Greek Isles Dish Up Independence

 

Greek Isles Dish Up Independence

In 1975, a 22-yr-old serious and exceedingly responsible American woman left her medium-sized U.S. hometown for a trip to Europe. Three months later she came back with a fresh world view, a newly acquired sense of liberation and memories to last a lifetime.

As the oldest of four siblings my childhood and teenage years were rife with responsibilities and ‘chores.’ I grew up in the shadow of a mother who made an art of being opinionated. Making rookie mistakes usually had consequences under her watchful, judgmental eyes.

The first month traveling found me gazing in wonder at the static glacier on the Alpine Jungfrau overlooking Grindelwald, Switzerland, and savoring every bit of chocolate hazelnut gelato on the steps of a museum in Firenze and becoming solemn and teary-eyed while visiting the shell of the Dachau concentration camp in Germany. Each new locale and unfamiliar experience opened my eyes to the wide world heretofore outside my realm. It forever changed how I viewed the rest of the world and it quickly became clear to me that the U.S. was but one country among many. And how much other countries had to offer in the way of culture, food, lifestyle and people. On that trip a wanderlust was born in me; one I have given into many times and that I carry with me to this day.

In late October Marcia my traveling companion and I arrived on the Greek Isle of Corfu. Corfu, the town had its share of tiny streets and charming outdoor eateries. Salivating at the nutty aroma of baklava we each indulged in a slice before hopping a bus to the hostel with no plan and no worries.

That evening we strolled to Giorgio’s tiny restaurant where the only things on the menu were fish, chips, moussaka…and as we quickly learned, men. Shortly after we sat down three of them approached our table asking if they could join us. Looking up at a blonde, blue-eyed, 6’2” Aussie I nodded my head in assent. I couldn’t believe my luck when he sat down next to me; it was Marcia who usually drew men in. But, he had eyes for only me as chatted easily over steaming plates of moussaka. If I’d been my usual overly-cautious self I’d have thought twice about somersaulting toward a huge crush on the fun-loving stranger across the table. But, I let go of my inner strict counselor and let my intense feelings wash over me.

Marcia and I spent several days lolling at the white sandy beach and having dinners at the crowded, noisy Giorgio’s with the three Aussies. The days were followed by nightly hostel parties where my holiday beau and I blissfully slow danced.

Our now tightly-knit band of happy-go-lucky, nomadic travelers grew to seven when an American and a New Zealander joined us on a boat to Crete, the southernmost of the Greek Isles. After landing in Heraklion we took a bumpy bus ride to the seaside town of Matala.

For the next 10 days I lived in the moment more fully than I had before or have since. Inaccessible to my former life and unfettered by responsibilities I savored each day, seizing each brand new experience and holding on for dear life. Whether enjoying the simple act of eating tomatoes and cheese on freshly baked bread or running into the turquoise-green Libyan Sea and calling it a bath, I had never felt so lighthearted.

The accommodations in Matala were sparse and Spartan. So, like the ‘flower children’ of a decade earlier we slept in the caves overlooking the beach. These man-made caves were carved out of rock thousands of years earlier and used as tombs. Moonlight was our only light along with the voices of the others as we scaled the cliffs on the way back after a night of singing songs around a campfire. Some of the caves still contained carved beds and windows, which added to the circulating story that the caves had been used as leper colonies in later centuries. The grottos were not the most comfortable sleeping surfaces but after long days in the fresh air, sleep came easily.

I’ve thought about those 10 days on Crete many times in the intervening years. Up to the day I left for Europe I’d been anything but carefree; and although I didn’t realize it at the time, this was my first real taste of freedom. And that I would often look back at that time with fondness, nostalgia and deep feelings of appreciation for the diversity and complexity and wonder in the planet that we all call home.

About the Author:Libran Librarian-at-large. Word wrangler. Loves: theatre, travel, Australia, kewpies, kindness, kismet. Children’s crusader. Been mistaken for a pixie.

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