Heraklion, Greece
March 25, 2001
Heading toward home
Leaving the Suez Canal was no fun! For the first time in almost 35 days, as we left Port Said, the captain announced over the loud speaker system that we were apt to encounter bad weather that night as we entered the Mediterranean Sea.
He couldn’t have spoken truer words! At the confluence of the canal and Mediterranean Sea for the first time in the voyage huge waves slapped up against the sides of the R2, almost up to the level of our 7th deck balcony, and the sleek ship, which is just three years old, rocked back and forth as we ploughed slowly through the water. Out came the anti-seasick patches and dramamine—and I don’t hesitate to say I’m among the first to take these preventative measures—and I didn’t waste a minute after hearing that heavy seas were ahead.
But many others didn’t, and some were in for a rocky twenty-four hours. Some people retired to their staterooms not to be seen for the next twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, the R2 rocked and rolled battling the waves headlong as we made our way toward the Aegean Sea. We didn’t see many people in the dining room that night, and morning breakfast on the panorama deck wasn’t the most popular place either. But by the next afternoon, the seas calmed down suddenly just as we docked at our final port of call –Piraeus. We had arrived in Heraklion, Greece and the end of our trip in Athens was just two-days away..
Crete was as beautiful an island as I had remembered from a trip I took with Emily long ago. In late march it is already spring in Greece, and the island is covered with wild flowers. Red bud, mimosas and bougainvillea are flowering, and mustard and oriental poppies fill entire hillsides along the road.
It is Sunday and a holiday in Heraklion as we dock. Though everything is shut down, we step down the gangway ready to hire a taxi to explore this beautiful island that still retains its Venetian character. The old city is still surrounded by an enormous Venetian stone wall perhaps 30 feet high, a fortification that withheld Turkish siege for 21 years. In those days five hundred years ago the enormous doors of the fortification slammed shut at nightfall, keeping intruders out and those within safe until daylight.
Today Roy, Nancy, Vi and I have decided to join forces. Roy begins the confusing but comical process of negotiating a cheap fare—four people, three hours, he repeats several times. We try to keep out of the bargaining process, and keep our cool as he brings the price down from the exorbitant $150 starting point. He has actually found a comfortable Mercedes taxi with a driver who speaks some English. We four pile in for a test to see whether we fit comfortably since we have had several harrowing rides crammed one on top of another like sardines. But today we are comfortable and we end up agreeing on $70 for three hours, a good price, we learn later.
Off we go on this quiet Sunday morning, with the driver keeping us informed about the history of Crete. We pass by the Palace of Knossos---it’s closed as is everything else in the town. But driving up narrow roads above the city to see spectacular views of the old town, harbor and mountains of Crete is an interesting alternative, and we end up high on a hill at the gravesite of Nicholas Kazanzakis. Our driver with an unpronounceable name (meaning liberty), then high tails it out of town before a holiday parade assembles and all the streets close down. We drive for miles along the spectacular ocean highway heading for a little village up a mountain.
It is Fondele, the birthplace of El Greco, the famed artist, he explains, and when we arrive, we are delighted. A charming little village with white-washed houses facing a narrow street and tiny town square greets us. Mustachioed old men resembling Anthony Quinn in Zorba the Greek are selling huge naval oranges from colorful carts, a man is grilling lambs on a turning spit for the Sunday celebration later that day, women sitting in the brilliant Greek sunlight are in constant motion weaving macrame in skillful patterns to make hand-maid purses with beautiful designs. We sit in the El Greco taverna drinking sweet Greek coffee strong enough to curl your hair (if it is straight.) Later, we wander along the village street, and the ubiquitous bargaining brings us several purses to carry home for almost nothing, After a quiet stroll through this delightful village, we pile once more into the taxi and head toward home.
Home. That’s what we call our staterooms on the R2, and we’ve become very familiar and fond of our nesting places on deck six and seven.
As we leave Heraklion later that afternoon, the four of us gather in Vi’s and my stateroom. We lounge on the balcony drink in hand, watching the sun go down and an indescribably beautiful sunset of oranges and yellows and fiery reds fade into darkness on the horizon. As we sail away from Heraklion and night begins to fall, we comment sadly that the party’s almost over and in a few days we’ll be homeward bound.
