Euros Ate My Dollars

10. Xboy
Who needs Xbox? For the mere price of 20 Euros, you can have your own Xboy! Is it made by Microsoft? No! Is it a working game console? I doubt it! Is it really just a brick in a box? All signs point to yes! Merry Christmas, Junior!

9. GameSatation 2
Sitting right next to “Xboy” in a sleazy electronics shop in Hania is something called “Gamesatation 2.” I really wanted to ask what is actually inside the box, but the store owner chased me off when he caught me taking these pictures and laughing.

8. Gerani Lemonade
Just like lemonade, but with one crucial difference: it’s carbonated! It’s bottled in Greece, so I’ve been drinking it like crazy in case I can’t find it elsewhere in Europe. I tell you this: When I return to the States, all my Country Time lemonade will be made with carbonated water.

7. Chocolate Croissant
OK, so these are really only in Greek bakeries in order to appease the hordes of British tourists. In other words, you would be right if you protested that these aren’t really Greek at all. And if you did so, I would say that I’ll eat a chocolate croissant every day of the week if I want to, and no one will ever keep me away from them again, so you just need to BACK OFF!!!

6. Oregano Chips
This sounds sort of weird/unappetizing, which is of course the reason we bought them in the first place. As it turns out, it’s like Sour Cream and Onion chips and Old Bay chips had a delicious chip baby. They favor Sour Cream and Onion chips slightly more though, so I guess that was the mother.

5. Gyros
The ultimate late night snack. I’ve always liked these in the States, but I didn’t know gyros until I tried “Mike’s” on the Hania harbor. Mike knows gyros. Take one homemade pita, and fill it with slow roasted pork, fresh tomatoes, spinach, tzatziki sauce, and the ultimate coup de grace: french fries. Also, it turns out that everyone who tried to tell me that “gyros” is pronounced “yeeros” was right. Gyros ate my dollars?

4. Loukoumades
Beauty in simplicity, which means that you can make these yourself tonight in a few easy steps. Buy some biscuit dough, roll it into balls, and fry it up in a pan. Once it’s looking like golden doughnut holes, cover it in honey and cinnamon. Presto! You just made loukoumades, and that sound you hear is me trying to force my way into your home to steal every single one.

3. TonTon
To be fair, Greece has to share the credit with Denmark for this particular product. Half Greek, half Danish, 100% pure legendary explorer. In the time it takes you to eat your mortal breakfast, TonTon has discovered at least three new ancient civilizations. Whose residents were tinier than Thumbkin. And who tell him the secrets of the galaxy when no one else is around. For more on TonTon, you should probably read this story.

2. Raki
Ouzo is the more famous Greek spirit, but raki is distinct to Crete. You could buy raki in brand-name bottles, but why bother when everyone is willing to sell you their own homemade version at half the price? Raki is made from fermented grape skins, which gives it a wine-like taste. The cool thing about this wine-like taste is that it is exceptionally good at hiding behind the distinct taste of burning. But the people of Crete are tough, and any day when they aren’t drinking raki before noon is a day that they must not have been awake before noon. This can also be attributed to raki.

1. After a full day of consumer electronics scams, oregano-flavored everything, and of course, TonTon, there’s simply nothing quite like…

There are two things that Ben and I are definitely not: 1. in shape (motivating myself to walk down the one flight of stairs in my apartment building instead of taking the elevator was an event) and 2. early risers (one memorable day in college Ben woke up at 7 pm, thought it was 7 am, and slept until the next morning. Seriously).

So it was a bit out of character for us to get up at 6:30 this morning to hike 17 kilometers through a giant gorge. This is especially true considering we hadn’t gone to bed until 2:00 in the morning last night. As yesterday was the Danes’ last night in Hania, we’d promised to meet them one last time at The Point. After several failed attempts to catch the early-morning bus to Samaria Gorge, we vowed to have only one beer, say goodbye, and call it a night at a reasonable hour. Unfortunately, Tom and Sandeep have never “called it a night” before early the next morning, so even though we were miraculously able to stick to our one-beer maximum, we didn’t get home until much later than planned. It was difficult to leave our new friends, since we’ve had such a great time with them over the last two weeks. I know the life of a traveler means all new friends are of the make-them-and-leave-them variety, but not being made of such tough stuff, it was with much reluctance (and tearful hugs) that I said goodbye.

We arrived at the bus station this morning out of breath, having had to run to make it on time, and grumpy, as our favorite chocolate croissant vendor was closed at that ungodly hour. We accomplished the mammoth task of buying a bus ticket and boarding the correct bus in record time. This bus from Hania took us up the mountains into the village of Omalos, where the start of the gorge hike is located. (PS: I will say the one good thing about getting up early is that watching the sun rise over the mountains was gorgeous.) (PPS: you know the only thing scarier than driving through the Lefka Ori in a car? Driving through them on a bus with a crazy Greek at the helm!)

The Samaria Gorge is located near the southern coast of Crete and, at 17 kilometers, is apparently the longest gorge in Europe. I don’t really have this whole “meter system” thing down yet, so I’m not sure what that translates to in miles. You could tell me it was 3 miles, or you could say it was 50, and I’d probably believe you. I think a sign said it was around 10 miles long.

The first part of the trek consists of steadily hiking down the mountain into the ravine. By “hiking” I mean “sliding” as many of the rocks were quite slick and the paths can be steep. We quickly became jealous of the gorge-veterans who’d brought walking sticks. One particularly awesome old guy brought two walking sticks and wore a helmet in case of rock slides.

Near the mouth of the gorge lies the namesake village, Samaria. The inhabitants of Samaria were kicked out (or “nationalized,” according to the posted sign) when the gorge became a National Park, but a few buildings and chapels remain.

The gorge itself is incredible. It almost seems like a rocky riverbed (which, I think in the winter, it is), with two enormous cliffs rising perpendicular to the ground on either side. For most of the hike, the gorge remains reasonably wide, but towards the end it narrows and reaches a point no more than three meters across (called the “Iron Gates”).

It was at this point that Ben and I began applauding ourselves for “conquering the gorge!” That turned out to be premature as it was at least another 3 km walk to the nearest village where we could catch a ferry back.

We have some bad news: we did not discover a kri-kri on our road trip. We had suspicions that our kri-kri friend was merely a goat when we saw an actual kri-kri in the Hania city park zoo. Our fears were confirmed when we consulted our guidebook, which informed us that we’d run across wild mountain goats. So the search continues…

I, for one, am quite impressed by these wild goats. Occasionally on our hike we would hear the sound of falling rocks from above. Resisting the urge to throw my arms above my head as if that could save me from descending boulders, I’d look up to see a goat perched on the cliff side. In a gravity-defying feat, these goats would scale completely vertical rockfaces with ease. That also put our “conquering the gorge” claims into perspective.

Some helpful hints for those considering the Samaria Gorge:

1. Wear good shoes! Our athletic sneakers felt inadequate at times.
2. If you’re coming from Hania, take the bus from the city bus station. It’s less than half the price of those tourist offices offering a “guided tour” of the gorge. Here’s a guide: walk.
3. Don’t do it backwards. I don’t know what kind of crazy person would attempt to ASCEND the gorge, but I know people do. I can’t see it happening without serious injury.
4. Bring a small water bottle and some snacks. The have springs along the way to refill.
5. The gorge isn’t open year round, but I would go early or late in the season. We had about half a bus load of hikers starting the trek at the same time, and we still ran into some traffic jams along narrow parts of the trail. I can’t imagine what it’s like in peak season when they have up to five bus loads three times a day from Hania’s bus station alone. Plus, it would be unbearably hot in the summer.

Our days in Hania are winding down, and we’ll be traveling within the next couple days to the city of Iraklio on Crete, where we’ll stay for a few days before sailing out to other islands. Keep you posted!

It’s currently 3:00 in the afternoon, and we’re sitting in our apartment with the door open to the street. Not five minutes ago, I’m sitting here listening to music and drinking Gerani (carbonated lemonade), blissfully oblivious to the fact that a person is slowly approaching our door. When I saw a shadow in the doorway, I looked up, and found it very hard to believe that I was once again confronted with “TonTon.” How did he find us???

He waved to me, blew a kiss to Brittany, and told us he thought our apartment was a shop. It’s been 36 hours since we saw him last, so I was eager to hear about all of the discoveries he must have unearthed in that time. Sadly, he must be taking a break from the bush, as he had no new archaeological finds to record. However, TonTon is happy to report that he met a nice Rasta girl in a bar last night, and they spent the rest of the evening with their dreadlocks tied together. What Jah has joined together, let no man put asunder?

Our last two nights have been spent out on the Hania bar scene, with a new motley crew that was assembled at one of the Scandinavian bars, called “The Point.” Much like “Klik” and “Danza,” “The Point” professes to be the #1 Scandinavian bar in Hania. Did I mention that we make one motley crew?

• Mike: Russian/Canadian Jewish DJ
• Sasha: Russian/Canadian doorman at The Point
• Tom – Danish tourist here on dad’s dime
• Sandeep – Indian/Danish tourist (this makes for an interesting accent)
• Nikolaus – Danish owner of The Point (at 22 years old)
• Kathy – New Jersey resident studying abroad
• And of course, 2 aimless Virginians

As a Russian/Canadian Jewish DJ, it only makes sense that Mike’s musical specialty is reggae. Sunday night was Reggae Night at The Point, which saw Mike at the turntables, and Sasha passed out on an outdoor couch while being paid to act as doorman.

Nikolaus, Brittany, Tom, Sandeep, Kathy

The Danes, as it happens, are a very generous people. They buy rounds for the group faster than I can keep up with. If the level of beer in my bottle drops below the neck, Sandeep is at my side, thrusting a new bottle into my hand. Early on, we were politely declining their offers of beverages, but were soon informed that this is a faux pax in Denmark. You must accept this generosity, and simply try to buy your benefactor his or her next drink, if you can ever find breathing room between rounds. I have gotten the distinct impression that the true Danish faux pax is sobriety.

Our new friends love to learn American slang and culture, and I believe we may be successful in spreading “y’all” to Denmark, as well as getting Nikolaus to serve nachos at The Point. We are having far less success in trying to get Sandeep to stop using the n-word. He apparently picked it up from American rap music, and I can’t make him understand why it’s not OK to greet new people with “what up my n_____s!”

Some other border-crossing highlights:

• All of our new friends delight in saying “How YOU doin?”, which they were proud to tell me is a favorite saying of Joey Tribbiani. Want world peace in 2008? It seems you can’t afford not to elect Matt LeBlanc.
• If a bar plays music, then Tom and Sandeep are guaranteed to request Haddaway’s “What is Love?” Their SNL-style head-banging is enriched by the fact that they are consistently wearing ridiculous hats and/or wigs. Watch out, ladies!

Reggae Night at The Point must have been a success, because the music attracted one character who I must mention here. Toward the end of last night, a middle-aged Rastafarian sat down next to our group on the balcony. He introduced himself as a traveler who speaks eight different languages, and who gives hugs to people who are of mixed heritage. As an Irish and Korean mix, Kathy was the lucky recipient of the first hug.

I asked his name, and he announced that he has two names: a Danish name, which means “the Viking who must die for his cause,” and a Greek name, which he would not share with me. He then decided that he is known in Venezuela as “TonTon,” which means “crazy,” and that I could call him this. When I told him my name, he fell silent, with a teary, far-off look in his eye. I asked if everything was OK, and he told me that he was going to get a tattoo on his back of a tombstone, inscribed with “coincidence.”

The pensive mood was suddenly broken by his exclamation that he had discovered a pyramind in Sarajevo, older than the Egyptian pyramids. Perhaps sensing my skepticism, TonTon quickly produced photographs from his backpack. The first showed him climbing through some trees in the middle of the night, and he described this as a picture of him “searching through the bush.” Next was a picture of him holding a football-sized rock up to the camera. I asked about the rock, and he explained that the pyramid was inside the rock. He then regaled us with the tale of how he cracked open the rock to discover the pyramid hidden inside. TonTon was not out for money, so he donated the pyramid to the restaurant nearest where he found the rock, and he was pleased to announce that the restaurant was re-named in honor of the discovery.

“TonTon” the World Traveler

I guess even TonTon runs out of things to talk about after a while, as he soon fell silent. I thought that might be the last of him, until he suddenly turned to me, and quietly, began singing Bob Marley lyrics in his most soothing voice. I think this might have continued for the rest of the night, but it was around this time that the bar announced they were closing. As we gathered our belongings, TonTon looked into my eyes and sang a new song. As he walked away, he told me that he was singing a speech from 1977. I called after him that I was too young to remember it. He looked back over his shoulder, one last time, to say, “you’re never too young.”

Between jetlag and work and not knowing what in the world we’re doing, besides a few feeble attempts at locating bars, Ben and I haven’t had much in the way of a nightlife while in Hania. So we vowed yesterday to go out last night in earnest.

The night began with the questionable decision to consume the entire complementary bottle of raki the waiter brought us after dinner. Having already drank a half liter of house wine, we sat on the restaurant patio taking painful shot after painful shot and discussing, for what I now realize was an irrationally long time, the best tactics for Ben to achieve his new desired hairstyle: the faux-hawk a la Maddox Jolie-Pitt.

“I’m fine! Raki ain’t nothin’!” Ben said, as we left the now-empty bottle on the table of the fish taverna and started walking towards the harbor. I was certainly woozy and thought he needed to stop posturing and I was quite sure that some sort of pomade would be the best styling implement for a faux-hawk – all of which I was relating to Ben when I suddenly realized he was no longer walking beside me. I turned on my heels to see Ben, a block back, in his only nice pair of pants, crouching on all fours, studying something on the ground.

“I think it’s a tree frog!” he whisper-yelled to me. A group of French people walking by looked at me piteously and scurried past Ben. It turned out to be a piece of trash.

Hania’s harbor-front bar scene is dominated by places touting themselves as “Scandinavian dance clubs.” We’ve yet to figure out their appeal, as most restaurants in Hania vie for the most “authentically Cretan” title. “Where IS Scandinavia anyway?” I asked as we walked past the thumping house music of clubs like “DANZA” and “Klik.”

“Uh, Norway.” Ben replied.

“Huh?” I said.

“I mean, Sweden.”

“Sweden is not Scandinavian.”

“Finland.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“You ask too many questions for a girl,” he said. And then I kicked him into the harbor, so that’s the last you’ll be hearing from Ben for a while.

The only people more annoying than the restaurant greeters (mentioned in a previous post of Ben’s) are the dance club greeters who accost and unrelentingly try to recruit you. We’re pretty good at ignoring them while collecting all the “Free shot!” coupons they hand out. It was strange, then, that the greeting of one such club employee made us simultaneously stop and turn around. “Hey guys,” he said, “Y’all should come in here!” We stared at the man: was his accent an American one? Did he just say “y’all”??

Let me explain: there are no Americans here. The overwhelming majority of tourists are French or German. English-speaking tourists are from the UK. We haven’t met a fellow American since arriving in Greece. It’s not as if I dislike European tourists or particularly care for American ones. But after constantly struggling to understand what everyone around me is saying and feeling isolated by the fact that I grew up on a different continent, I crave anything familiar. I miss the insta-bond of shared experiences, perspectives and geography. Ben and I rushed over to the greeter. “Where you guys from?” he said.

“The States!” we said, excitedly and in unison. “What about you??”

“Canada.”

Well, it wasn’t ideal, but close enough. He then added, “actually, an American girl just went upstairs, you guys should definitely…”

Sold! We ran upstairs without waiting for him to finish and were quickly introduced to a girl from New Jersey. Kathy was equally excited to meet us and we spent most of the next hour talking at each other and reveling in familiar sounds and names of places. I resisted the urge to hug her and declare Kathy to be my new best friend.

After a couple more drinks courtesy of Sasha, the doorman who enticed us into the bar, and his friend Mike, a Russian/Jewish/Canadian DJ, I excused myself to the bathroom. I was already elated to have met a Canadian and an American (an East Coaster, no less!) in the span of one hour when I heard the humming of a distinctly familiar song coming from the bathroom stall.

Ignoring all accepted rules of bathroom decorum, I yelled over the stall walls: “You’re singing Dave Matthews! I KNOW HIM!!!!” I was apparently disregarding the truth as well, as aside from a few fleeting glances of the singer, I do not know Dave Matthews. “I’m from Charlottesville!!” I continued, despite his lack of response.

“Ah, Virginia,” said the chubby American as he came out of the stall.

“YES!” I said, smiling like a crazy person.

“So are you a U.Va. or Virginia Tech fan?” he asked. I was beside myself with giddiness at the mention of my treasured back-home sports rivalry.

“UVA! I WENT TO UVA!!” I shouted, my voice reaching an excited crescendo rivaling that of a howler monkey.

“Well, at least you’re smart?” he said, backing away from me and returning to the bar. Despite my impulses to run after him and talk about my dear alma mater and how awesome Virginia is and how yes, I really am SO smart, my bladder reminded me that, in doing so, I’d probably pee my pants. When I returned to the bar to find the mystery man from home, he had, unfortunately, vanished. This did not stop me from scurrying over to Ben and doing some sort of raki-induced jumping dance as I related the entire experience. Our new friends looked on in bewilderment. I’m surprised we didn’t break out into the Good Old Song.

Apparently I had interrupted the first man-time Ben has enjoyed this trip. “Man-time” with Mike and Sasha involved Ben witnessing the following conversation:

Mike: You know what we need right now?

Sasha: Um… women?

Mike: No, not women.

Sasha: [pause] … Sandwiches?

Mike: No, Sasha, not sandwiches!

Sasha: [long pause] … Strippers?

Mike: No! No Sasha! Not strippers!

Ben never did find out what they needed. We may find out today, as they’ve invited us to an anti-racism festival in the city park and the subsequent Reggae after-party. I’m not sure exactly what sort of tolerance they’re promoting as, outside of tourists, Greece is homogeneously… Greek. I am looking forward to getting a souvenir Bob Marley poster, as well as to the possibility of spotting Greeks with dreadlocks.

Now that I have sufficiently recovered from the experience of driving in Hania, I can attempt to aid any other travelers who may attempt the harrowing feat of renting a car and driving in Greece. Since officers of the law seem to be ignored and/or nonexistent in these parts, consider these “the law of the land.”

1. There are no lanes whatsoever
If a road seems like it should accommodate a maximum of 2 cars, then it’s at least 5. (Not including the 2 outside lanes, sometimes called sidewalks.)

2. Traffic lights are disregarded
Pedestrians be alert: this also means that your crossing signals are meaningless. We came within inches of being run over by a man on a motorcycle while crossing a crosswalk. We had a green signal, he was turning left on a red light, and as he passed us he still saw fit to chastise us with a wagging finger and an “ah, ah, ahhh.”

3. Everything = road
This means you will find cars parked inside shops, on docked boats, and next to your bed when you get home at night. This rule holds especially true for motorcycles, whose riders believe that they have immunity to all laws. One evening last week, I saw two drunk men on a motorcycle crash into a dining table at a restaurant. While diners were seated there. The man on the back of the motorcycle managed to keep his ice cream cone perfectly balanced.

4. Motorists will politely let you out from a side street into the stream of traffic.
Haha! They would never do this. And there is never a natural break in traffic, so the only question is: how long are you willing to wait before taking the leap of faith and driving directly into oncoming traffic? You will be enraged at the other drivers who do this to you, up until the inevitable moment you find yourself forced into the same religious dilemma. It’s time to ask yourself what you believe.*

5. You are always wrong.
This holds especially true if you are legally right. The locals can see the rental sticker on your windshield, and the luggage in the back seat. This gives them the unchecked authority to honk at, and otherwise belittle, you and your passengers. The redeeming factor is that all the car horns sound like they came off of tiny clown cars, so each brush with death is brightened by the nostalgic sounds of the big top. Double bonus: If you happen to be driving near the harbor, roll down your window: now it smells like the big top too!

*The first of many Indiana Jones references. Sorry Brittany.