June l8,19, 20, 2012. Blog # 23

Leave taking, transition, and arrival, Creta to Santorini

On the night before I departed Irene’s Villas in Iereptra, southern Crete where I had spent the last month, I swam, with increased attention to my senses. I enjoyed the cool fluid water between my fingers, on my torso, between my legs, and gradually my feet and legs found the rhythm to flutter, kick, and propel me without thinking about it. I connected my flutter kick to my abdominal core and it began to feel effortless. I love that, effortlessness in the water. I felt the current and the tide ebbing, pulling me out to sea, as also the North wind pushed me away from shore. In the slightly cloudy heaving buoyant salty sea, I startled a school of mullet, a few solo parrot fish, and dense schools of small bait fish, turning and schooling in unison. I felt a slight sting on my shoulder, but minimal compared to a sting on my right upper back that I experienced my first week swimming. Occasional tiny jelly fish will wash in with the tide or nematocysts, the stinging cells of the jellyfish genus. Blissfully swimming along, I had noted a sharp prickly sting over my left shoulder and shoulder blade. Later, as I looked in the mirror, I noted a red swollen blotchy rash as large as my open hand. It was only a day or two that it continued to sting, but the visible rash lasted 8-9 days. This time, it was hardly noticeable, though I was wary of the sensation.

That evening conscious of leaving, I was especially tuned into my senses, wanting to remember each detail of the swim, the garden, the goats eating the weeds, horses whinny and neighing, dogs barking, cats meows briefly. I heard the cooing of the pigeons and the gentle call of the doves. A strident angry child’s cry, motor cycle, and truck engines revving punctured the natural symphony of night sounds. Always in the background, I could hear and feel the sea/surf and the wind.

The smells rise with their own symphony of fragrance, honeysuckle (evocative of my childhood in Oklahoma) and rose duet are accompanied by the marine scented chords and hot Cretan earth odor rising softly in the night. Wafts of sage and wild herbs of the hillside haunt the edge of my olfactory awareness. The sweet fugue of horse manure and wood smoke drift in and out of the pulsing scent of the sea.

The images that I remember under the moonless (new moon) starry sky, were of plants, weeds, trees, and flowers, moving in the wind as slow color changes of sunset darken into the mountain shadows. The wind, warmth cooling the temperature on my skin, as I stood on the balcony, slight feeling of radiant heat from my own flesh, residual from the sun exposure of the final day. I remembered the full moon, now fully in the earth’s shadow, so much darker and the sky more empty. I smiled and felt the pull of the images of the hours that I had spent lounging, reading, gazing, woolgathering in the antigravity chair on the side balcony before the ascendant noon day sun drove me into the apartment.

What is it like for you to remember sweet moments of repose and rare times of inner and outer peace, nothing to do, no place to go? A slight burning of tears started from my eyes as I realize how precious has been this place where my wish was granted; I was visited by the muse. So many brief wonderings, will a blessed time such as this ever return, joyous, grateful, yearning, and aching? Always the answer is, “no”. Yet, how many uncounted and uncountable moments have there been and will there be of grateful reluctance to release what cannot be held, the passing of time and ever new present moments of being.

In my felt senses, I noted attachment, slight clinging regret about leaving this haven. Will such a time ever be again? I felt a subtle slowing and savoring presence even as I prepared my baggage for departure. I made a large salad with all of the remaining vegetables in the frig and a half a can of tuna fish. I dressed it with a yogurt based tzatziki and olive oil and sipped on the last bit of local wine from the nearby mountains.

The next morning, June 19th, I ate a small breakfast of cereal, banana, yogurt, and milk, packed up the rental car and drove away, waving goodbye to Irene, the proprietor. I drove slowly, stopping frequently at small roadside fruit stands, and archaeological sites. Along my route, I visited Gournys, an ancient Minoan town with Greek and subsequent Roman layers exposed by the archaeologists. There were dozens of college students from upstate New York and Canada helping under the direction of a leading American Minoan scholar. Squatted down with spoon like shovels and brushes, they carefully searched each centimeter of dirt on a grid, periodically hauling away the combed earth to a nearby cache for later reckoning. One young man stood behind a surveyor’s scope on the hillside, mapping each student’s cubic meter of earth. Without a hat, he stood, face flaming red in the midday sun, when I asked him, saying his hat made him too hot to wear it. I have made similar mistakes with the sun, in my younger days. The sun could barely have been more fierce. It was the day before the solstice, the longest day of the year, the sun would get no higher or more directly overhead than that noonday.

On, that long day, under the brilliant sun, I drove north across the island to another Minoan site, Malia, where a vast palace complex, is sheltered by a huge open sided round roof constructed over several football fields worth of ruins. I had not seen this way of preserving mud and rock ruins from sun and rain. Some of the area, primarily the palace itself was of huge stone blocks and durable to the weather, not covered as yet, easy to wander and climb about, reading the signs that described the ancient buildings and their use. A short drive away, I came to the beach of Malia, clothing optional, and many beach umbrellas stretching away down the shore. The wind was high and so was the surf with red flag warning against swimming, but no restraint of the many relaxing sun worshippers.

As I reached the outskirts of Heraklion, the traffic became unnerving. I had decided to drive into the city to drop off my bags at the hotel, before returning to the airport to drop off my rental car. The winding narrow, one way streets, with cars parked along both sides and not infrequent double parked vehicles totally blocking the way, made this a harrowing search. After getting lost once and contacting the hotel, they were able to guide me unerringly to a most narrow alleyway, from which I unloaded my baggage. I decided that I could use the car a bit longer and drove through the old city’s labyrinthine streets to the famous site of Knossos, the ancient Capitol of Minos, where a vast palace, temples, houses, storage places, wine making and olive oil crushing stone compartments were to be found. Also, there were some magnificent frescoes remarkably preserved of Minoan life and worship. The Minoans (2500-1456 BC) were rare in that there is little or no evidence of war or weapons which are normally found at such sites from other civilizations. Also, there is evidence that they were matrilineal, passing property rights and their name to their children. There are frescoes of the priests who were women performing ceremonies with snakes. One of their well known icons was the dolphin, with some beautiful frescoes painted on walls of the palace of leaping dolphins head to tail with each other and slightly smiling.

After leaving Knossos, I found my way back to the airport and searched for over 1 1/2 hours for the rental car drop off location. It was an off brand car rental that Irene knew personally who had rented me the aging Hjundai with 112,000 miles on it. Named Protos, no one at the airport or any of the other rental agencies had ever heard of them. After asking perhaps 7-8 different people and agencies, I was able to call the owner of the rental car back in Ierepetra and get the phone number of the the parking site, for them then to guide me to this small lot containing many older cars, down the road, completely apart from the airport. Relieved, I took a taxi back to city centre to my hotel.
By that time, I needed to pee quit badly. In the hotel room, I sighed, lifted the toilet seat and it fell off onto the floor.

I had chosen the hotel for its location, cost, reviews, and for it having a “business center” computer access. I needed to print out vouchers for my ferry trip in order to pick up tickets as well as confirmations of reservation for the next hotel in Santorini. The hotel had no printer, neither did the internet cafe the hotel directed my to down the road. The hotel receptionist was very nice, but finally said, “you must go into the city centre and there you will surely find one”. Tired from the eventful day, I was on a mission. I walked into the centre where pedestrian only streets ran In several directions. It was a vibrant, alive, fun place to wander. After a couple of stops to ask cafe waiters for ideas, I was directed to a funky internet cafe filled with hardened tattooed, pierced, young Greek teenage gamers intensely focused and unaware of anything else on their digital screens. There, printing was no problem. The streets were filling, and varied Greek music waled out of many clubs and caves, tourist shops beckoned their wares and Greek families with children promenaded through the streets. I joined the river of people walking and ended up far down on the one kilometer long pier beside the old Venetian castle sea wall, waves crashing salty onto the walkers along the windy jetty, the inner bay filled with all kinds and sizes of ships.

The next morning, the 20th, the real solstice, up early, I caught a taxi to the port to pick up my boarding pass and get onto the sea jet ferry bound for Santorini. With a half hour before boarding, time to spare :), the taxi drive drove up and down the large port, looking for and asking for the port office where my tickets could be obtained. A minor thrill that required a bit of a deep breath and trusting the process eventually led to the tiny kiosk, where I waited for the Greek official to finish a violent argument with his comrade, before he would turn to assist me with my boarding pass. No problem, the ferry was comfortable and speedy, requiring less than 3 hours to sail into Santorini’s small harbor for off loading.

There, after wandering a bit more, hauling my bags, I was able to join with a couple who had found a taxi and we began to climb the dramatic switchbacks up to the rim of the huge caldera. A bit harrowing, the woman became upset with the taxi driver passing trucks on hairpin turns, within seeming inches of the edge of the precipitous cliffs. He proceeded to yell back and forth, half turning to her, as he hurtled upward. However, when he dropped them off at their hotel, as they were unloading, the young man discovered that he had accidentally left his fanny pack with all money, passports, and tickets on the ferry. The taxi driver immediately began calling his brother, his nephew, his friend who knew someone at the port to track down the missing documents bag. The couple had gotten out of the cab, the woman unwilling to return in the cab, so he urgently searched for a way to recover their lost bag as he drove the rest of the cliff edges to my little villa apartment at the far end of the island, Oia. With his network, it looked promising for the young couple’s chances of regaining their losses. I was impressed with the concern and effective mobilization of the taxi driver after his violent argument with the lady about his driving.

After settling in, I rested a while, and then, when he showed up, I talked with the proprietor, Christos, who offered me local white wine, delicious, and again, and again. He filled me in with extensive details abut the island, beaches, snorkeling, roads, restaurants etc. Oia, is considered by many to be the most beautiful village on the island, located at the far end, with endless views across the vast water filled caldera. The island is made up of the remnant of the rim of the huge volcano, 35 km long, rising steeply 1300-1500 feet from the deep turquoise blue water below. The sunsets from a high viewing point in the village of Oia, are famous.

After the wine and a nap, I arose and Christos was kind enough to drop me off up the steep kilometer from my hotel to the town. As the late solstice sun lowered, I gravitated with a growing river of tourists along the narrow winding pedestrian way, lined with art galleries, cages, and tourist shops of all kinds. I found my way to the view point and was able to get the last table at the restaurant on the favored site. Sitting, I sipped a local Santorini red wine, Asyrtikos grape, along with hundreds of mostly young spectators, watched, waited, snapped innumerable photos of the sun in its descent, Pat called on my cell phone. I was able to share the ever changing colors of the magnificent sunset with her as well as the crowd perched on every concrete edge and high point. It is heartening to me to see the many people cheering for the sun’s beauty in the magic of its descent and passage into the night. I was a part of a spontaneous community ritual of reverence and joy in the sun’s life giving passage, celebrating its maximum. None of us thought of the reality that each day thereafter, the days shortened and the cycle moved inevitably toward winter and peak darkness. That day (and many) was glorious.

I lingered over my dinner and sky gazing until full dark, after 9:45 or so. Unfortunately, as I began my return, I realized that I had little idea of the way through the rabbit warren, maze of stairs and walkways on this edge and side of the cliff town. Again and again running into blind alleyways or local people’s front door, dogs barked in agitation at me. Again, after many correct and some bum stears, I found the main walkway, but I didn’t know how far to walk before cutting through an alley to the main road. After walking what seemed too far, getting out of the tourist area, into darkened residential areas, I surreptitiously climbed a rock wall, picked my way over broken glass and unnamed debris through a vacant lot and found the road. But it was unrecognizable in the dark, new moon sky. I walked a few minutes one way, seeing nothing familiar, then began retracing my steps, occasional cars speeding by on the road, with no shoulder. At length, I found a man sitting in front of his already closed shop who directed me to the crossroad back down the kilometer hill toward my apartment. I trudged down the dark winding road into blackness, passing darkened houses, and balconies with children playing, dogs barking, occasional motorcycle or car speeding by, smells of garbage, and of the sea. I reached my apartment after 11:00 PM, and slept well and deeply. I had arrived in Santorini, after departing my Cretan refuge on the longest day.

As I drifter toward sleep, I contemplated departures, confusing, lost, wonderful, fearful, and majestic moments of transition, and the joy and enigma of arrival. These are happening every moment if I can pay attention.

The Opening of Eyes. David Whyte

That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out.
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.

It is the opening of the eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the secret after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.