The Story: Coastal Crete

Author’s note: To most appreciate this story, first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!

This true story is told by a fictional narrator.

“Stay away from the dirty hippies.”

Those were my mother’s words every time I left the mini-market our family owned on Matala Beach in Crete. Before the hippies came, in the sixties, the beach was a sleepy place. Nothing fancy, not like today. The locals would stop by to eat a fish meal in a small beachside café or relax under a spindly tree in the hot African breezes. Everyone would enjoy the view. A gentle curve of pale gray sand borders lead-blue water, with a limestone cliff in the foreground, shadowy mountains in the background, and, overhead, a low-lying fringe of clouds against a brilliant-blue sky. Even as a boy, I appreciated living in such a gorgeous place.

Our market had no air-conditioning, not even a cooler to store perishables. Fishermen would bring in their catches early in the morning—usually grouper or mullet, sometimes larger fish like tuna—and what we hadn’t sold, kept, or given away by afternoon, we fed to the stray cats. We also sold homemade bread and yogurt, and fruits and vegetables grown in the region—figs, pomegranates, eggplant, garlic, tomatoes. Whatever the local farmers brought us. My parents didn’t get rich off the market, but we did better than many.

Then the hippies arrived, first one or two, then more. The limestone cliff rises out of the water on an angle. Etched in horizontal lines, it opens onto numerous caves. Over centuries, people had lived in the caves, but never like the hippies. Most of them came from faraway countries like Germany, Great Britain, Canada, and the United States. Rich countries, but they prided themselves on living like vagrants. They camped out in every nook and cranny the cliff offered, hordes of them in the peak summer months.

Every time the hippies entered our market, my mother would watch them with the eyes of an eagle. They were known for their sleight-of-hand in pocketing the foods that caught their fancy. Not all of them, of course, but enough that my mother cursed the entire lot. When they left, the smell of unwashed bodies lingered. It wasn’t pleasant.

I was just a boy back then. Unlike my mother, the hippies fascinated me. My friends and I would sneak as close as we could to the caves and observe. We saw lots of women’s breasts and occasionally entire nude bodies moving about at the cave entrances. The hippies smoked a lot, mostly marijuana, and seemed enamoured of our wines, particularly retsina. When their walking became loopy and their eyes unfocused, we knew they had taken pills with a variety of strange names. Sometimes they got in fights with each other but mostly they sat around and sang or talked. Or just vegetated.

One year, I think it was 1970, two women arrived at the caves. They looked cleaner than the other hippies and wore better clothes. At first, anyhow. One of them, with long, straight, light-brown hair and a long face, played a string instrument shaped like an hourglass and sang with a wonderful voice, high and sweet. The others crowded around her like she was some kind of celebrity.

One day she came into the market while I was stacking pomegranates and tomatoes into pyramids. I stopped working to stare at her. She smiled at me. Her upper teeth stuck out a bit when she did that, but I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She said something, in English, gibberish to me. Then I caught my mother giving me the evil eye, and I returned to my stacking. As far as I know, she didn’t steal anything.

The woman spent a lot of time with another hippie, a man with bright red hair, earrings in both ears, and angry blue eyes. He often walked with a shepherd’s crook and wore a turban—odd but by no means the oddest hippie attire. The turban was white but badly in need of a washing. You could tell other people acted nervous around him, but the woman seemed to enjoy his company.

One evening around sunset, a lot of noise was coming from the largest of the caves. Several friends and I crept over to see what was happening. Bottles of retsina were being passed around, and wisps of sweet-smelling smoke hazed the entrance. Raucous and off-key, the hippies sang what we knew as the birthday song, all facing the man with the turban, so we deduced it was his birthday. Shouting and good-natured shoving followed. Suddenly, the cave grew quiet. The woman plucked at her instrument and sang a song. We couldn’t understand the words, but her voice sounded like it came down from heaven, rambling and hypnotic, and she repeated certain words over and over. When she finished, everyone clapped and shouted. The woman played the song several times. An older boy, who knew a bit of English, said one of the lines went something like, ‘you’re a bad father, but I like you.” The man in the turban was too young to be her father, so we remained confused.

The party continued long after we had to go home or face thrashings.

A couple of weeks later, the woman and the man left together. Though other hippies remained, we lost interest in the scene. I never saw the woman again, at least not in person.

Many years later, I learned her name was Joni Mitchell, the man was Cary Raditz, and the song she’d written as a birthday gift for him was called “Carey.” Revised, it appeared on an album, Blue, and is even today one of her most beloved songs. I now know all the words. When I’m in a melancholic mood, I’ll listen to it and wipe a tear or two from my eyes.

Oh, you’re a mean old Daddy, but I like you.

To learn more, go to the Joni Mitchell Library.

The Place: Coastal Crete Island, Greece

Some 650 miles of coastline frames the mountainous island of Crete. As early as the Minoan Bronze Age, trade ships connected Crete with Cyprus, Egypt, mainland Greece, and other far-flung ports. Eventually, wars and infighting ended local rule. Like all Aegean islands, Crete fell under a variety of allegiances over the centuries – Roman, Byzantine, Venetian, Ottoman – until the end of the nineteenth century, when the island briefly reigned as an independent state before uniting with Greece. In modern times, Crete’s major cities are found along the coast, and the burgeoning tourism industry centers around the island’s numerous lovely beaches.

Heraklion promenade, Crete.

Heraklion:

Heraklion Archaeological Museum, Crete.

We entered Crete on the northern coast at the port of Heraklion, our first major city since leaving Athens. Here we returned to city traffic and multi-storied urban districts. With over 200,000 residents, Heraklion is Crete’s largest city as well as its capital, home to administrative offices; historic buildings and fortresses, primarily from the time of Venetian rule; museums and parks. Our hotel was in the heart of the city, next to a pedestrian district full of shops and cafes set around a beautiful 17^th-century fountain and near a small park dedicated to Crete’s most famous painter, El Greco. The imposing Venetian Fortress and a long promenade extend into the harbor, a perfect place for a sunset stroll. The Heraklion Archaeological Museum showcases a stunning collection of artifacts unearthed at Knossos and other Cretan excavation sites, ranging from Minoan up to Roman times. With jaws dropped, we viewed twenty-seven galleries of painted frescoes, stone vessels, double axes, glazed ceramic figurines, clay figures, life-size marble statues, sophisticated pottery, and jewelry of beads and gold.

Matala Beach:

Matala Beach, Crete. Photo courtesy John Harmon.

The next day we bussed to the southern side of the island, first to the inland excavation at Phiastos (see previous post), then to the coast at Matala Beach. Matala, once a quiet fishing village, is now a popular tourist destination. Pale beige sand curves around a beautiful bay, and layers of sandstone cliffs angle like a partially submerged ship on one side of the beach. Caves were carved out of the sandstone for tombs in Roman times, dwellings for early Christians, and, in the 1960s, temporary homes for an assortment of hippies, including folksinger Joni Mitchell, giving rise to Matala’s nickname, the hippie beach.

Matala was also my last chance to take a swim in the Aegean. With swimsuit packed, I’d long envisioned gliding through the seas surrounding the Greek islands, seas as clear and warm as those in the Caribbean. In point of fact, the Aegean is not as warm as the Caribbean, and the islands in October are chilly and windy. On Mykonos, Paros, and Santorini, I looked out on the waters and pulled my jacket tighter, sadly untempted. On the other hand, Matala faces the African coast, so just maybe . . . As luck would have it, that day dawned pleasantly warm and sunny. After polishing off a heavy Greek lunch, I peeled down to my swimsuit, marched into relatively warm water, and swam out to a buoy and over to the sandstone cliffs. It was glorious.

Two Ports:

Rethymnon, Crete.

On our last day on Crete, we bussed westward along the northern coast to catch the overnight ferry back to Piraeus/Athens, stopping at two historic port cities along the way. At the first, Rethymnon, the bus dropped us off at its waterfront, where a 16^th century stone lighthouse towers above a small square harbor next to the city’s old quarter. Dating back to Minoan times, Rethymnon is one of the best preserved Renaissance cities in Greece. Much of its old quarter reflects the styles of the Venetian and Ottoman empires that once ruled here – Venetian stonework, Ottoman woodwork, houses, mosques and churches. The best preserved mosque, complete with dome and minaret, was built on a former Venetian church. We wandered through narrow vine-decked streets filled with shops and cafes, and lunched on sardines and Greek salad.

Chania, Crete.

Our final stop, Chania, has also been settled since Minaon times. It too features a picturesque Venetian harbor protected by a promenade and a stone lighthouse. There are mosques; Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches; and the Etz Hayyim Synagogue, where the Jewish population worshipped before German occupiers deported them in 1944. That afternoon, the water was choppy and washed onto a stone seafront surrounding the harbor. After dinner overlooking the sea, we made our way to the ferry and soon found ourselves in a most charming cabin for the overnight ride to Athens.

The Story: Interior Crete

Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!

At times, the places I visit have stories far better than any I could concoct. Crete is one of them. Let us go back in time, far back, to the dawn of civilization, when legendary Greek gods, heroes, and creatures reigned over mere mortals.

In an origin story, the Greek God, Zeus, is born in a cave in east-central Crete. His mother gives birth there so his father, Cronus, won’t swallow him, as he has done his siblings in order to negate a prophesy that a son will dethrone him. Zeus survives and does eventually kill Cronus. Ah well. Cronus then regurgitates the other siblings, who, along with Zeus become known as the Olympians.

Fast-forward to Zeus as a man. Wandering through a land called Phoenicia, he falls in love with Europa, mortal daughter of a king. Changing into a white bull—he is a god, after all—he convinces Europa to climb on his back and whisks her to Crete. There, under a tree at Gortyna, he deflowers her. Eventually, this union produces three half-god sons – Minos, Rhadamanthys, and Sarpedon.

Fast-forward again, to King Minos as a man, now a mighty king and great warrior. He seems to have everything – a splendid labyrinthine palace at Knossos, built for him by the legendary architect, Daedalus; a beautiful wife, Pasiphae; and at least three lovely children, Androgeus, Ariadne, and Phaedra. However, he is a harsh ruler, feared more than he is liked.

One day, a magnificent white bull appears at Knossos. The god Poseidon tells the king to sacrifice it in his name. Quite taken by the animal, Minos instead sacrifices an inferior bull. Enraged by the deception, Poseidon punishes Minos by making his wife fall in love with the bull. Helped by Daedalus, she mates with it and gives birth to a creature with the head of a bull and the body of a man – the Minotaur.

Here we go on a slight tangent. Minos, furious with Daedalus, imprisons him in a tower at Knossos. However, the brilliant architect escapes by fashioning wood, wax, and feathers into wings for himself and his son, Icarus, to fly away. “Don’t fly too close to the sun,” he warns Icarus, but of course the boy in his youthful enthusiasm does just that: the wings melt, and he falls to his death.

Meanwhile, the Minotaur grows into a flesh-eating monster, and King Minos keeps him in the labyrinth beneath the palace. After his son Androgeus gets killed in a battle with the city of Athens, the grief-stricken father demands Athenian youth be sacrificed to the Minotaur. Prince Theseus, son of King Aegeus of Athens, volunteers to go to as one of the youth in order to slay the Minotaur. Before he leaves, he promises his anxious father he will change his ship’s black sails to white on the return voyage to show he is alive, his mission accomplished.

At Knossos, King Minos’s daughter, Ariadne, falls in love at first sight with Theseus. After obtaining a promise the prince will marry her, she gives him a ball of magic twine, with which Theseus finds the Minotaur in the maze, slays it, and escapes with the other Athenians. Theseus takes Ariadne with him when he leaves Crete, but he abandons her halfway home. Furious, Ariadne calls to the gods for vengeance. They comply. On arriving home, Theseus forgets to change the ship’s sails from black to white. King Aegeus sees the black sails and, in his grief, drowns himself in the sea. To this day, that stretch of sea is known as the Aegean.

Ariadne’s revenge isn’t over: Theseus marries. His first wife dies, and he remarries – Ariadne’s sister, Phaedra, of all people. Phaedra is jealous of Hippolytus, Theseus’s son by his first marriage. She accuses the son of attacking her; enraged, Theseus asks Poseidon to exact revenge on the young man. One day, when Hippolytus is driving a chariot along the beach, Poseidon creates a huge wave which scares the horses, causing the chariot to crash, killing his son. When Theseus discovers Phaedra lied to him about the attack, he is, understandably, livid. To avoid his retribution, Phaedra hangs herself.

Sense a pattern? Fury and revenge, revenge and fury – are there any happy endings in Greek mythology?

Much of this story can be found in the article, The Legend of Kind Minos by Louisa Watson at https://www.makrigialos.com/?article=minos

The Place: Interior Crete Island, Greece

The sizes of Mykonos, Delos, Paros, and Santorini together equal only five percent of the island of Crete, our next and final stop in the Aegean. One hundred sixty miles long and shaped like an elongated water bug, Crete is the largest of Greece’s six thousand islands (227 of them inhabited). It is also the farthest south, 180 miles from the Libyan coast, and the most populated, with more than 600,000 residents. An impressive mountain range covered with snow in winter months forms the island’s backbone; below are valleys, plateaus, gorges, rivers, and lakes. Olives, grapes, and citrus trees grow in parallel lines on the fertile plateaus. Humans have lived on Crete as far back as 130,000 years ago, and Europe’s first advanced civilization, the Minoans, flourished here during the Bronze Age. There is far too much to explore in one blog, so I’m dividing the island in two. In this place blog, we’ll visit the interior; in the next, the coast.

Crete, landscape near Vori.

The palace of King Minos:

Knossos.

Our first morning on Crete, ahead of the tourist crowds, we visited the world-famous archaeological site of Knossos, southeast of the capital city of Heraklion. Ceremonial and political center of the Minoan Civilization, the early palace at Knossos was built on hilly terrain around 1900 BC atop earlier settlements; rebuilt several times after earthquakes and invasions; and abandoned for unknown reasons around 1200 BC. Somewhat dazed at the site’s size and complexity, we trekked around an abundance of rubble walls, creatively recreated rooms, large pottery vats, walkways and stairways, a central courtyard and a theater. In the distance, olive trees rimmed a low-lying hill. The excavation reveals the highly sophisticated Minoan architecture, with its multiple stories, ceremonial halls, public storerooms and workshops, an elaborate throne room, royal apartments, and bathrooms with an ingenious drainage system. Richly colored frescoes and murals decorate the walls. Because of the palace’s location and mazelike design, many believe this is the legendary home of King Minos. The mythology surrounding Knossos is more complex than the palace itself, featuring everything from an enchanted bull to a love-struck daughter (much more in next week’s story).

Two villages:

Vori.

Following the bustle of Knossos, we appreciated our next stop, the quiet village of Myrtia, birthplace of the writer Nikos Kazantzakis (of Zorba the Greek fame). Before lunch, we visited a traditional pottery factory, where lovely pottery is still fashioned by hand on a wheel and baked in a kiln, techniques similar to those used by the Minoans.

The next day, we visited another interior village, Vori, home to a small ethnological museum featuring customs and traditions of rural Crete. Officially protected, the village looks much as it did a century or two ago, with whitewashed homes, well-kept churches, and a tiny outdoor park with tables, where we sampled Greek coffee. On this hilly terrain, angled rows of olive trees grow atop reddish beige soil, with hazy mountains in the distance.

The birthplace of European Civilization:

Gortyna.

Before visiting Vori, we returned to Greek mythology at the partially excavated ancient city of Gortyna, in the fertile Messara plain of south-central Crete. The island’s largest city during Roman times, Gortyna existed for thousands of years before that. Walking along dusty paths, we touched the bark of ancient olive trees; studied columns containing the Gortyn Code, the oldest example of ancient Greek law; peered into the ruins of a sixth-century Byzantine basilica, burial place of St. Titus; climbed the steps of a Roman amphitheater; and stood under a spindly evergreen plane tree. Under this tree, legend has it, the Greek god Zeus deflowered the human princess Europa, fathering the three great Minoan kings of Crete, including Minos. The rest, as they say, is European history.

The home of King Rhadamanthys:

Phiastos Disc.

Another Minoan king, brother of Minos, was Rhadamanthys, and the archaeological site of Phaistos, southwest of Gortyna, is believed to have been his home. The second largest city of Minoan Crete, Phaistos was built around 1900 BC on a hill overlooking Mount Idi, Crete’s tallest mountain at 8,058 feet. Not as creatively restored as Knossos, Phaistos is nevertheless an impressive sprawl of courtyards, wide staircases, and stone walls. However, by the time we wandered through these excavations, we had become a bit archaeologied-out, and surveyed with exhausted eyes the fascinating ruins of another ancient palace. Found here was the Phaistos Disc, a six-inch clay disc inscribed with pictorial symbols representing the Minoan writing system. Like many of the most important finds in Crete’s ancient Minoan cities, the disc is displayed at the Heraklion Archaeological Museum, which we will visit in the next place blog.

The Story: Santorini

Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, I recommend you first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!

Strogili Island, summer of 1641 B.C.

“I refuse to go!” Kitane kicked the flounces of her long skirt.

“You have no choice in the matter. We reserved seats on a ship to Kaptara. It leaves at dawn tomorrow.”

“Not fair!” Kitane wiped at tears slipping from her eyes. “None of my friends have to leave. Why do we?”

Her mother exhaled her impatience. “We’ve been through this countless times. Your father knows more about volcanoes than anyone on the island, and he fears ours could erupt at any time.”

“But my friends—”

“No more arguments.” Her mother’s brown eyes glinted anger. She tightened a shawl around breasts exposed in a low-cut blouse. “Think about what you want to take.”

After her mother left, Kitane threw a large fabric satchel on her bed, then turned to a wall painted in flowers and glanced out a window. She could see the top of the volcano, its smoke rising.

For several months the volcano had been spewing gases and making rumbling noises. Most of the young people considered it an exciting novelty, not something to fear. One day, Kitane and several friends had walked to a cliff on the inner edge of the island. Sitting there, they could survey the entire island, shaped like a crooked ring around a huge disk of ocean. In the center rose the restless volcano.

Kitane thought of what her father had told her when she first saw the enclosed ocean. “Long, long ago, our volcano erupted in fire and ash, creating a crater that flooded with sea water. That is what you see.” He frowned. “It could happen again.”

One of Kitane’s friends, Yidini, had pointed to the top of the volcano. “Look at that.”

In point of fact, Yidini was more than a friend. He was tall and trim, elegant in his tunic and loincloth, and her heart beat faster when she was with him. They had recently kissed, and she couldn’t wait for them to do so again.

He’s not leaving Strogili, she’d fumed. His parents aren’t afraid of the volcano.

The others had looked in the direction of Yidini’s finger. “The volcano is different now,” he said. Earlier ejections had resembled steam rising from boiling water: now they resembled smoke rising from fire. The group had watched the smoke ascend and eventually disappear into the sky. They’d felt a shiver of anticipation.

In her room, Kitane impatiently crammed clothes and small mementoes into the satchel, including a copper bracelet Yidini had given her. She had to leave so much behind, and who knew when her family would return.

Last week, a farmer from the opposite side of the island had come to town. Her town, largest on the island with some 30,000 residents, was the center of trade to other islands. The farmer had arrived early to sell his goat cheeses and pressed olives. Sasha’s father approached him. “What news can you tell me of the volcano on your side of the island?” he asked.

The farmer set down his basket of goods. “Two nights ago my goats started bleating,” he began in a shaky voice. “Fearing a wild animal, I went to investigate. The sky was dark, but a small fire lit the side of the volcano. Below the fire, the earth seemed to be moving, as if it had melted and was sliding downward. I had never seen anything like it and was sore afraid.”

After that, her father had sprung into action. He returned with the farmer to confirm his story, then called meetings to urge the townspeople to evacuate. Most didn’t heed him. He booked passage on a ship sailing to Kaptara, a large island to the south, packed his most valuable treasures, and buried the rest.

The next morning, as the sky began to prepare itself for the new day in a wash of colors, Kitane, her younger brother, and her parents boarded a long wooden oar-and-sail-powered ship. Only ten other townspeople joined them. Yidini stood on the dock, waving forlornly.

This is not fair, Kitane thought for the umpteenth time, swatting away her tears.

Strogili Island, fall of 1641 B.C.

The departure of Kitane’s family and her father’s dire warnings disturbed the townspeople. After all, he was the volcano expert. But few acted on his warnings. Then one morning, streamers of fire and black clouds spewed from the volcano, spangling the sky. The scene mesmerized and terrified residents. They quickly crowded onto ships in their rush to leave the island. More ships arrived and more people left. Yidini’s’s family was one of them, and he made sure they boarded a ship bound for Kaptara. By the time winter arrived, with its cold, rainy weather, only a fraction of islanders remained. They kept two ships at port, packed and ready to sail if need be.

Strogili Island, spring of 1640 B.C.

The volcano erupted. Fire and plumes of smoke, ash, and gas roared toward the heavens, the upper volcano collapsed, and dark viscous matter slid down the remaining slopes. The eruption killed everyone on the island. Several families who had left on ships the day before got swallowed up by towering waves radiating from the volcano.

There were no survivors.

The Place: Santorini Island, Greece

Before the ferry from Paros landed at the port of Athinios, our small group descended three stairways into the bowels of the ship. As we waited in dim light, the crowds got larger and denser, the enclosed area hotter. After what seemed an inordinate amount of time, a siren screeched through the air and a huge ramp slowly descended, giving the scene a dystopian feel. The narrow port squeezed against a massive cliff, a thousand feet high, that, somehow, we were going to ascend in a large passenger bus. In a series of zigzag turns best viewed with closed eyes, we reached the top of the island. Officially named Thera, for the Dorian King Theras, it is commonly known by the name Crusaders gave it for a local chapel to Saint Irene—Santorini.

Island of Santorini from the town of Fira.

Pompeii of the Aegean:

Four thousand years ago, a sophisticated Minoan town of perhaps 30,000 residents flourished on an island they called Strogili for its round shape. In approximately 1600 BC, a volcano in the center of the island erupted, spewing fire and ash, and drowning any survivors in a subsequent tsunami. A crescent island, today’s Santorini, remains above water, along with two smaller islands, and two remnant volcanic fragments in the center of a vast caldera.

Akrotiri excavation site.

Some 3,500 years later, in the 1800s, workers gathering up ash for the construction of the Suez Canal got a glimpse of this ancient Minoan town. It lies at the southern end of Santorini, where there is an open-air, roof-topped, ongoing excavation site known as Akrotiri. Walking on raised boardwalks, we looked down on a grid of masonry rubble, walls and window frames, beautiful large storage vases, beds on legs, bathing basins, and indoor toilets complete with sewage pipes. The main town of Fira showcases many of Akrotiri’s treasures in its Prehistoic Museum of Thera. Friezes display the spectacular colors preserved by the ash, and recreated homes reminded me of Frank Lloyd Wright architecture. I could live in one of them!

Into the Sunsets:

The village of Oia.

In Santorini’s most photographed village, Oia, interconnected whitewashed homes tumble down steep slopes on the northwest side of the caldera. An earthquake in 1956 rattled Santorini, destroying homes and buildings, particularly in Oia. Much of the village had to be reconstructed, which is perhaps why the homes here, some built cavelike into the cliffs, have a sculpted, fresh, and upscale look. Below a lovely blue-domed church, narrow alleyways wind around the homes, which today host shops, restaurants, and boutique hotels where rooms can go for upwards of $1,000 a night. We arrived in Oia in time to watch its renowned sunset. Along with claustrophobic hordes of tourists, we jockeyed for glimpses of the descending sun. I can’t imagine what viewing an Oia sunset would be like in high season. Not for the first time I wondered what the locals, now undoubtedly better off economically but at the loss of their ancestral homes, think of all this.

Around sunset the next day, we explored the streets of Fira. The town spans a larger portion of the upper cliffs, which means it has wider alleys, giving more room to stroll and stop to survey the spectacular caldera views. There are the usual shops and restaurants as well as churches, palaces, museums, small plazas, a monastery, and the Karavolades Stairs, almost 600 of them, that connect the town with Santorini’s old harbor. Tourists can opt to do the stairs by foot or donkey, a practice censured by animal lovers everywhere, or reach the harbor by cable car.

Tenacious Grapes:

Grape vines.

In spite of dry, windy weather, with scarcely any rain for most of the year, Santorini grows dozens of grape varietals and produces excellent wines. The hardy grape shrubs look like none I’ve ever seen — low to the ground and coiled up like Christmas wreaths. Such pruning protects the grapes from the wind and enables them to make the most of morning dew. We visited the Koutsogiannopoulos Winery, set in the center of the island. After tasting pleasing white, red, and dessert red wines, we ventured into the family’s wine museum, a fascinating labor of love that features human-sized dioramas and memorabilia about wines and wine makers, all set in a cave labyrinth some 900 feet long.

On the Mountain:

Atop the village of Pyrgos.

Inland, away from the edge of the cliffs, life on Santorini retains more of its traditional past. On our last day, we drove to the top of Mount Profitis Ilias (Prophet Elijah) to an 18^th-century monastery of the same name. The site features a museum, bell tower, churches and chapel, but the still-active monastery itself is closed to the public. One of the small chapels is dimly lit and richly furnished with an altar, large chandelier, wooden chairs, thin candles, incense holders, and many icons lined in rows. Views from this, Santorini’s highest peak, were hazy that morning. Halfway down the mountain sits the village of Pyrgos. Not as commercialized as other towns we visited, it nevertheless has shops lining a maze of alleys leading to a well preserved Venetian castle, a former monastery expanded after the arrival of the Venetians in the early 13^th century.

Along the Beach:

Perissa’s black beach.

On the southeastern edge of the island, modern homes and hotels in the town of Perissa soon give way to a long strip of a rich black-lava beach, where the deep-blue Aegean forms arcs of silvery foam in the sand. In summer months, Perissa’s beach is packed with tourists making use of a full array of beach facilities, but when we were there only a few beachgoers remained. Though the water beckoned, the air was chilly, and I opted instead to sit at a beachside table and enjoy our best seafood meal of the trip—a mixed grill of local sea bream, oversized shrimp, octopus, conch, and mussels. Sated, we then boarded the bus and returned to the port of Athinios.

The Story: Paros Island

Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, I recommend you first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!

Maria Georgiou woke to the sound of rain on the roof. Easing her feet into slippers, she wrapped a shawl around her nightgown to protect against the bone-chilling early-morning cold. Hobbling across the room, she reached a window, opened its blue shutters, and looked out on a leaden sky and rain-soaked homes clustered on a hillside. In the distance below, the St. George Monastery could scarcely be seen through the fog, and the sea beyond had vanished entirely.

Not a good feast day.

For Maria as a child, the feast day for Hagio Arsenios, a saint from their own Paros Island, was the most important day of the year, more important even than her own feast day for the Virgin Mary. Her father’s first name was Arsenios, and on January 31, as his name-day dawned, people would pass by to wish him health and prosperity. Later, friends and family arrived at their house bearing gifts—bottles of wines and liquors, sweets, books, knitted socks and hats—and her family prepared a delicious spread of lamb and fish; potatoes and vegetable pies; stuffed tomatoes and grape leaves; and, for dessert, baklava and yoghurt with honey and walnuts. Music and dancing continued far into the night, and the next day everyone was permitted to sleep late.

Her father had been fortunate to be named for such an important saint. In the mid-1800s, Arsenios, a Greek monk, arrived on Paros Island. Here he became a priest and resided at the St. George Monastery, where he excelled as a Father Confessor and spiritual guide. He was well known for his good deeds, particularly to a young woman who had sinned and been cast aside by the nuns at the convent. Hagio Arsenios intervened, showing the same compassion as did the father of the Prodigal Son. Maria had never tired listening to her father tell that story.

She shrugged. The weather didn’t matter. Those festivities were long gone.

After a breakfast of coffee and crackers, she dressed and, putting on her winter coat, walked with a cane down a muddy path to the village’s lone market. On the way, she passed several homes, half of them abandoned. Would the village soon have no inhabitants, as some predicted? Only Maria and two neighbors kept up the tradition of white-washing houses at Eastertime, and their homes glistened white in the rain, out of place against the drab masonry and peeling doors of the others.

The feast-day celebration had stopped with the start of the war. For years tables of food were a taunting memory as the Nazis cut off supplies, starving many, her father included. After the war, Maria remained in the village, married, and raised two sons. The young no longer cared to fish or grow olives or tend sheep. Most left. One of her sons moved to Paris; the other emigrated to the United States, to the city of Boston. Both married women from their new homes, and neither had been back for years. “Air fare is too expensive for families,” they complained. They rarely sent her gifts of money, and their phone calls were few and far between. A decade ago her husband died, and Maria lived alone in the tiny, tidy house.

The market offered a few fruits and vegetables, dried fish and meats, and a scant supply of household items, laid out on blankets inside one of the abandoned homes. Maria entered the shop and paused in front of the vegetables. There were lovely purple eggplants and large red tomatoes. She opened her purse and counted the coins. Enough for an eggplant or a couple of tomatoes, not both.

Next to her, a woman clucked in disappointment. Dressed from head to toe in black, she had hunched shoulders and a prominent nose. Chira Papaioannou. The widow lived on the far side of the village. María had rarely spoken to her.

“Kaliméra,” she said.

The widow returned the greeting. She too stood in front of the vegetables with her purse open. Her eyes flitted from eggplants to tomatoes. “I don’t have enough for both,” she confided.

Which is when Maria had an epiphany. She touched the widow’s sleeve. “Today is the feast day of Hagio Arsenios of our own Paros. Long ago, it was a very special day for my family. I would like to remember the day, but, like you, I have few coins to spend. Perhaps we could join our coins—I’ll buy the tomatoes and you an eggplant—and we could bring the food back to my house and prepare a modest feast.”

The sparkle in the widow’s eyes and the width of her smile made Maria feel she had just suggested something grand.

“I have a neighbor,” the widow said shyly, “who lost her husband this past year. At night, I often hear her crying. Perhaps we could also ask her.”

Maria nodded energetically. “A wonderful idea.”

By early afternoon, a dozen elderly people—ten women and two men—arrived at Maria’s home. Each brought a small item to share—ground lamb, spinach, potatoes, squash, a bottle of ouzo, two bottles of retsina wine, a small orange cake with syrup. For hours, they cooked and drank, and ate and toasted new friends and departed family, and drank and sang and even danced as best they could, which wasn’t bad at all.

The next day, everyone gave themselves permission to sleep late.

The Place: Paros Island, Greece

The ferries that transported us to our islands in the Aegean are more cruiseship than ferry — sleek, modern, and huge, several stories high, with parking for hundreds of vehicles and seating for well over a thousand passengers, equipped with everything from lounges to restaurants and gift shops. The ships lumber into port and, lickety-split, get passengers off and on amid noisy hustle and bustle. At Myconos’s port, we stayed close on the heels of our tour leader through crowds, up ramps and stairways, and along passageways to our assigned seats. The ferry powered across a restless deep-blue sea, and in less than an hour we eased into the port of Parikia on Paros Island.

Naoussa on Paros Island.

Overview of Paros:

Paros is oval-shaped, 13 miles long by ten miles wide. The land rises 2,500 feet in central Paros and gently settles into a plain circling the coast. Beautiful beaches and ocean activities lure travelers in the summer months, when the lovely old quarters come alive at night. Yet Paros is not quite as famous, nor as expensive, as trendier islands such as Mykonos; nor does it have blockbuster archaeological sites like Delos. The island does have a past that stretches back to 3,200 BC. Due to its good farmland and strategic naval location in the heart of the Cyclades archipelago, it, like most Aegean islands, has been claimed and reclaimed by successive cultures for millennia — the Minoans from Crete, the Ionians, Arcadians, Persians, Athenians, Macedonians, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, and Turks. Finally, following the Greek Revolution in 1821, it along with all the Cyclades became part of the modern Greek state.

Parian Marble:

A marble wall.

Paros’s greatest claim to fame is its extremely clear, luminous, and soft-textured marble, considered the finest and most sought-after in the ancient world. From the 7^th century BC onward, marble was mined at the island’s famed Marathi quarries. Up to three-quarters of the works excavated in the Aegean are of Parian marble, including the Acropolis and the Temple of Apollo on Delos Island. Abandoned by the 7^th century AD, the quarries were revived in the 19^th century by a French company that mined the marble for Napoleon’s tomb, then abandoned again. Today, a marble-strewn path leads into the quarried valley, and marble walls, buildings, and sculptures are found everywhere on the island.

Church of a Hundred Doors:

The Frankish Castle in Parikia.

We toured the old quarter in the main town of Parikia, getting lost in the meandering mazes of narrow alleyways lined with whitewashed houses, many of which have been converted into shops, before being spewed into a large plaza facing the sea. One curious structure is the Frankish Castle, built of Parian marble by the Venetians in the 1200s atop older sanctuaries.

Of great renown is Ekatondapyliani, the Church of a Hundred Doors. When part of the Byzantine Empire, the people of Paros converted to Christianity and built numerous churches, chapels, and monasteries. The first was Ekatondapyliani, from the 5th century AD, making it Greece’s oldest church in continuous use, an important Orthodox pilgrimage site, and a revered Byzantine monument. A courtyard leads into the church proper—three connected stone buildings, highlighted by many doors and topped by a dome. Inside, the sanctuary is beautifully ornate, with a giant chandelier, dozens of painted icons on the walls, and an altar which can only be entered by the priests. Legends abound. In one, Emperor Constantine’s mother, St. Helen, had a vision and vowed to build a church on the site. In another, the church’s architect Ignatios did such an impressive job that his jealous master, Isidoros (of the Agía Sofía in Constantinople) threw him off a cliff, but Ignatios grabbed his master’s foot and they both plunged to their deaths. In a third, only 99 doors have been located; when the hundredth is found, Constantinople will return to Greek rule. Hmm…

Food and Drink:

Lefkes.

Paros provided some of the best food experiences on our trip. The first day, we lunched at a taberna on typical Greek dishes—a salad of tomatoes, red onions, cucumbers, and a large chunk of feta cheese, all dribbled with oil and vinegar; zucchini croquettes; swordfish steaks on a bed of stewed potatoes, red peppers, eggplant, and tomatoes; and, for dessert, yoghurt and honey. Later in the day, we sampled ouzo, a popular anise-flavored aperitif, before dining on more salad, fried and breaded sardines, shrimp, calamari, and mussels, with a grainy ice cream for dessert. Throughout the Aegean, we were served plentiful portions of food. According to one Greek’s theory, this generosity springs from the privations of World War II, when Greece was occupied by the Germans and Italians and many people starved. Today, Greeks rejoice in having an abundance to offer guests.

Cooking at Anezina Village. Courtesy John Harmon.

The next day we drove to the picturesque seaside town of Naoussa, where a square harbor is edged in fishing boats, and whitewashed homes tumble down a hillside. The day was cool and drizzly, and though fisherman milled about, we were virtually the only tourists in town, a rare (even in October) and pleasant experience. We then wound inland to Lefkes. Once the island capital, Lefkes is now a rural mountain village of medieval homes, marble walls, steep streets, and small plazas. Here we sampled Greek coffee. Thick and lightly sweetened, it is excellent—as long as you stop sipping before the dregs. Next, we returned to the coast, to Anezina Village in Dryos, where for the next three hours we became chefs. Helped (mightily) by several professional cooks, we first made a toast—“yamas” in Greek—with a moonshine-like liquor, then went on to prepare, and eat, green salad, potato salad, spinach pie, steamed mussels, stuffed tomatoes, Greek lasagna, and moist orange cake, all washed down with Greek wine. It was wonderful, and we didn’t eat again that day.

The Story: Delos Island

Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, I recommend you first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!

Peta searched for a hiding place in the mountainous terrain on the remote side of Delos. Although dressed in a tunic and cloak worn by men, her enlarged belly marked her sex—and her need to remain hidden.

If I am found, my child will be taken from me, and I will be punished, perhaps sacrificed to Apollo for defiling the place of his birth. I can’t let that happen.

Peta hailed from the island of Rhodes. As the only child of wealthy spice traders, she had lived a life of spoiled luxury. Girlish pursuits never interested her. Instead, she spent her time hunting, sailing, and participating in athletic games. Her mother wrung her hands at Peta’s rebellious nature, but her father secretly admired this in his daughter, and he chose not to rein her in. Her only friends were the boys with whom she competed. The exciting, carefree childhood ended when she played a different sort of game with a handsome rower and discovered she was pregnant. Peta knew enough not to tell her parents: her mother would use this as an excuse to imprison her inside their home. Disguised as a man, she signed on as a sailor and left the island of her birth, eager to embark on an independent life touring the world.

I am doing this for my child.

A healer at a market on a distant island offered Peta herbs to eliminate the pregnancy, but Peta refused them. Instead, she probed the woman for details about giving birth. She liked the idea of becoming a mother, and, perhaps because of her sheltered immaturity, gave little thought to what would happen after birth. On dark starlit nights, she looked at the sky and imagined grand things for her child, even as a modern-day Mount Olympian god. Apollo as the child’s father . . . why not? That would surpass mere human legitimacy. The idea thrilled her and wouldn’t let go. She made her way toward sacred Delos, intending to defy the edict that no human could be born on the tiny, rocky island where Apollo and Artemis were born. Her child would be special.

When she reached the neighboring island of Mykonos, far along in her pregnancy, Peta jumped ship. After buying supplies, she stole a fishing boat and, in darkness, sailed to Delos. For two months, she lived there, keeping away from the island’s inhabitants and supplementing her food supplies with thefts from hillside gardens. One day she spied one of her father’s spice ships entering the harbor. The sight gave her a pang of longing for her old carefree life. She shrugged: having a god-child would be worth her current depredations.

It is time.

When the cramps began, she entered a cave chosen earlier. Mindful of the market woman’s instructions, she submitted to hours of pain and pushing until a miniature boy, puckered and slick with blood and fluids, slid into the world. Two days later, she emerged from the cave with baby Theos wrapped in a blanket. The night was made darker by hovering rain clouds. She brought the baby to the temple of Apollo and stood in front of the larger-than-life marble statue.

This is your son. Bless him.

Satisfied, Peta stole another boat and made her way up the islands of the Aegean to the port of Pireaus and from there to Athens. Inventing the death of a fisherman husband during a violent storm, she became a well-known worker at the fish markets and eventually opened a stall of her own.

The years passed in modest comfort. Though Peta loved Theos dearly, she lacked a knack for parenting. Day after day, she wrung her hands as she watched her son for signs of his connection to Apollo. A handsome boy, he showed great skill as a sailor but otherwise seemed normal in every way, and, she had to admit, a bit simple in his thoughts.

When the boy turned sixteen, he disappeared. Peta’s heart ripped in two. She searched for him for days, eventually discovering he had signed onto a spice ship, bound for the Far East.

Consumed with grief, Peta found solace in wine, in ever larger portions. She stopped tending the fish stall, and lost it to an ambitious competitor. Before long, no one would hire her for even the most menial of tasks. Starvation momentarily cleared her senses. She would stow away on a boat to Rhodes and throw herself on the mercy of her parents. When she arrived, she learned her parents had died. No one spoke up for her. The current ship owners, fearful of her claims, reported her as a thief to the authorities. After spending a month in confinement, Peta was exiled to the Anatolian Peninsula.

I have been brought down.

For two years, Peta lived on Anatolia in primitive conditions. While begging for alms, she told all who came near that she and her son had been cursed by Apollo on the sacred island of Delos. Soon few came near. When a plague spread over the land, she was among the first stricken. Though she pleaded with Apollo to forgive her youthful hubris and send his son, Asclepius, to heal her, Apollo didn’t listen.

The plague took Peta, and thousands of others.

The Place: Delos Island, Greece

In October, John and I went on a Road Scholar trip to Greece, traveling on large ferries to several islands in the Aegean. (I’ll focus on this trip for several blogs.) We were submerged in archaeology and ancient history—stepping around rubble walls and rows of columns under a Mediterranean sun; viewing marble statues and painted pottery in beautiful museums; and learning of cultures that date back thousands of years. Of all the ancient Greek sites we visited, most impressive was Delos Island.

Delos.

Mykonos, Gateway to Delos:

The town of Mykonos.

Mykonos, roughly six by nine miles and horseshoe shaped, lies in the heart of the Aegean, one of the Cyclades islands. The landscape is dry, with brown scrub and occasional trees, and much of the consumed water is desalinated seawater. In summer months, Mykonos beckons party-goers with lively bars and nightclubs, upscale shops and art galleries, laidback beaches, and small villages. Visitors come in droves, up to a million annually, and Mykonos has become one of the most expensive islands in Greece. Architecture in the town of Mykonos is typical of the Aegean—white-washed boxlike houses with blue shutters and small balconies bunched on hillsides; mazes of narrow stone-paved streets; an historic Venetian quarter at water’s edge; and churches and chapels everywhere. Today, most of the houses in town have been converted into tourism shops and rentals, and Mykonians live elsewhere. When we were there, the party-goers had left, replaced by families and older crowds, but the town’s stiff year-round winds remained. Boats leave regularly from the docks for the half-hour ride to Delos Island. The day we went, the air was chilly, the winds brisk, and the sea choppy.

A Sacred Island:

Terrace of the Lions.

Ancient Greek mythology, teeming with legends of gods and goddesses, heroes and monsters, gave a sense of meaning to Greeks of that time. Central to the mythology were the gods who lived on Mount Olympus, Greece’s highest mountain. Zeus reigned as king of the gods and father to many. According to legend, he had a mistress, Leto. Perhaps needless to say, his wife, Hera, queen of the gods, was jealous. When Leto became pregnant, Hera shunned her from all land on Earth. How then could Leto give birth? With the help of Poseiden, god of the seas, Zeus anchored a small rocky island in the Aegean—today’s Delos. Here Leto had twins, Artemis, the goddess of hunting, followed by Apollo, god of knowledge. All the gods appeared on Delos to mark Apollo’s birth, all except Hera. In the third century BC, the poet Callimachus declared Delos to be the most sacred of islands.

A Bit of History:

Mosaic floor. Courtesy John Harmon.

Inhabitants lived in stone huts on Delos as early as the third millennium BC, and the island hosted religious activities even before the Ionians, an ancient Greek tribe, introduced the worship of Apollo. In the first millennium BC, Delos became a place of festivals and pilgrimages, and the island was ‘purified’ for worship. All inhabitants, both living and buried, were removed, and no one could be born or die on the island. Wealthy Greeks built homes to be close to their gods.

Its location also made it ideal for trade. Delos became a major commercial port, its trade including slaves and spices, and Roman settlers built opulent houses and large public spaces. The town was sacked several times and trade routes changed: the population diminished, until by the eighth century AD the island was abandoned. In the nineteenth century, French archaeologists uncovered astounding ruins on the island. Today Delos is a World Heritage Site, open to the public only during the day.

Our Visit:

Amphitheater. Courtesy John Harmon.

We didn’t expect the excavations on Delos to be so vast and so well preserved; nor did we expect the cultures we visited throughout the Aegean to be so advanced. On Delos, dozens of walls, their stones meticulously set, remain from the early centuries BC. Later walls, from Roman times, made use of mortar to hold the stones in place. Our tour leader explained the layers of history as we trooped around the ruins of opulent homes, marble floors and window frames, public wells, private baths, floor mosaics, column-bordered atriums, temples, statues of gods and animals, and an amphitheater that could hold 5,000 for plays attended by men, women, and slaves. Some of the statues, such as a row of lions, are replicas, the originals protected in museums. A central sacred lake endured into the twentieth century, when it was drained to prevent the spread of malaria. Archaeologists remain on the island, continuing excavation work; well-fed cats prowl the grounds; and even in October, hordes of visitors milled about. A hill dominates the island, and views extend across deep blue water to Mykonos and other neighboring islands.

To touch walls and mosaics put in place by humans thousands of years ago–that seems a sacred act in and of itself.

Stone wall without mortar.