Crete - Day 1
This time Crete feels like a totally unique experience. I am here for research. NOT for leisure, NOT for pleasure. I underline this as I need to remind myself what the reason of this visitation is ... and GET back to work. I have been on Crete before; in fact, at least ten times, but has always been during the Summer months. In the Winter, when the tourists rarely visit, Crete takes a sad, melancholic face and the island is dressed in gray. Loneliness and missing Martin, in my case, makes it worse. Everything here makes me want to talk about it and describe what I see. I keep taking notes, sketching things that impress me, amuse me or even scare me; I also keep a diary.
I only arrived here this noon, after landing during a terrible rainstorm. Flying through the storm was not great. At some point I thought that the aeroplane might crash on the Aegean sea. Oh, look! The isles in the midst of the Great Green! Ivory white and greyish-brownish, rocky islands, tortured by the sea waves. So wild but beautiful! I spotted one or two of them behind the clouds; nevertheless, due to the terrifying landing, my mind would not think of all-things Aegean but off all-things Egyptian 'Fields of Eternity'.
I did not need to collect my luggage. My backpack is my only luggage. When I go abroad for research, I never take any luggage with me, other than my hand luggage of course. It is not worth it. When I went to Egypt I did exactly the same. A school backpack full of clothes was good enough to keep me going for at least ten days. In the end, I got rid of most of them, giving them to a beggar begging outside Ramses train station. Minimalism is part of being me, I suppose. Some people do not want to understand it. That will never change, no matter the circumstances and no matter where I go. My limited clothes are good enough for both Summer and Winter. It's the inside that counts, not the wrapping paper.
The taxi driver was chatty. He did take me to the Taverna, but he asked way too many questions during the 15 minute drive. I gave him the answers he wanted to hear, making up a story from scratch, I never told him what I am really doing here.
On the way to the accommodation, of course, I had to speak Greek. I noticed that my accent is now slightly altered -and I cannot help it. It is not Englishised. It's just different to what it was before. It is milder; not that Athenian-Corinthian type of accent that I used to have while stopping in Greece. Do not ask me why please. I do not know the answer myself. The only thing that I can tell you with certainty is that in the last -at least- four years out of five that I have spent in the UK, I think in English and yes, I even dream in English. That is not completely bizarre. Martin says that he sometimes dreams in Greek, probably because we speak Greek at home.
Jumping from one paragraph to another is not going to help me improve my English language skills, but at least it will make me say what I want to say. I apologise for the bad spelling or syntax. I keep encouraging myself to write in plain English, even though I make mistakes. It can only do me good. Writing in a foreign language is not always the easiest thing in the world, and my new British surname does not automatically make my speech and writing reach perfection. At least I am trying. Innovation is not at all about the destination; it is all about the trip.
I was left to wonder at Villa Ariadne's gardens. The beauty of these gardens is unique. The apple and pomegranate trees where full of red fruit, its vivid colour popping out among the rich green foliage; flowers were planted in baskets and pots; even the landscape around the villa gives you that sort of feeling that the earth is full of hidden treasures. It was then when I started thinking of the spirits of Evans, Pendlebury, Money-koutsi (please allow me the Greekiness of her surname). I felt them wondering around and looking at me, placing way too many expectations upon my face. I lowered my head. By the time I opened the printed map in order to find my way to the Taverna, here he comes, the Knossos curator, to welcome me. 'Mrs Bealby', he shouted! (I still cannot get used to my British surname, especially in Greece). 'Welcome to the 'Taverna'. In English.
He showed me around. The Taverna is a beautiful place. All in all five rooms cover the needs of the visitors-members of the British School. Showers and toilets are for public use. Same with the kitchen, breakfast and dinner room. I am stopping in room five. The curator said that two of the rooms are used by semi-permanent visitors who study Knossos archaeology. They are now here and I am looking forward to meeting them tomorrow. A bit of socialising with similarly-minded peers will do me good.
I was impressed with the library. I unlocked and opened the door to find out that there is a hidden treasure of books and maps in there. Some of them are on Aegean-Egyptian interactions. 'Hmm', I said. 'I have to get back to them tomorrow'. Interesting. The dust creates a kind of ceremonial atmosphere every time I attempt to take a book out the shelves.
However, I was tired. My lack of concentration on the book that I had started reading annoyed me massively. Therefore I went back to the room. I was also starving. I had barely eaten all day, so I went out to find the 'last' open tavern of the season, at the village of Knossos. That was the one opposite the car park of the Knossos palace.
In the local tavern, two men were watching football on the box (Bolognia versus a Greek teem). The restaurant door was shut, but I was so desperate for a bit of food that I had to knock. The décor consisted of replicas of archaeology in order to attract the tourists. There was also a sign on the wall. NO SMOKING. The owner of the tavern was smoking like a chimney. They asked me what I want and they said that they only have mussaka. 'Mussaka would do', I said. The man served it to me, with some slices of bread to go with it. It was delicious, but I ate it all in minutes, because I felt uncomfortable and vulnerable. One of the men was looking at my wedding ring. I was asked about what I was doing there. I made up another story. I hate telling people what I am doing for living (if one could classify studying as a what-ya-doing-for-living thing), possibly because I know that the locals may find my lifestyle abroad a bit 'over-the-top'. Curiosity always kills the cat. I paid and left, I decided that I am not going to revisit the restaurant. Tomorrow I am going to get some food supplies from Irakleion and that will do. Funny again how I accept my that-will-does.
I headed back to the Taverna. On the way back, the wind was blowing like crazy. The frenetic rain would hit me straight upon the face and the sound of the wild nature partying outside the room reminded me of that maniac Libyan sea waves that I would hear overnight, when Martin and I had stopped at that isolated beach at Sfakia, making our tent on the sea pebbles and rocks (that was more than 5 years ago). A similar kind of wind, rain and salt water had then damaged our temporary shelter. So did the wind when we camped on the beach on Gaudos, the memory of which can now reassure me that the Libyan sea might have been one of the most dangerous seas for seafaring in the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean.
I went to the room, went to bed and turned off the light. The hitting was on full power for the room was cold. I swear I once heard the earth growling; it must have been the noise of a distant earthquake. Tomorrow is another day. I am visiting the Irakleion museum.
picture: the blanket on the bed in room five. I loved the colours.
Copyright: Text and photography protected by M. Bealby.
posted by Marsia Sfakianou Bealby at 11:43 PM
