Graffiti wizzes by the train window. Some in English, but many more, of course, are in Greek. Pithy slogans like “Waste your Time” some are simple initials, an occasional penis or obscenity, but these are minimal, and some are gems of hilarious truth. Some are truly side street works of art or graces of poetry, their messages so heavy they require the support of brick and mortar, simple paper won’t do.
The city’s outskirts, filled with piles of smashed concrete and piles of heaped, partially crushed cars behind fences, give way to the patchwork of cotton fields, vineyards and olive groves. Bones of old railway stations, sad, windowless and abandoned watch with mold-stained rock and plaster faces as we pass. Stacks of pre-made track sections surround it like sandbags around a bunker. Uneven rails show where the trains used to run, delivering loads and passengers before continuing on. Those tracks look so narrow compared to the hulk we’re riding in. They’re at home here in Greece. The distance from rail to rail is based on the span between wheels of a chariot, after all. The ride, however, is much smoother than the one that brought us to our first experience in Greece.
The island of Chios rises out of the water off the coast of Turkey. Ferries, Naval vessels, sailboats, fishing trawlers and container ships go from one to the other or just use the open water between as they make their way up the coast. The breeze is light in Cesme from the bus terminal to dockside and our boat looks like a glorified SS Minnow. Engines started, and it sounds ok but, what do I know about boats? We take seats on the open bow above the bow line winches. As we pass by the harbor break wall, the wind increases. The boat rocks and we watch the sun, slung low on a horizon that pendulums with each wave.
The sun sinks, the wind grows. Waves grow with it. Soon they blow salt water over us. Time to move a bit. We stand next to the bridge, out of range of all but the biggest waves. The captain scans the horizon and adjusts to the waves, a cigarette clamped between his teeth at the corner of his mouth. I watch two women still sitting out in the open, giggles turn into laughter with each big blast. One spits out a mouthful of seawater and they rock back in the setting sun with gales of laughter. I admire them and snap a photo as I try to keep my feet.
Our proximity to the island shrinks the waves as we come to port. I go out and meet them. From Norway they travel by boat now and the car it carries later to Spain to see their brother. I wish them well in their travels and give them a card to join the email list on the website so I can send them the candid shot I show them. Passports get stamped in the tiny customs building at the dark end of the dock and we are officially in Greece.
We arrange our next ferry on the way to the hotel. A rectangle of glass and plaster sitting near the end of the harbor on the water. We have dinner and our server brings us tiny cut glass goblets of Mastiha. What they call a digestive or an apéritif. Made there in Chios with the sap from the mastic, a small evergreen. A flavor not easily described. A little anise, a little mint with a slight cedar-like flavor, is as close as I can get. I’ve loved it since. I know, it doesn’t sound like anything you’d like to even try but, it really is better than what you think. I liked it to the point I hauled bottles of it with us until I ran out and I can’t find it anymore. It lasted a while but, sadly, I’ll have to order it when I get home.
We spot a restaurant on the waterfront called The Dolphin, or some variation of it. There’s room, and the purveyor in a voice from an amplifier turned to 11 tells us to “YES, YES. SEET.” We do. He threads his way through tables and whips a pad from a back pocket exposed between the gathering of the apron he wears and the show that plays out while we’re there we should have had to pay for.
I’ll take the small mixed grill, please.
YOU WANT BIG, RIGHT? His accent rolls every loud “R”.
No, thanks. The small is fine.
YOU. TAKE TABLE HERE! He yell/talks to the small group that walked up.
YOU NO WANT BIG? He asks again. Confused.
“No, thank you.” He scoffs at me. He scoots chairs for those that came in to the table behind us. So close, one woman’s chair rubs the back of mine. My nipples are dangerously close to the glass table in front of me. She complains or tries and gets her own scoff and scowl to go along with it. He turns his attention to Ashley.
WHAT YOU WANT LADY?
I’ll have the fish and scampi, please.
AH, SCRIMPS AND SCAAHMPIS FOR LADY. ES VERY GOOD. OK. He nods his approval of her selection.
He turns to the group directly behind me.
WHAT YOU WANT LADY?
Do you have rice?
NO RICE. PASTA.
It says on your men-
NO RICE. I TELL YOU WHAT IS ON MENU. I SAY PASTA.
I’ll have the swordfish with vegetables. Is it good?
HERE WE HAVE ONLY GOOD FOOD. THE BEST FOOD. His knife-hand cuts the air in front of her and her group, punctuating each statement. YOU WILL SEE. I BRING YOU FOOD AND COME BACK. YOU WILL TELL ME IT IS THE BEST FOOD.
Uh. Ok? She hesitates. Do you have whiskey?
NO. NO WHISKEY.
Your menu says you have whiskey.
OK. I BRING YOU WHISKEY. He says in a milder, resigned tone before resuming his normal amplified knowing one. THEN I BRING YOU FOOD. YOU WILL TELL ME IT IS THE BEST FOOD. He nods, as if he’s come to an agreement with her.
Silence from the woman. My smile is quiet admiration for learning to shut her mouth. Ashley and I look at each other and try to keep a straight face. He goes around the table noticeably question free.
The next table:
WHAT YOU WANT?
The gentleman explains; “My wife and I were here twenty-seven years ago after we were married and had dinner. I never thought we’d make it back here but, here we are on our anniversary.”
I KNOW. I REMEMBER YOU. YOU HAD SCRIMPS IN PASTA. LADY EATS OCTOPUS.
How can you possibly remember that?
I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. EVERYONE WHO EAT HERE I REMEMBER YOU SEE? We laugh and hear others doing the same a couple tables down. Who is it? Our friends from Norway. They’re getting dinner before their boat leaves. We wave with a “Safe travels!” send off.
Impossible, right? The place is packed, and this play went on again and again, but the next night we walked by and who waved at us? That’s right, he did. Will we go there again? I don’t know but, chances are; he remember us.
On the way to the hotel Ashley tells me “I think I might be getting sick.” Uh oh, the first run in with a travel bug, I think to myself. The first cooler breeze from the water blow in off the sea, giving what she said a physical touch. We put on sweaters on for the first time. She walks with shoulders hunched against the wind. I can almost see the goosebumps through the sweater. The moored boats bob against the dock, and she coughs into her hand.
Our first overnight ferry, and we have a cabin. Spoiled, right? Wrong. The ride starts out fine. The boat is much bigger than the minnow. The size of a small cruise ship, the lower decks get stuffed with lorries and cars, the upper decks get stuffed with travelers. We watch the lights dwindle on deck before showering and climbing in our separate bunks. We wave goodnight at each other. The boat slowly rocks. Rocks a bit more and I drowse.
I wake up like James Bond’s martini. The boat’s hull slaps another wave, letting me know what woke me and tosses our water bottles across the floor. The cabinet above my head creaks wood against wood with each wave. How could I sleep through any of that, even the beginning? The boat leans until I’m just ready to roll out of bed, then reverses direction and puts me to the wall. I wonder if I should go look and decide it’s better not to unless alarms sound. No need to stagger around like I’ve had too much to drink. Thank goodness neither one of us gets motion sick. Sea legs, however, are a different story.
Six am and we’re near Athens. Bleary-eyed and swaying, we pack everything up and make our way out with the herd. The dock is massive with one small coffee… truck? trailer? Some type of structure with the world’s crankiest barista. We sit with steaming cups, watching the ships unload before we jump on the next boat.
The big catamaran style ferry is fast. The waves are, thankfully, small. We make good time and stop at several ports. We wander out to see each and from time to time just to go on deck to escape the heat and stagnant air of the passenger compartment. Mykonos comes and goes along with people and a few cars. Santorini is awash with waves of people. They crowd the port with sunhats and fake tans. Selfies are in substantial supply regardless of others around. I make a point of trying to be in them, making some type of face and succeed. Mostly because the selfie takers give-a-shit about anyone else is broken. Who knows how many photos they’ll get back home with, stoop over, squinting at the screen? All with the same question on their lips. “Who the hell is that guy?”
It’s afternoon and warm in Heraklion. The bus is just as crowded as the street. The city center is full of horns, motorbikes of all sizes and graffiti and our sweat. Ashley coughs. A hand reflexively covers the mouth beneath the mask she’s wearing. Our sea legs come in handy on the bus as we stop and go out of the city to our rental.
We get off as close to where we’re staying as we think we can. In our travels we’ve found the places we stay are an all-or-nothing scavenger hunt. Go to the side of the building by the green car, there you’ll find a lock box on a yellow fence. Next, go through the blue door two buildings down on the right, etc. etc. The prize, of course, is getting into the place you’re staying. The alternative is a lot of anxiety and finding other accommodations. So far, we’ve figured them out and gotten better at it as we’ve traveled. We get in. Drop our bags and find our first dinner on Crete before we call it a night. Surely Ashley will feel better in the morning, right?
