Freedom fighters

No one knows for sure when it was founded, but it is believed that the Arkadi Monastery may date between 950 and 1200 AD. In Venetian times, the monastery housed as many as 300 monks in its precincts.

In 1866, when the Cretan revolt broke out, 1500 of the leaders gathered there to plot the rebellion. The Turkish pasha in Rethymno set out a force of 15,000 with 30 cannon to nip the rebellion in the bud. The local people and rebels barricaded themselves inside the monastery – some 260 men and over 700 women and children. The Turks encircled the monastery and the Cretan situation became hopeless. The abbot gathered the women and children inside the powder magazine where they chose to blow themselves up rather than surrender to the Turks.

The rebels fought bravely and held the Turks off another day. But eventually the walls were breached. Only three or four managed to escape the slaughter that followed. The pasha believed that this put an end to the rebellion and taught the Cretans a lesson, but it only served to inspire the freedom fighters to continue. Crete finally won its autonomy in 1898.

Crete – the crossroads of history

I’m not a professional writer, but I adore words and writing and I guess I DO actually make my living by stringing the right words together. I try to avoid clichés – it is a point of pride for me that I wrote press releases for four different elections, both federal and provincial, announcing each candidate’s bid for a seat and NEVER ONCE used the tired cliché – “tossed his hat into the ring.’ That’s – let me see … doing the math….. about 237 press releases for each candidate’s announcement sans cliché. Now THAT, my friends, is wordsmithing glory.


But Crete and Greece can’t help but inspire clichés… azure seas, sun-baked beaches, deep-fried tourists… you get the idea. I am trying to avoid most of them in this blog, but here is one I can’t seem to get around: Crete is indeed a crossroads of history, of continents and cultures.

Swaddled by the Libyan Sea, the Cretan Sea, the Mediterranean and - farther out - the Aegean, Crete was an inevitable magnet and staging ground for a millennia of conquerors – from the earliest times – the Minoans, Myceneans, the mysterious Dorian invaders, Romans, Turks, Saracens, Venetians, to the last century’s Russians and Germans. And they’ve all left their mark in architecture, in food, art, culture and a gut wrenching history of battles, inhuman slaughter and heartbreak. Today as I write this, American jets are blistering noisily across my “azure” sky, launched presumably from those big carriers off shore. This lovely island is an important piece of real estate in the machinations of world politics, past and present. Crete has been so brutalized by turbulent history that the Cretans can seem quite guarded and insular, understandably so. They view themselves as Cretans - not Greeks.

I live in the part of North America that is considered “historic.” We are smug about our “old” houses dating back to the late 1600’s and I’ve worked on archaeological sites dating back about 6,000 years. Pffffft…. here, in Crete, I am living in a 600 year old Venetian building and look out my window at a mosque built in 1645 and at the dome of a church begun in 1320. My laundry room entrance is through an exquisite Venetian arch and I hang my smalls to dry on a marble balcony used by Marco Polo’s contemporaries. The mind boggles.

This past weekend I hopped the local bus for a short trip along the coast to the town of Rethymno. It’s fun doing this – I throw my jammies, some clean undies and a toothbrush in a light shoulder bag and off I go. The local bus is a cheap and really comfortable way to explore the small villages. No luggage to drag around; makes me feel free and quite intrepid. They haven’t had significant earthquakes there so much of their stunning Venetian architecture is still intact, including the magnificent massive Fortezza guarding the town. East meets west here for sure, with lots of Turkish mosques and minarets intact and the lovely Venetian houses, fountains, and palazzos. My hotel was the exquisite Veneto Executive Suites (www.veneto.gr) – a 14th century manor house, replete with sweeping marble staircases, indoor tinkling fountains, a serious wine cellar, flower draped balconies, stone archways and modern plumbing.


In the Old Town, some of the narrow winding streets are reminiscent of the real Venice (without the stinking canals and rude tourists), with the enclosed wooden balconies (sachnisia) and stonework. Lots of cafes and restaurants, interesting shops, museums, the Fortezza, and a pretty harbour front walk make Rethymno a lovely spot to visit. It was fairly deserted of tourists in late February and it is quiet on the weekend, but I expect it rocks in high season. Which is why I am here now :)



I walked the hell out of that town during my weekend there. My arthritis was screeching, but it felt fantastic to just get out and roam on my own. When I had enough (and my knees protested loudly), I once again hopped the local bus and made the 45 minute coastal drive back to Chania. Next week: Heraklion and the archaeological sites.

Solo Travel – inside view

OK… I haven’t been totally honest. Truth be told, I ADORE my solitude. It’s my loneliness I hate. But I have been described as the most gregarious introverted hermit you will ever meet. I do well on my own and when people ask me for advice on traveling alone, I tell them I’ve learned that you damn well better like your traveling companion for you are stuck with yourself a long time.

I’ve been doing this for over 30 years now. And, apparently, I’ve become a bit of an authority on this type of travel as I get asked to speak on it often, to advise perfect strangers on their trips and even to teach a class on solo travel for the 50-something. It still utterly tickles me that my own travel agent calls ME to get advice for her clients on how to get around in Greece.

Here’s some of what I’ve learned so far…..
1. Walk like you know where you are going.
2. Be prepared to laugh at yourself – a lot. Often.
3. You meet way more people traveling alone than with a friend, lover or – god help us – one of those tours.
4. Ask for help, directions, advice, and see Number 2.
5. Speaking of Number 2, always use the bathroom whenever you can. Be prepared.
6. Screw the diet. In Greece, one MUST eat the 10% m.f. yogurt. You can diet when you get home or walk off the extra slab of cheese or baklava.
7. Revel in your aloneness – it throws them off: I swagger into a restaurant where everyone is in couples and loudly and laughingly demand the MOST romantic table for one – it cracks everyone up and gets me great service.
8. Don’t assume. Anything.
9. You ain’t in Kansas anymore Dorothy – be flexible and respectful. Mind your manners.
10. Forget your little maple leaf pin or patch on the backpack. You stick out like a beacon anyway unless, like me, you are a Greek goddess.
11. Always have small bills and change.
12. Learn about archaic plumbing and adapt (more on that later)
13. Lose the attitude. In Greece, at least, crime is low and no one is trying to steal your money/screw you/ kill you/mug you/ or otherwise take advantage of you. Of course they will try to get the best price for their product. Wouldn’t you? That’s just business. They ain’t running a charity.
14. Make friends with yourself, give yourself a break and learn to appreciate sitting still with your self. Talk to someone new every day.
15. See Number 2.

Solo Travel

Blame Auntie Pauline. I got this yen for traveling at her knee. All those damned slide shows from Uncle Warren - “ahhhh yes, and this is the ruins of Chalcis, note the happy beggars.”

When I was about 16, old enough that my Dad had some confidence in me, and I had some basic common sense, I started my solo travel. First to Europe, then the Middle East, Northern Africa and eventually to the Caribbean, Polynesia and Central America. In my second year of university, my fairy godmother/professor waved her magic wand and the next thing I knew, I was studying archaeology in Rome. In fact, I turned 18 in Rome. Now that I’m older and wiser, I am in awe of my father’s bravery in sending his little girl off to a foreign country to live. Such courage on his part; such blithe and blissful ignorance on mine.

Sure I’ve had great fun traveling with friends, but it seemed that whenever I had the money and the time, they didn’t. So, I had to choose between waiting around for them or just – go on my own.

As a young woman, it was an adventure. Being a “scholar” had a certain cachet and got me out of a few jams. Then came those years when I had to know when to convincingly deliver the I’m-so-sorry-I have-a headache line (and when NOT to) in any number of languages - to amorous lotharios. Later, I'll tell you about the Kamaki King contest in Skiathos.

The Greeks are always astonished that I travel alone, but terribly moved that I keep coming back to visit their country. When I was younger, I used to find myself inventing excuses why I was alone or – worse – inventing an imaginary husband and 3 strapping sons. Now that I am 50, I am not compelled to make the same excuses. Now, I have to polish the I-really-don’t-want-a younger-lover- story. Traveling alone means you have to figure stuff out on your own; you have no one to consult with on the road less traveled and no one to watch your oversized suitcase while you nip over to the kiosk to get some gum. (*TIP: traveling solo means you learn to travel light!)

Solo travel has its challenges and lonely moments, but it also has a lot of freedom. I sleep in if I want to and I often have an agenda of what I’m NOT going to do today. For example, today – I am not going to the museum. I am also not going to see the archaeological ruins of the temple and, if I can possibly squeeze it in, I am not going to the local art gallery. Today, I am going to sit in the café, eat fresh pistachios, drink a carafe of local barrel wine, read the Guardian and watch the world go by – and not answer to anyone or follow anyone else’s “if-it’s-Tuesday-it-must-be-Belgium” agenda.

Dinner with Nancy . . .

. . . . and Despina….. and Nikolas… and Spyros….. and Ekaterina. . .

Food is an essential part of community and family life here. As a solo traveler, the danger becomes in hiding out in my apartment and not participating in life. Sundays are the best days to wade in and this particular Sunday – February the 14th – is prime. Why? Well, it’s Apokreas or Carnivale – the last big hurrah before the hard work of Lent sets in. For the devout: this means 40 days of no meat and some even forego ANYthing from an animal – dairy, cheese, fish, oil…
In any event, this past week has been a festival – with parades, parties, firecrackers, and kids in costume (pirates fore the boys; princesses for the girls) face painting for the teenagers – devil horns, angel wings and large phallic looking plastic clubs for whomping hapless passersby with – for reasons that escape me – but which I’m sure has some ancient meaning.

So today, knowing that I’d be in for some hard feasting, I did a brisk hour long hike along the 14th century Venetian ramparts that run along the sea coast…. Very bracing. Duty done, it’s now time to settle in for a serious nosh.

Sunday morning – church of course, then the leisurely parade or “volta” along the waterfront – kids in their Sunday best….the remnants of last night’s Carnivale parade on the streets… streamers, confetti, spent firecrackers. Now, at 2pm, it’s time to select a good taverna to settle in for the afternoon meal.

Rule of thumb: (1) Avoid places that boast of a “turstica menu.” And (2) go to where the Greeks are. Otherwise, be prepared for vin that is ordinaire, fish that is frozen, and McCains fries. Count on mediocre food but bad service, unless – like me – you are a goddess and the waiters are slavering to fill your every whim.

**Travel tip – it helps being 50 – you don’t take these flirtations seriously – there was a time when I wasn’t, I did, and they meant it. Now… it’s all in good fun. Oh – don’t be so snotty!! The same thing happens at home and you know it!





In Chania, all the tourist literature warns you to stay away from the harbour front restaurants and tavernas and I expect they are right - in season. This time of year, however, few are even open, and the ones that are seem to be stuffed with Greeks, so I think they are a safe bet.

This being the first day of Lent, meat dishes aren’t big on the menu – but there are some for us sinners. Out of respect (and sheer gluttony), I order cheese saganaki – and plaster a slab to each hip, to avoid the middleman. This is a slab of sharp cheese fried up sizzling hot and crispy, best eaten with generous squeezes of lemon. Then, horta – fresh greens gathered this morning from the mountains, oodles of lemon, bread still warm from the oven and dolmadakia. The taverna I am in is stuffed to the gills – live music inside – and I feel guilty hogging a whole table, Soon, however, I am taken into the loving and exuberant embrace of a family that insists I sit with them. The Greeks are fascinated that I travel alone. And to dine alone is an anathema, so I get adopted fairly often. Happily, I dive into this, as it means a gateway to seeing what a REAL Sunday dinner looks like – it is a Greek version of dim sum – platters of nibbles keep appearing – zucchini croquettes, potatoes fried in olive oil, fried cheese, fresh salad, calamari, gigantes… and so much more. Taverna kids wander through the place and much of my meal is spent dandling a two year old on my knee whilst slipping calamari bits to the street cats, who know an easy touch when they see one.


Meal done, the last of the fish bits fed to the cats, time for a tsipouro ( a local white lightening digestif) and perhaps a plate of ice cream or halva. And good lord – it’s nearly 6pm…. Only time for a wee nap, an evening stroll and then dinner!

Settling In

Well, I’ve completed my first week as a resident of Chania, Crete. No longer just a “tourist,” I have a wonderful modern apartment in an ancient quarter of the city overlooking the Old Port. As a resident, I shop at the market, cook my own meals, do my own laundry and take out the trash. Figuring out how the appliances work is a major triumph; finding the ingredients in the market to make the perfect tomato sauce is a victory. Starting to cook and realizing I need a garlic press or a can opener leads to some really funny MacGyver-like solutions – but I am doing it. Can I just say this? I am not a fan of granite counters (they break dishes too easily) or frontloading washers (mine bounced across the room on its spin cycle, wedging shut the door to the laundry room). But this IS an odyssey of discovery and I am doing just that.


The markets are fun – in Chania there are modern western-style grocery stores with all the brand names as well as an abundance of corner stalls with fruit and veg; fish and meat and bakeries. In the middle of town is an enormous covered market that still functions – butchers, bakers, fish mongers, produce, herbs, honey interspersed with the little shops filled with the usual tourist tat. I’ve learned that if I go to the older man that tends the stall, I have to use gestures, exaggerated eyebrow wagglings and hysterically funny sound effects to convey what I want (I tend to attract a crowd doing this); if I am waited on a younger person – no problem, they speak fairly good English. Guess which one is more fun?


City life is a different experience for me here in Greece – for Chania is indeed a city of about 70,000 people and the capital of the prefecture. I am used to village life of the small islands. In conversation with a Chanian yesterday, he seemed surprised that I like “island” life – he doesn’t consider Crete an island, I guess. And no Cretan considers himself Greek. In any event, it is very different from what I am used to and part of this experiment to see where I fit in. Urban life does have its attractions (we have a a StarBucks and a Dominos Pizza here) and fabulous internet service , but I miss being awakened by church bells and the open curiosity and friendliness of the villagers.

More later, I’m off to find chicken breasts for dinner – I’d better stick to the younger English speaking stall keepers for this foray – the gestures to explain what I want just might get me arrested – or at least a date.

A midnight sail

Monday I kissed Athens (and her seductive jewelry stores) good-bye and hopped a ferry for Chania, Crete. I am on the good ship Venizelos – a big white behemoth that has me humming the Love Boat song under my breath – way under. It is actually quite posh, several bars, casino, lounges, duty free shops and comfy seats. I have a small, but tiny cabin for the overnight sail. Spare - yes, but surprisingly comfy. You have to pay for the other empty bed, or risk rooming with a stranger – I coughed up the extra dough. I am sitting in the swanky lounge typing this whilst swilling some indifferent but potent wine. Chips for dinner…. Should sleep like a baby and wake up at dawn in Crete!

Troubles with my first landlord – I rented his charming apartment based on the agreement that it would come equipped with high speed internet so I could work. Note to casual readers: this is NOT a holiday lark as such; it is an enforced medical leave with reduced work hours to still be able to pay the rent. I am still working at my job part time, just doing it from Greece via the internet.

Apparently Greeks have to wait interminably for the cable guy to show up too and my first little apartment remains internet free. So with great regret, I had to cancel my deal and go to Plan B – a much more expensive Plan B – with the added bonus of offending first landlord. Jeeze. The new place is quite elegant and right ON the port in a 15th century building, but has all the mod cons, including high speed wi-fi. The Venetian stonework and arches have been cleverly revealed in accent spots, highlighted with chic accent lighting and the overall effect is quite, quite lovely. I may have to fish from the port for my groceries, but I can still crank out the grant applications for work on schedule. The new place has 2 bedrooms and 2 ultra modern travertine tiled bathrooms – so if anyone wants to visit, my rent is reasonable.

Sunday in Athens

Well, the late Saturday night you spent at the rembitika club means you COULD sleep late but then you’d miss the best part of the day! Sunday in Athens is a day for strolling, pawing through flea markets and swilling tiny cups of coffee with your friends in outdoor cafes.

The Monastiraki Flea Market is open every day, but on Sunday it really fills up and is home to the most gawdawful junk, true antiques and rare finds. The hunt is the thing!!

When the clubs wind down at 5 am or so the flea market gears up! The flea market really does spread for miles, filling streets and alleys and is comprised of tiny stores, or street booths, carts and blankets spread on the ground. The ubiquitous African immigrants with their grimy swag blankets of knock-off purses/watches/electronics/CDs are sprinkled through the crowd like pepper. The meaner Greek teens will holler POLIZIA just to watch them scatter. But I rather like them - I mean honestly, where else can one get a REAL Dolce and Gabbana purse AND a Louis Vuitton suitcase for 5 bucks?

I love prowling the old brass shops. These have probably been there since the Turkish brass and coppersmiths established the Monastiraki area a few hundred years ago. Elaborate samovars, simple copper kettles, goat bells and church lamps hang from ceiling hooks. Makes me want to get out the polish! There are booths specializing in old LPs, vintage movie posters from the 30s, antique toys, silver, china, chandeliers, books and stamps. There are obvious family heirloom portraits of forgotten great grandmothers, perhaps an anonymous 19th century bride’s wedding headdress, daggers, grim souvenirs from the German invasions of WW2, fine linens and – my very favourite – old beat up musical instruments – bouzouki and kithara in every size and condition – lots of reed instruments – clarinets and saxophones and enough brass tubas, bugles and trumpets to gladden the heart of any chain store interior decorator. (Sorry Ian – no bagpipes that I could see). No baseball cards here, but lots of old men with plastic photo albums displaying their collections of modern phone cards and obsolete drachmas. Who knew they were collectible? I must own a fortune in spent phone cards by now!

Once you negotiate for that must-have treasure, you can squeeze into a seat along Thission – the edge of the Agora and people watch. By the way, the Agora offers free admission on Sundays and, when the weather is fine, you will see old men taking their canary cages out to give their birds a bit of a stroll in this area - lovingly cooing to them as they walk. The hurdy gurdy man will amble by, the gypsy kids will try to wheedle a few coins out of you for a Bic lighter or a rose and if you look up high – no, higher… over the top of the acropolis, you can see the golden eagles soaring.

Coffee blends into lunch by 3pm…… then it’s time for ice cream or a sweet….. and eventually dinner. So what did YOU do this Sunday?

Yes, it's winter. . .

. . . but the trees are heavy with fat ripe oranges, the first of the wildflowers are appearing and the cyclamen are in bloom. I'm not sure where these mutant strawberries are from, but they are as big as my fist!

The eagle has landed - with a thud!

Like Aunt Clara in Bewtiched, I’ve finally landed with a thud in Athens – a bit befuddled, jet lagged, amid a welter of baggage and briefcases, trailing scarves, duty free swag and dropping euros like confetti. Snow squalls and delays in Montreal and Zurich be damned – I have arrived in Athens and the real miracle is that my baggage train did too! Thank you, airport gods!

Funny how the jet lag melts away when faced with sunshine, balmy breezes, trees heavy with fat ripe oranges, and great lashings of demstica – er, that’s Greek for vin that is pretty ordinaire but goes down well after the first bottle or so.

Obviously, I must be tipping too much in this damned town, for the hotel concierges and owner came to the desk to greet me with many hugs, triple-cheek euro-kisses (and not those pansy opera air kisses mind you), and faces wreathed in smiles of welcome. A bottle of Tsipouro awaited me in my room. After a brisk nap, I set out in the sunshine to hike through favourite streets of the Plaka – a jewelry store owner came out of his shop to greet me – “MADAME! You’ve come BACK!” Then later, I ran into my favourite waiter – Yiannis – hadn’t seen him in 2 years and we both beamed like lost cousins. I had an exquisite lunch punctuated by city gossip and discussions of politics (the world is apparently going to hell in a handcart here too) followed by his gift of fresh baklava. This is a city of about 6 to 8 million people – no one is quite sure of the count actually – and to run into people I know feels very odd, but quite, quite lovely. I either stand out like a sore thumb, am famous by my insane largesse or, as Sally Field said – “they like me, they really, really like me!” My friend Gary says I have a sumthin’, sumthin’ that people remember; my doctor says I have “presence” and own any room I enter – another life lesson – I didn’t know that. I think it is the supreme joy oozing out of every pore when I’m here that is memorable – honey, I’m home!

Getting in touch with the Muses

There are a few special places I always try to visit when I am in Athens, where the food is good home cookin’ - Greek style and the people watching is sublime. If you go at a reasonable hour (late) the musicians show up – generally a bouzouki player and a guitar or kithara and singer. They set up at a table in the middle of the room, among the diners and fortified by cigarettes, raki or Greek coffee they play music that is divine. This week I was treated to two phenomenal experiences – the first was in a restaurant that has mediocre but over-priced food and sensational musical talent, playing in shifts. It is frequented by young 30 – 40 -something Greeks, who sing every song and dance every dance with joy and abandon. The finger picking of the bouzouki player makes Van Halen look like a hack (sorry Eddie). No Snoop Dogg or Beyonce for these folks – this is good honest rembitika or Greek jazz and old folk songs – full of soul and self-expression. No one in the place sits still or remains unmoved. Most sing along and dance in a group, but often the music will move a patron to dance alone – a soulful interpretation of what the music says to him. It is private, emotional but understood by all and really has no parallel in western music.

Music is never far away here in Greece. Whether it is the astonishingly talented street buskers (today I heard a nice chamber quartet knocking out some Schubert on a street corner) or the migrant refugees and their accordions and whistles, or the ancient old grandfathers and their antique hurdy gurdies – or even the tolling church bells (did you know they each have their own exclusive idnetifiable peal?) music is all around.

When I get brave, I’ll jump in or contribute my voice, for after so many years, I know a number of the folk songs – at least phonetically. I tried to do some bass lines on a kithara last night, but the rhythms are devilishly complicated for a western educated musician. And the harmonics are so absolutely right for their music, but so very wrong to my ear – so earnestly trained by well meaning but unimaginative nuns of the Notre Dame de L’Acadie music school. It becomes an exercise in mathematics for me, rather than musical expression – and after last night’s impromptu jam session with the homies, I was mentally and physically exhausted. As Miss Staples, my Grade 2 music teacher once said, “Nancy contributes to the choir by helpful listening.” So, I think I’ll stick with that, although – the absolutely delicious (er, I meant talented) bouzouki player DID invite me back for tomorrow night’s gig. I promised to teach them some Hank Williams tunes.