CRETE

Then, because we arrived two hours late at our destination, we got one of the last rental cars available and were told we had to fill it with gas ourselves.  After following the vague instructions ("turn left at the big concrete building"), we found the gas station: closed.  And the next one, and the next one.  A bit of a dilemma since we had reservations at a hotel in a town 1½ hours away.  We went back to the rental car place to raise hell and demand gas (somehow) and found it also closed.  Great.  Stuck in a city we didn't want to be in at 11pm with no reservations and running on fumes.  Bill tried at the bar next door to get info on where we could possibly buy gas and found two very willing people who collectively helped us out: the woman who worked at the bar who was originally from Romania and spoke just a few words of English (self-taught by watching American TV shows and movies) and a local man who knew where an open station might be.  He couldn't communicate how to get there, but volunteered to drive us there (in the rental car, which he of course was not authorized to drive).  Our car was so full of luggage that Bill had to stay behind at the bar while the guy drove us to get gas.  Finally, we got some gas then found a room at a nearby hotel and we fell into bed just happy to have a bed to fall into.

Each island in Greece seems to have it's own personality, with distinct differences in terrain and agriculture.  While Santorini is clearly volcanic in nature - rugged cliffs and a flat plateau rather barren of vegetation, Crete is all hills and valleys, continually rolling and green, covered with olive trees, vineyards and other plant life.  Even the churches here are different: their roofs and domes are a deep brick red, not the otherwise traditional blue.  We saw acres and acres, as far as the eye could see, of nothing but olive trees, some so weighed down with olives they were heavily bent.

A good climate by the sea on the south side of the island brought about a major industry of greenhouse growing year round and we saw hundreds of them all along the hillsides.  The mountainous terrain allowed for fabulous views and some very remote villages.  One such village named Selakano we simply happened upon and stopped for a refreshment at what looked like a home with a large porch.  The woman there was cooking goat and beans in her kitchen for lunch and said it was also available if we were hungry, so we said, "why not?" It was delicious!

The little towns look closed up and abandoned much of the time, not many people on the street but a common sight is a woman dressed in tradition attire of neutral colors with a headscarf tied under the chin or dressed entirely in black, in mourning for a lost family member (she will wear this for the rest of her life) sitting in a chair on the sidewalk knitting or doing other handwork.

We picked a small town on the southern coast to make our home base for a couple days, Mirtos, which turned out to be a very unexpected delight.  There we found lodging in The Cretan House where the four of us had the entire 2nd floor of the house to ourselves: our own separate entrance, 2 bedrooms with en suite baths, a shared kitchen and a shady wraparound porch draped in bougainvillea with a sea view - all for $50 a night.  We thought we had died and gone to heaven:

For the second wine adventure we were greeted at the door (I use the term 'greeted' loosely) by a gruff old man.  I used my best Greek to ask for wine and he acted confused and disgusted and called for his wife.  I tried again, adjusting my pronunciation, to which he responded by turning his back and giving me a dismissive gesture, calling louder for his wife.  Soon she arrived, as jolly as he was cranky, and rattling on in Greek none of us understood.  She did however understand our quest and joyfully brought out a bottle from her stash.  We asked for a taste (gestures of course) and she obliged, chattering all the while.  We each tasted, nodded and smiled, while she stood with a funnel poised over an empty bottle, waiting for the go-ahead.  Only after she had poured and capped it did we ask how much.  Six euros, about $7.50.  We were surprised, given our earlier experience, but paid the amount and said our jovial goodbyes.  Once outside and back in the car I asked the others, "OK, who among us actually thought that wine tasted good??"  Sure enough, we had all been too polite, and held the hope that the others really liked it.  We dubbed this the Mrs. Brown wine - we never got her name, but the wine was truly brown and it seemed a fitting name.  Here I am with Mrs. Brown: