken
every opportunity to engage in conversation with our fellow firefighters.

From the little harbor of Ayio Gioryio, Jonathan negotiated
a taxi to Limni for the girls and Ann; and another for himself and Manny, but
only as far as the hot springs at Loutro Epidsos, where our friend Denise
offered to pick us up in her old Suzuki 4x4.

Evia

Described by one travel writer as “an island apart,” Evia is
a special place—famous in the classical era (Aristotle wrote about the 6 daily
tides that occur at the island’s southern end—a geological phenomenon that is
still not entirely clear to oceanographers), during the Middle Ages, and during
the Ottoman Turkish period and later.

The northern part of Evia is a continuation—in terms of
geography and ecology—of the Pelion peninsula. Like the Sporades, which we had
just cruised, Evia has sharp, steep mountain ranges and is very rich in pine
forests. Some of the worst summertime fires occur here, as there is a steady
wind through the parched forests and any forest fire is all but unstoppable.

Our friend Denise put the girls into the cottage annex,
while Jonathan and Manny stayed down in the valley in the κυλλη (a stone
building used to house the visting priest), which is located a five-minute walk
away. Still there is no electricicty here, so kerosene lanterns provide the
evening light, although the western sky still has sufficient light for walking
about until 10 p.m.

We sat on the veranda eating dinner and sipping the local
wine until midnight and then enjoyed our first “stable” (i.e., non-rocking)
night in a week. The kids slept until 10 a.m., while Jonathan was up for run
and a swim at first light.

Goodbye Skiathos, Hello Evia

We spent our penultimate night at the small but protected
harbor at Neo Klima on the island of Skopellos. A freshening breeze from the
northwest became a minor gale (a number 6 on the Beaufort scale). Come morning
we decided we weren’t going anywhere until the wind dropped off slightly. Any
crossing from Skopellos to Skiathos would have presented some large swells and
whitecaps. We opted instead to swim the lee of the town jetty at Neo Klima.
Lambros and Cynthia snorkeled along the rocks in search of a octopus and
instead came face-to-face with a moray eel, which they watched warily cross a
safe distance. But where there are eels there are octopii, so the search for a meze (appetizer) continued.

Jonathan ran four miles at around 6 p.m. when the day’s high
temperature of 40 C. (about 104 degrees F.) had sunk to the high 30s (mid-90s
F.). A little later the eight of us strolled to a nearby taverna with wireless internet and everyone
reveled in our new-found connectivity: the children on their various devices, the
adults checking emails, bank balances, and a few messages from distant
publishing clients—out of sight but never entirely out of mind. We had dinner
in the same taverna, at around 10 p.m., with a nice view of the sailboat. Our
lines were holding nicely even though the wind continued to blow.

The following morning we delayed our depature, deferring to
a big sea and a continuing gale. Finally, at noon, we untied and set off for
Skiathos, a twelve-mile open water crossing. With the head sail hoisted and the
trusty Penta diesel chugging dependably, we rode over the six- to eight-foot
swells effortlessly, the sailboat performing like a surfboard or a snowboard
crossing a mogel field.

Skiathos harbor was chockful of sailboats and motor yachts
of every description and it appeared that each slip and most moorings had been
taken in advance of the weekend. We attempted a stern-to approach at the town
pier but our anchor hooked another boat’s anchor and the cross winds made
disengaging difficult (the boat has no bow thrusters). Then, seeming out of
nowhere, the 300-foot car ferry arrived in the harbor, adding another dimension
of uncertainty. It was a harrowing moment, during which our skipper remained
calm while his crew scampered around the deck, fending off other vessels,
tending the dingy, and holding on for balance to stanchions, cleats, and
winches. The ferry’s wake was large and the vessel’s propellors churned the
water, causing the moored boats to swing unpredicably. We remained stationary
between anchored boats and the ferry—which made us feel like a dingy beside the
Titanic in a heavy chop. As soon as the car ferry departed we disengaged from
another boat’s anchor line, hoisted our own anchor, and retreated to a quieter
nearby cove, where we ended up spending our last night on Skiathos. The cove was protected from the predominant
NW wind but was exposed to the open ocean. Fortunately the wind remained
northwest and we were protected by the steep headland.

We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming off the transom
in about 40 feet of translucent water, clear enough to see straight to the
bottom.

Another reason to avoid Skiathos harbor was the general
drunken rowdiness that issues each evening and carries across the open water,
making sleep all but impossible in the harbor. The clubs don’t open until
midnight and the party continues until 6 a.m. Adding to the general pandemonium
was the international Mr. Skiathos competition, a gathering of gay men from all
over Europe. On Saturday the participants and onlookers began to
arrive—boatloads and planeloads. In the town we passed hordes of young men
dressed in feather boas…and little else. Our older children found this rather entertaining.
Our boys—Manny and Alexander—were quick to remove the blue toenail polish that
Nia had applied earlier in the day.

-----------

The following morning, we hoisted anchor at an ungodly hour
(from the big kid’s perspective) of 8 a.m. and motored back to Skiathos harbor,
where we would catch the hydrofoil back to the mainland. The detritus of the
previous evening’s mayhem were apparent—empty bottles, lost boas, and abandoned
partners slumbering on park benches by the waterside.

Back on the mainland, we found a slow ferry heading to the
large, adjacent island of Evia, where we had planned to visited British friends
that Jonathan has known for more than thirty years, in an oceanside valley a
few kilometers south of the town of Limni.

On the ferry Jonathan struck up a conversation with an Evian
firefighter named Archelaos. He was traveling with his wife and child to the
northern tip of the island for an afternoon swim. As he said, “the beaches here
are virgin and it is a perfect place for children to swim”—a fact that Jonathan
has known so well since 1980, when he first visited this mountaineous, heavily
forested place. During the course of our trip, Jonathan and Manny have taken
every opportunity to engage in conversation with our fellow firefighters.

From the little harbor of Ayio Gioryio, Jonathan negotiated
a taxi to Limni for the girls and Ann; and another for himself and Manny, but
only as far as the hot springs at Loutro Epidsos, where our friend Denise offered
to pick us up in her old Suzuki 4x4.

Evia

Described by one travel writer as “an island apart,” Evia is
a special place—famous in the classical era (Aristotle wrote about the 6 daily
tides that occur at the island’s southern end—a geological phenomenon that is still
not entirely clear to oceanographers), during the Middle Ages, and during the
Ottoman Turkish period and later.

The northern part of Evia is a continuation—in terms of
geography and ecology—of the Pelion peninsula. Like the Sporades, which we had
just cruised, Evia has sharp, steep mountain ranges and is very rich in pine
forests. Some of the worst summertime fires occur here, as there is a steady
wind through the parched forests and any forest fire is all but unstoppable.

Our friend Denise put the girls into the cottage annex,
while Jonathan and Manny stayed down in the valley in the κυλλη (a stone
building used to house the visting priest), which is located a five-minute walk
away. Still there is no electricicty here, so kerosene lanterns provide the
evening light, although the western sky still has sufficient light for walking
about until 10 p.m.

We sat on the veranda eating dinner and sipping the local
wine until midnight and then enjoyed our first “stable” (i.e., non-rocking)
night in a week. The kids slept until 10 a.m., while Jonathan was up for run
and a swim at first light.