We chose an apartment in Hania with a kitchen, so that we could conserve money by cooking our own meals. And by cooking, I mean using the small hot plate that is provided. We have been doing a better-than-expected job of avoiding the over-priced restaurants so far, but last night we decided to make a rare trip out to eat dessert. We decided to finally try the restaurant known as Ela, which touts both its open-roof dining room, and its inclusion in seemingly every guidebook in publication. All this really means is that Ela paid the piper at each publisher, in order to ensure their inclusion in the latest edition. But this does not prevent them from setting up a sandwich board advertisement in the street to ensure that that every passer-by knows all about their accolades.
We decided to order both baklava and something I can not pronounce that means cheese pies with honey. We confused our server by explaining that we would only be having dessert. Greeks don’t typically do “dessert,” so most sweet offerings are only on the menu to appease the tourists. Often, what they will gladly sell you as dessert seems to be more like dinner with honey on top. This was certainly the case with the cheese pies. What I assumed would be similar to cream cheese was in fact much more like feta with chives. But with honey on top!
We had a very difficult time figuring out how/where/who to pay for our food, so when we realized we would have leftovers, we were reluctant to go down the path of communicating “doggie bag.” Brittany’s solution was to wrap up our leftover baklava in her napkin and stuff it in her purse. (This would have made for less of a spectacle if she hadn’t been shiftily scanning the room left and right while she did so). Nevertheless, it was actually a rather good solution to avoid accidentally purchasing whatever would constitute the direct Greek translation of “doggie bag.” Or, it would have been had a good solution if we hadn’t forgotten about the baklava when we got home. Brittany did remember it today, after only several hours of shopping in the city sun. She is currently in the kitchen trying to clean honey from the inside of her purse.
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
Welcome to the conversation Ben and I have countless times each day. Every time I leave the house, I brace myself for the inevitable challenge that comes along with completing the simplest task in a country where I don’t speak the language. Mailing a letter yesterday was an all-morning event.
What we now refer to as simply “the book” is our guidebook, the Rough Guide to Crete. With its map and Greek vocabulary transliterations, it’s become as precious to us as our passports, and we never leave home without it.
I took for granted in the States the confidence that comes along with having a reasonable idea of what I’m doing on a daily basis – or at least in my ability to figure it out. I read somewhere before our trip that all self-consciousness has to be abandoned in a foreign country, and I’ve found that to be very true. Here, unlike at home, it isn’t just probable that I will embarrass myself in public; it is guaranteed. How was I supposed to know that the actual mailbox was outside the post office door? In America it’s also on the inside! Aren’t you impressed that I FOUND the post office and applied the proper (I hope) amount of postage?? It’s unnerving for two Greek women to be obviously talking about you rapidly in Greek, fully aware that you don’t understand what they’re saying but not disguising their laugh at your expense.
What kind of chips are these? Your guess
is as good as mine! We eventually identified
them as oregano-flavored. (And they rule!)
In Ben’s 9/10 post, he described one of many embarrassing debacles at the grocery store. The supermarket is consistently our biggest challenge. First, we have to identify what an object is: butter? sour cream? cheese? yogurt? If we’re lucky, a label, or a neighboring object, will have an English translation. Next comes the game I like to call “Match the Shapes,” where we try to match the Greek word on the label to the Greek word on one of the price stickers. Not as easy as it sounds. Did you know that these six characters: are all the same letter?
Self-consciousness also has to be abandoned to attempt to communicate with non-English-speaking natives. Most interactions end with frantic gesticulation and me yelling a nonsensical string of the few Greek words I know: half-hour! kilo! sorry!
Take, for instance, our attempt to get a bus schedule a couple of days ago. We’d finally located the bus station (“station” being a liberal word for a ramshackle booth on the side of a road), but couldn’t find bus times or fares posted anywhere. I approached the attendant, a stocky, expressionless Greek man.
“Parakaló, mípos miláte angliká?” (Excuse me, do you speak English?)
“Né.” (Yes.)
“Great! Do you have a copy of the bus schedule we could have?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, is it posted anywhere?”
“No.”
“Ok. When does the bus leave for Elafonissi Beach?”
“No.”
“Ya Elafonissi?”
“No.”
“AUTOBUS! [imitate driving a car, hands on wheel] TIME! [point to watch]”
“No.”
Hm, right. Fortunately, most of the locals actually speak a little English and are friendly and accommodating. Ben has embraced speaking Greek and will spout off the words and phrases he knows with reckless abandon. The locals get a kick out of it, and politely let him finish before responding in English. He likes asking how to say things in Greek (“Pos léyete sta Eliniká?”) which the locals also enjoy and we’ve received many Greek language lessons.
Ben’s also taken to speaking English with a heavy Greek accent. Granted, it’s hard to avoid doing that occasionally, as we’re surrounded by such accents. I fear, however, that he’s never going to stop as he not only talks to me with a Greek accent, but I just overheard him talking to himself in the shower: “Water praysher is preety sheetty.”
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
As I ate my dinner of chicken souvlaki and green beans last night, I noticed some unexpected movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head, and spotted it down where the wall meets the floor in our kitchen: a tiny lizard! His pale red body quickly skedaddled behind our giant refrigerator. I started to tell Brittany, but checked myself when I considered that such a decision would likely doom the rest of my night to become a one-man, furniture-moving, lizard hunt. Instead, I turned to our guidebook for answers.
The experts advise that our lizard was most likely a gecko, which are known to sometimes enter homes on Crete. If one does enter your home, our guide suggests you welcome it, for it will dine on the mosquitoes and other biting bugs that may invade as well. Fully aware of 1. Brittany’s hatred of bugs, and
2. Brittany’s love of When Harry Met Sally, I have since convinced her to allow Billy Crystal, Jr. to stay.
Spend any time on Crete, and you will soon become familiar with several members of its animal kingdom. The first that you are likely to notice in a city like Hania is the dogs. Stray and domestic alike wander the streets all day, and are distinguished by their curiosity. Upon our arrival here, we were met near the bus stop by a black lab mutt, who we promptly dubbed Samuel. Samuel followed us everywhere for the next several hours, which we rather enjoyed. The locals, on the other hand, generally consider all the dogs a nuisance, and you will often see shopkeepers stomping at the doorsteps to chase away sleeping strays.
Cookie the dog
Our landlords keep a special chair at their cafe for one dog that looks like a chihuahua in a toupee. She is named Cookie, and she likes to play with her rubber chicken.
Wait until nightfall, and you will become more familiar than you ever wished with two other species. The first is the tree frogs, which I have still been unable to see, but whose presence you will never doubt. Their croaking is LOUD, and seems to be coming from all around you. My sanity thanks the warriors who largely deforested the island hundreds of years ago. The history books would tell you that they needed lumber for construction, but I know the truth: they just wanted some sleep.
The second nocturnal nuisance is less exotic, but far more annoying. Feral cats prowl the alleys at night, engaging in cyclical territorial disputes. I was awakened one night by what sounded like an angry gang of babies hollering obscenities outside our window. Curious, I opened the door to find feral cats wrestling and clawing on our doorstep. Before I could shut the door, I was overwhelmed by the smell of cat spray. Pungent!
The last animal I want to mention is one that is said to live in the mountains of the island, and is rarely seen by expedition groups. It is called the kri-kri, and it is allegedly Crete’s native goat. The guidebooks and Brittany insist that the kri-kri’s existence is universally accepted, and that its horns are used for steak knife handles. Fortunately for the pursuit of truth, I watch “In Search Of” with Leonard Nimoy, and I remember one episode about the elusive kri-kri, which has never been photographed, and is dismissed by scientists as myth. It was either about the kri-kri or some sort of South American goat-demon, but what matters now is my new quest: to take the first legitimate photograph of the elusive “kri-kri” in its native environment, and thereby prove Brittany, science, and Leonard Nimoy wrong once and for all.
Kri-Kri or amateur hoax? You decide.
All proceeds from the sale of my photos to the tabloids will be used to provide a better life for myself and the one friend who never doubted the importance of this mission: Billy Crystal, Jr.
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
Thought I’d take a step back and tell you a little about our arrival in Hania/Chania/Xania/Khania. Despite the fact that we’d determined we were going to stay in Hania for a month, we had not secured any sort of housing prior to our arrival. This was not for lack of effort — any place we were able to contact was just confused as to why we were calling them. Apparently “reservations” aren’t really done here, and we were told time and again to just show up when we arrived in Crete.
The ferry-from-hell dropped us off at Soudha Bay, about 10km east of Hania, so we hopped a bus we hoped would take us into the city. When we stepped off the bus into Hania at 6am Sunday morning we were literally homeless. Also, we had no idea where to go. So, as we’ve done for most of this trip so far, we just started walking. Finally we came across a street name that resembled the spelling of a street name on our map — a street that luckily led us into Hania’s old town. Hania is situated on the coast of Crete around a harbour. (Neat factoid: Hania is one of the longest-inhabited cities in all of Europe, according to our handy guidebook!) What is referred to as the “old town” encircles the harbour’s edge and is made of up a web of cobblestoned alleys and squares. Vines of wild grapes hang off ornate balconies above the narrow streets, small houses and shops cluster side by side along water that is crystal clear, the crumbling ruins of ancient Venetian fortresses pop up here and there. Yes, it’s pretty much paradise.
Obviously, despite our lack of sleep and short tempers, Ben and I were instantly charmed upon arriving in old town and within minutes were trying to drop cities from our list of places to go to extend our stay in Hania. It became clear that finding a place to stay wasn’t going to be difficult — every other house in Hania advertises “Rooms for Rent!” Unfortunately, at this time of morning, absolutely no place was open. We wandered around the old town for what felt like hours, getting sufficiently lost, but trying to locate a few places we wanted to check out. “Wandering” is the wrong word for what we were doing as it implies leisurely meandering. A better word is “dragging.” We carried giant backpacks on our backs and lugged huge rolling suitcases behind us, no small feat on streets that are centuries old. I thought the wheels of my suitcase were going to fall off as I forced its mass over the uneven rocks. I also thought Ben was going to throw his suitcase into the harbour he got so fed up with it. The noise the suitcases made was horrific: a loud and echoing grinding (imagine putting rocks in a blender) that interrupted the morning silence and I’m sure woke up the entire city.
Just as we’d decided to squat in the middle of the street for a couple hours until the shops opened, I heard something. “Ben, do you hear… techno music?”
We followed the music until we turned a corner and discovered… an internet cafe! That was open! And playing techno!
We have determined that we are addicted to the internet. We can’t go a day without it. Basically, if I don’t know what’s going on RIGHT NOW then I am TICKED OFF. I felt a visceral relief as I sat down in front of the computer screen. Fortunately, we were able to park here and while away the hours surfing the web to our heart’s content.
When the city began to wake up, we pried ourselves from the keyboards and began to visit the few places we’d identified as desirable places to live. The first thing we discovered is that Cretan vendors, like those in Athens, are pushy. Some, when they saw us coming lugging our bags, approached us and said “room?” We’d shrug and nod and they would show us a room, assume we’d agreed to rent it, force the key into Ben’s hand and demand our passports. Quick side story: one particularly old and pushy Greek woman still heckles us every time we walk down her street. She’ll yell “ROOM!” and motion insistently that we come over. Despite the fact that we respond, “Óhi! Efharistó! Óhi!” (No! Thank you! No!) repeatedly, she has not yet stopped. Ben’s trying to figure out the Greek for, “we will rent from you… NEVER!!”
Unlike most Athenians, many Cretans do not speak English outside of a few key words, which is helpful enough for day-to-day interaction, but difficult during apartment negotiations. This made explaining that we wanted a room for one month difficult. Most balked when they finally understood, as renting a room for a month in the high season (September is the tail end of the high season) is uncommon (what? people don’t take month-long holidays? eight-month long holidays?). The language gap made bargaining even more difficult (obviously, I was getting a bulk discount!).
We had a surprising amount of success, and at the end of our hours-long search, worn out and exhausted, we had many offers to choose from that ran about 15 to 20 euros per night, thanks to our ridiculous low-balling. We were satisfied as this price is cheaper than, or equivalent to, that of the crummiest hostels. We finally chose a small apartment on the west side of the harbour, with a couple beds, a bathroom that actually had a defined shower area (in most, the “shower” is just a showerhead hooked to one wall of the bathroom), a small kitchenette, and a porch — and, thankfully, English-speaking landlords.
We’re trying to get to know our way around the city, which is hard since Hania is a maze of alleys that all look identical. So far in our explorations we’ve discovered great shops and street-long markets, and cute outdoor cafes and tavernas. We’ve yet to explore the majority of the city; this afternoon we hope to get to the local beach. The only route I’m absolutely sure of is that from the apartment to the internet cafe, so you can be sure to expect many more updates to come.
Dear Hania: I don’t know much, but I know I love you. We chose Hania as our Greek destination based on its description in several travel books as “the most beautiful city on Crete.” This statement does not do Hania justice - this is the sort of place you could come to visit, and never leave. In fact, this seems to be the story behind our landlord’s girlfriend, a displaced Scot named Natalie. We’re thankful to have her English-speaking advice on the city, as well as her assistance in translating between ourselves and our landlord, Tiki. Pictures to come soon, as well as more on the new friends we’re making among the locals. In the meantime…
Today we paid visits to the local markets - that is, the traditional marketplace and the modern supermarket. The traditional market yielded a plethora of delights. We enjoyed a breakfast of yoghurt with honey, and frappé to drink. Frappé is a foamy iced coffee made with Nescafé, and every young person around here seems to drink them non-stop. Greek yoghurt, as it turns out, is very much like cream cheese, and a plate of cream cheese with honey is not something we were very excited to eat with a spoon. Our server rolled his eyes when we asked for bread to spread it on.
The best part about the market (or the worst part, if you hear Brittany tell it) was the meat market. Here we saw the decapitated heads of several animals I was unable to identify. I guess I’m used to seeing them attached to their bodies, and wearing skin. My personal favorite was the naked rabbits. For some reason, their furry feet always remain - perhaps for the shopper to use as a talisman*?
We inspired further eye-rolling at our next stop, the supermarket. Apparently, the shopper is expected to weigh their own produce, and print a special sticker with the weight and price to stick on the bag. We were blissfully unaware of this fact until we got to the register, and its grumpy cashier. I can’t really blame her for her mood, since our mistake held up a line that was already very long. All were forced to wait while a second cashier ran our cucumbers back to the produce section, to do the proper weighing and labeling that we had neglected. Also, I don’t think I helped the situation when I tried to say, “I’m sorry” in Greek but in fact said “You’re welcome.” Opa!
The supermarket was not a total loss, however. Kroger, I beseech you, why do you not carry Nestle Crunch cereal? On that same note, Kroger, I thank you for not carrying hot dog-flavor Cheetos.
Brittany would not let my buy either one (she has confiscated most of my Euros) but I will be sure to let you know about oregano potato chips and Mythos, “the Hellenic lager.” For now, adhio!
*See Brittany’s 9/9 entry for more on the regional marketability of talismans.
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
Jetlagged, exhausted, and dreading a nine-hour boat ride, Ben and I navigated our way through the metro from Athens to Pireas port yesterday evening for the final leg of our journey to Crete. We’d lost all concept of time and place. Were we in London yesterday? No, this morning? Two days ago? Did we sleep last night? Why are we doing this? Even as I write this I’m pretty sure I haven’t slept in at least 36 hours.
Ben and I purchased “deck-class” ferry tickets from the mainland to Crete. This means, instead of having a nice room to sleep in, we had to make camp somewhere on the deck of the boat for the night. It also means that we weren’t going to be allowed to board the lifeboats until all the people that shelled out for the cabins were saved. James Cameron taught me that.
I was obviously not expecting much from the Greek Island ferries. The word “ferry” to me implies a small-ish tour boat that floats down the river at Busch Gardens. So I was pleasantly surprised when I was confronted with this:
Giant, nearly-cruise-sized ships. I was even more delighted when I saw this:
There’s a disco on board! And drinking! Hope shined through the gray fog of our jetlag.
The final surprise was when we were told that we wouldn’t actually have to be on the deck of the boat; there was a room with airplane-style seating where we could set up camp. We excitedly chose a row of seats, stacked our luggage on either side of us so as not to be disturbed, pulled out our eye masks and fleece blanket, and prepared to sleep for the first time in what felt like a very long time.
Once the boat had left dock and the hustle and bustle of boarding had quieted, I noticed the TVs. Two televisions sat at the front of the room, volume set inexplicably loud for such a small space and each TV playing a different channel. I peaked out from under my eye mask to see that on one TV was some sort of Greek soap opera involving a woman dressed like a chicken, flanked by two women in silver unitards, all dancing and singing together. I tuned this one out, only to hear the other TV blaring an infomercial for a cure-all talisman. “Want to change everything you don’t like about your life? Your career? Your girlfriend? Buy this talisman! It’s based in science!” the announcer yelled. Just to drive the point home, he added: “Julius Caesar wore a talisman!”
Our fellow boat-riders were not at all bothered by the noise. They were obviously seasoned ferriers. That, or very drunk. Nothing woke them. One particular chubby, mustachioed Greek a few rows in front of us hadn’t stirred since I boarded. At one point I was kind of concerned he was dead, but I was too tired to do anything about it. Around midnight, when I was grumpily still awake, I found out the man was not, in fact, dead. He was very much alive. It happened all of a sudden, and sounded as if the dull hum of the engine had suddenly gotten deafeningly loud. Or the boat had crashed. He was snoring. And he did not stop. I’ve never heard anything like it.
As the room filled throughout the night, the smell in the room became…a little stale. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I showered, so I didn’t complain when the small, unventilated room in the innards of the ferry became a little spicy-smelling. You got used to it. Around 3 am, though, the smell became unbearable. It was putrid. Like rotten body odor and sewage. “Ben, what in the world is that smell?” I said, sitting straight up.
“I have no idea!” he gasped, covering his nose with his hand and looking around desperately for an exit. It was then that we noticed the man in the row behind us had stuck his feet so that they were poking out from beneath our seats. We were horrified when the source of the smell dawned on us.
Now that my ears and nose were under attack, I ran out onto the deck in a final attempt to get some sleep. I lay on the bare floor, feeling rotten and sorry for myself, and cursing the day I decided to leave my cozy home in Virginia. However, from that vantage, the rock of the boat in the choppy waters of the Mediterranean was vomit-inducing. I stormed back to our seats. “I HATE the boat!” I yelled.
“Really??” said Ben, sarcastically. “‘Cause I LOVE the boat!” We resigned ourselves to our sleepless fates and attempted to muster all remaining energy for the impending room-hunt in Hania, Crete.
The only highlight of our ferry journey came at the end, when we were able to try “Greek coffee.” Kafe ellinikos is a thick, foamy sludge served in a small cup. Apparently how to leave the grounds in the cup, and not drink them, is a learned skill and one I hope to pick up soon.
Moral of the story: I consider myself a trooper. I’ll pretty much do anything to save a buck. This experience, however, gets filed under “not worth it.” When taking the Greek ferries, spring for the high speed catamarans. It’s twice the price but gets you there in half the time.
I feel like I have so much more to tell, and I really want to get into how I’ve found heaven and how I’m never leaving (sorry Mom!), but that’s for another blog entry. Get thee to Hania ASAP. Just take a different boat.
UPDATE:
Our first foray into vlogging. Please excuse the poor audio quality at the beginning and shaky camera work. It’s hard to walk on a rocking ferry!
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
RSS
We decided to order both baklava and something I can not pronounce that means cheese pies with honey. We confused our server by explaining that we would only be having dessert. Greeks don’t typically do “dessert,” so most sweet offerings are only on the menu to appease the tourists. Often, what they will gladly sell you as dessert seems to be more like dinner with honey on top. This was certainly the case with the cheese pies. What I assumed would be similar to cream cheese was in fact much more like feta with chives. But with honey on top!
are all the same letter?
