LENEA AND CRETE -13-

XIII

The next day is like a dream. Peter happens to be in town early in the morning for banking. He picks me up after I have done my shopping at the local farmer's market, even for this small town, its farmer's market is bigger than anywhere I saw in the USA. I stop at one of the horta sellers and buy two big bags of horta for our evening feast at Sofia's weekend house.

 Cretan horta seller is happy to pose for me.


Peter and I now head toward his village, half way between the Aegean, north of Crete and the Libyan Sea, south of it. I didn’t know Crete was only 70 miles from Africa, the closest mainland to it. No wonder, Ottomans ruled it via their governor in Egypt not through Istanbul. We stop at a gas station. Peter starts chatting with a woman he knows. It turns out she was appalled that I wasn’t Christian. Peter tells me later that there are so many people living in inland Crete that hasn’t traveled more than 40-50 km of where they were born. I recall an old man from Waterford, Wisconsin, where I had lived for a year as an exchange student during high school. I was barely16 then, he probably in his 80s. I was appalled when I had heard that he had not traveled more than 12 miles of Waterford in his entire life. Farthest he had done must have been Burlington, WI, then. Who knows if this woman was one of those.

Peter cracks up when she is clearly expressing something that is totally beyond her belief. Apparently, she encouraged him to convert me to Christianity! I bet she’d be even more appalled to find out that I improved the concept of God by interjecting another  “o” into it, that good is the only thing I worshiped for 40 some years. We certainly didn’t discuss any of that, we just smiled at each other and left it at that. Once we are at a safe distance from her, Peter shares with me the discussion that took place, we crack up together this time till stopping at an exceptional woman’s house, who opened her house to Peter and his family way back when he was trying to get established in the house he bought in the village we are heading to.

Peter's surrogate mother on Crete

She reminds me quite a bit of my grandmother with her politeness, her grace, and her hospitality. She opens her house to Peter’s guest with a big smile, just as she did to Peter and his family. She rushes to serve her guests the best thing she has available a dessert she had made earlier in the morning. She opens her heart to me by telling me all about her family’s history alongside a warm fire in the hearth, just as warm as her own heart. She shares with us the local newspaper clip on a story on the symposium we were part of just the day before. She is so proud of Peter, who is in the middle of a big picture of the panel. I can see the motherly caring she displays for Peter. How sweet.

We leave with pleasant feelings and warm hugs to meet the boys and Raynard. I am introduced to their pleasant neighbors, who have been doing everything they could to make them all feel happy and welcomed in the village. They apparently long lost their hopes that they could match one of the village girls to Peter. They built trust over time that these two wonderful men were competent enough to change the kids’ diapers. They clearly all adore this lovely family parallel to my feelings for them.

After drinking a few cups of coffee, one at each house we stopped by (to refuse the offer is a no, no, of course, I will have to deal with my sinus tachycardia in a bit), we are now all aboard their car heading south on Crete. I am in the middle of the back between the two boys in their car seats. Although it would be politically incorrect in American culture, with my half Turkish mindset, I can’t help but adoring them as “my caramels”. How lovely creatures they both are. So smart, so sweet, so mellow. I am trying to divide my attention equally between the two. I will have a hard time believing how we will spend hours in that car and these two exceptional kids will never become a problem. We will talk, sing, play, read, we clear out loud will have fun throughout that afternoon. Peter stops the car at a very interesting place on the road. The road seems to be carved at least 100 feet into the depth of a canyon. Sheer cliffs are rising right off the roadside to come almost to a touch at the top, creating a feeling of driving through a tunnel. We go to a monastery close to the southern shore. We drink a cup of the healing water running freely in the yard out of a fountain. We listen to the soothing music of the monks clearly at a mass behind closed doors.
  

Finally we reach the pristine, blue-flag quality waters of the Mediterranean. We climb over the ragged, sharp, sheer rocks of the volcanic beach. Boys are thrilled although it is getting chilly. Peter and I, with the unforgiving in-love-with-the-Aegean in each of us lose ourselves in the serene beauty of the Libyan Sea and the approaching sunset. I have been admiring Raynard with his patience with the boys for some time now. My admiration tops with his patience with us Aegeans, when Raynard-the-saint collects his boys and loads them into the car patiently waiting for our ritual to be completed. Thank you Dear Raynard. Finally we are done, have peacefully sent the Sun to its sleep, we savored the millions of shades of pink, red, orange, yellow, even brown intermingled into a spectacular frame I will carry with me in my mind for a long time. We are now ready to head to Sofia’s house to enjoy a phenomenal thanksgiving dinner.

What a pleasant home: Authentic Greek limestone on the outside as it was originally built couple hundred years ago; renovated to Sofia’s taste with Michail’s architectural talent, a warm, spacious house, combination of modern and tradition. For some reason, I have always been attracted to that combination. Progress, modern, new, change are things I always appreciated and needed in my life, but by holding onto what was proven to be good, ethical, sensible, and esthetic in the traditional. I found that in Sofia and Michail, and I found that in their house, too. They greet us as warmly as one could expect. We are a happy bunch all together. Boys designate the tiny, low ceiling den under the staircase, their home and playground. Michail is happy to show us around.

As soon as the tour is over, I start sorting my horta when Sofia is boiling water for it. Lenea is at the tip of my tongue. When should I ask her? Is it appropriate to discuss it now when there is a crowd. Clearly, Sofia will want to divide her attention between me and Peter’s family. Given the fact that all of us are meeting Michail for the first time, it is important to get to know him and generate a smooth atmosphere for everybody. I am rinsing the horta, it needs to be rinsed several times until the dirt that comes along with the roots is drained fully. Sofia calls everybody to the table. As soon as the horta is steamed in five minutes or so, dinner will be ready. Just as I drop all the horta into the huge pot Sofia prepared for me, she declares “I called Lenea today.” With a smile on her face and turns around to move into the dining room to assign seats to everybody around the elegant table she set for us.