Knitravel » greece

One of the many sharp turns

A couple of weeks ago, a group of us that included Misha, two of his classmates, and Agnieshka, a Polish traveler we met a few days earlier, decided to explore the western side of Crete, where none of us had ventured to yet by this point.

After that road trip, I’ve come to the conclusion that driving in Greece is treacherous. I’m unendingly grateful for the global brain that is the internet, for without it I surely would have had us all killed. Following the North American / western driving rules that have been engrained in us since teenagehood here would mean certain death, without being armed with the insight a quick search on Google brings forth.

More of the road

Luckily, I had the foresight to look up some tips on Google the night before embarking on this particular adventure, and I came across these mighty helpful pages.

For it is true that, unless you plan to hurtle down single lane (one lane each way, so really double-lane), extremely curvy roads with tight turns, flanked on either side by a cliff and a steep mountain wall, like some demon from Styx, then you must at all times drive in the emergency lane (or what exists of it on any given part of the road).

The beginning was the scariest part, for me. As we entered the mountain range, the roads were steep, narrow, typically lacking an emergency lane more than about a foot wide, and were situatated so close to the edge of the cliff, with not much of a barrier to speak of – certainly the barriers that were there would have been useless had anything actually happened – that I drove about 40 km/h and was quite satisfied with this. But the rather overconfident Greek drivers, the sort of people who would normally lounge about and spend three hours on dinners every night, never a care in the world, must have all had extremely important appointments to keep, or urgent matters to attend to, because this sort of careful driving was just not good enough for them. They all sailed past with the youthful sense of immortality of a drunk teenager in love, trying to show off his machismo to his girl, forcing me (and all other unassuming, terrified tourists who shared the road with us that day) to drive as close to the edge of the road, the cliffside, the branches of bushes and trees hanging over the road, as possible, as I fraily gripped the steering wheel, hoping for my life, and those of my wards, to be spared in the wake of these people who so trustingly hand over their fate to a deity that doesn’t even exist.

There was even a point where I was driving at 60km/hour, around treacherous bends near cliffs, that a bus decided I wasn’t going fast enough for him. He passed me, having to move out into the oncoming lane to do so (there was no emergency lane here), around a tight bend, and risked a near crash for it. We passed that same bus a mere two minutes later, stopped on the side of the road at some siteseeing location. I ask you – what was the point of that risk?

After the first few kilometres of this sort of abuse, we stopped for a brief respite, as one of our party needed a cigarette (I probably could have used one too at this point, were I smoker), and I got out of the car, realising just how shaky I was, how weak my arms felt, how dizzy standing up made me. The adrenaline must have been pumping for a good hour by this point, and I was exhilerated like I haven’t been in a long time – perhaps the last time I felt anything like this was when I went solo skydiving on my 26th birthday. This wasn’t nearly as intense as then, but it was enough. I felt alive – and by the time I got back in the car, I somehow felt more confident. The roads also straightened out a bit, and they weren’t so close to the cliffs as they had been, so I began to pick up the pace and drive at a more reasonable speed for Greek drivers. They still continued to pass us, for the most part, but not as quickly – and I didn’t get as freaked out when they did.

An alleyway in Rethymnon

We stopped in Rethymnon, and then went on to Xania, and on our way back home, we had a brief dip in the Agia Pelagio. It had been briefly suggested, when we were in Xania, that we might travel to the most western point of Crete, but when we figured out the roads were like the beginning of the trip, except 10 times worse – with much steeper, even sharper twists and turns, I decided my constitution was just not up to it this time. Perhaps with another 10 years of driving under my belt – in Greece-like conditions, particularly – I might be up to the task. But at this point, I needed the rest of my energy to get us back home.

When we stopped in Agio Pelagio, I made a rather dangerous left turn into a tiny road I wasn’t supposed to make. We did nearly all get into an accident then, but some guardian angel was looking after the five of us, and to that spirit I shall forever be grateful for sparing and protecting us. And I’m also grateful to my companions for not holding it against me!

Agea Pelagea

The last stretch home – the beginning part of the trip that had been terrifying before – was again scary, but with the whole day behind me, and knowing we hadn’t had anything bad happen yet, I made it through with a little more confidence than I’d had in the morning. We passed a few small offering houses that had been set up on particularly dangerous sections of road, and we knew that those were to commemorate people who’d died there. I was actually surprised we didn’t see more – but then I figured, they probably don’t set one of those up for everyone who dies.

You can see the album from our trip here. Take a look at the pictures on the road – you can see the emergency lane, us driving in it, and the crazy hairpin twists and bends. Amongst, of course, beautiful photos of Xania and Rethymnon.

The days all seem to run into one another here… time just passes (I’m reminded of the French term, “écouler”, as in “le temps s’écoule”) and before I know it, another week has passed, I feel like I’ve done so much, and yet nothing at all.

A Church in Heraklion

As I look at the calendar and realise we’re only here for 11 more days, an odd feeling begins to brew in my belly. The thought of leaving behind the last 3 months’ worth of experiences is a little daunting… the realisation that reality is awaiting me back in Toronto, is settling in like an uneasy dream. It’s not that there’s anything in particular to dread about returning home… in fact, I’m quite looking forward to seeing all my good friends whom I’ve by necessity neglected this summer, and with WEMF 2011 happening the second weekend after we return, not to mention summer in Toronto (my favourite time in the city – in fact, the only season I really enjoy in the city – considering the fact that spring and fall no longer exist), the new client possibilities that settling back in at home mean for me, and numerous other things that are wonderful about having a home base.

Despite all this, however, there’s a twinge of something in my belly. I’m not sure what it is – perhaps it’s apprehension about the coming school year I have yet to fully commit to, or uncertainty about what living in a bachelor apartment with a (very trusted, very much wonderful) partner will be like (we’ve survived 3 months in rooms 1/2-1/3rd smaller than the apartment, but now we look forward to another 10 or so months in such conditions, depending on how things go), or maybe just plain old regret at having to stop doing the thing I love the most (traveling, exploring) and buckling down for yet another long, cold, dark, depressing winter in Toronto, the season in which all refuse to go out to and do anything fun because, *puts on whiny voice* it’s too cooold, I’m tiiiired, I can’t afford it, I didn’t get to the gym at ALL this week, I have to go to WORK tomorrow, wha whaaaaaa life’s soooo haaaaarrrrd, I’m gonna make up any excuse so I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself in the darkness… ugh… the burden of it weighs me down even now, in this sunny, beautiful climate where it never rains, and it’s always warm enough to go out in a short skirt and tank top, and, unless you’re wearing red or showing your belly button, you won’t get stared down and called Whore!.

But enough about my impending doom – I mean, returning home. It’s time to talk about the strangeness that is Crete. It is both wonderful and gritty, at times welcoming, at others egregiously rude towards whites (perhaps just North American whites – in particular, Americans, but the people never can tell a Canadian from an American one and often don’t soften up until you say you’re from Canada, which usually doesn’t come up in the first place). Greece doesn’t have quite the same inherent dichotomy of rich and poor that makes third world countries such interesting, and often harrowing, places to visit, but it does have its own long list of positives and negatives. While I’ve only been on Crete here, and can’t really speak for the rest of the country, I have seen enough to understand that life is not all that easy for the locals, but there’s a certain ease to the slower pace (which isn’t all that apparent when you visit Heraklion, a very built up, extremely busy city on the island) and of course the beautiful waterfronts across the island and the rustic charm of the buildings here that can make things a little more palatable for the locals.

Misha at the port of Heraklion

You begin to get an idea of the slow pace of life here when you head out for dinner in one of the local traditional Greek restaurants. Little did we realise when we sat down that first evening that from the very first moment of opening that menu, all the way down to the free desserts and 3 shots of raki (each) we didn’t order (and never do), that dinners here would regularly take 2 to 3 hours each. We did this about five times before growing a bit bored with the whole thing (and before I realised I didn’t need three shots of hard liquor, no matter how free, on top of two glasses of wine throughout the dinner to finish off, with the result of me passing out nearly immediately after every time), and we’ve since decided to get take-out (still traditional Greek food, usually) and eat in our hotel room, on a more frequent basis.

Amoudara Beach

I’ve had plenty of time to relax on the beach. Perhaps knowing I’m here for a month has spoilt me a litlte, as I spend only about an hour a day out there. However, it’s because I know I’m not just here for 6 days and therefore must spend every second by the water; because it’s much too hot and I don’t wish to turn a deep, lobster red before returning home (a light caramel colour will do just fine, thank you very much); because I’ve client work to do, and knitting to finish up… and I also don’t like the bikini rash one gets from having wet bottoms on all day. Despite this, the water is a second home to me. I love to relax in the calm waters in the morning, at times swimming quickly, others more slowly, and still others just floating and letting the waves take me where they will. I’ve been swimming since I was a baby, and I’ve always loved it… the way the sounds of the world mute as you dip your head beneath the surface… the way your body glides through the substance, the way the currents of warm and cool water alternate across your skin, the way your hair dances around your head and tickles your scalp as you lay suspended in the aquatic world; the way your back, when you relax with your head all the way back, rights itself and all your pain trickles out of it because gravity is no longer battling with you. I hate pools because they are filled with discarded human skin and other bodily excretions I shan’t mention, as well as chemicals galore. But natural bodies of water, being so huge, have a way of rinsing themselves, as the streets of a city are cleared of human imprints during a thunderstorm – I trust Mother Nature’s work far more than I do that of humans… and so I don’t mind spending hours dancing and swirling away in an ocean, a sea, or even a lake. I have, at times, feared sharks, but we did some research and found out that in Crete, particularly, despite there being Great Whites in the area, there’s never been a shark attack. So it’s not something that sits in the forefront of my mind as I relax into the waves.

Tina at the port of Heraklion

We will certainly return to the 3-hour dinners, once Misha’s done with his school this Friday, and I’ve got some bit of client work out of the way. At that point, we will have but 9 more days left, and surely by then we will both be itching to take full advantage of our remaining free time here.

We’re planning an overnight trip to Santorini, and I’m certain this will be a most beautiful way to end our journey in Europe this summer. We’re both looking forward to it, and I’m sure I’ll be bursting with things to say about it upon my return.

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