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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 exhorbitant $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 unpronouncable 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.
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