It’s a familiar sensation, if different every time: stepping off a plane into a new air, breathing in the temperature, the humidity, the vegetation or the ocean salt. I spent the night in Heraklion, enjoying one of those 19-hour layovers for which Kayak is so dependable. With the euro on the downswing and the Greek economy in the shitter, the dollar goes far on the minotaur’s island.
Spit pork (damn it feels good to break Kosher), Greek coffee, a bottle of Vidiano (white grape endemic to Crete), and a room for the night—all under 60 euros, and fortunate, since you can only withdraw 60 euros a day from the Greek banks.
The sun over Crete sets as orange as the wrinkled cheeks of the fisherman sitting beside me, as orange as the fire at the end of his Marlboro. Our legs dangle over the dock by the Koules, the Venetian fortress that once protected Heraklion’s port. The problem with writing what you know is you don’t know anything. The problem with traveling is you don’t even know the language.
But here I am, and I’m enjoying myself. The old man smells like sunburn; he asks me something Greek, shakes my hand, and walks off. I’m getting on another plane tomorrow.
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