The streets of old Heráklion are labyrinthine as well, but for a different reason. It was here that I discovered how much my usually dependable sense of direction relies upon streets that form a rectangular grid. In this Venetian plan you might try to discern a hub-and-spoke arrangement. But the streets radiate and ripple from at least three hubs—two platias and a park—and form wild interference patterns where they meet. A map of historic Heráklion—the section contained within the walls of the Venetian fortress—looks like the work of a team of demented spiders. City blocks have three, four, five or more sides, and may be thin or stout. The largest ones are easily ten times the area of the smallest. Some have concavities, and no two blocks have the same shape. On a rectangular grid my sense of direction will tell me which streets run toward a destina­tion and which run sideways. But in Heráklion it is unlikely that one or two streets will take you all the way to your goal. One street may bear off to the right, then end in a T-intersection. The next left may seem to overcorrect for your drift, but in fact it won't take you far enough to put you back on course. So that the next right, while it seems to run on target, will take you blocks out of the way. When navigating by instinct I would discover that I was disoriented only when I came upon a street that was named on our map but seemed to be running perpendicular to its indicated course.

So it was important to take a map on our last evening walk in Heráklion, when we decided to visit the tomb of author Nikos Kazantzakis in the fortress wall on the unexplored south side of town. Better to take at least two of our maps along, hoping that at least one of these selective guides would include the name of any street we came upon. Another disconcerting thing is that even if you do find a straight line to walk, street names may change. Or a boulevard may funnel into a one-lane street, which is further constricted by buildings into a lane just wide enough for two people to walk abreast. In the course of this night walk we even feared that the path would dry up altogether, leaving us in someone's courtyard. But eventually Odos 1821 led into M. Mousourou, which became P. Nikousiou, which finally dumped us onto the Plastira, a winding, four-lane boulevard, with no lines, islands, signals or crossings. Nearly ready to dash across the stream, we checked ourselves, noticing that a parked car was pulling away from the curb. Before it accelerated, another car came racing around a bend and slammed on the horn, instead of the brakes, as is customary in Greek cities. In a moment of relative safety we finally raced across, then climbed a dark, deserted path to the top of the Venetian wall.

Now it is called a “wall” because it once protected the 14th century Venetian town (then known as “Candia”). But, being 30 meters thick, with roads leading onto it and buildings on top, it seems more like a hill when you climb onto it. At night it is a place for young lovers to watch the lights of the city twinkle, inside and outside the old boundary. The path around Kazantzakis's tomb is not lighted at all. I don't know if we were foolish to be there, but it felt like a brave adventure finding it in the dark. Luckily, I had brought my flash­light, so that we could read the simple concrete marker. No name, just the epitaph copied from his own handwriting, something dark and philosophical like: “I need nothing, I desire nothing. I am free.”  I would have preferred to see a lighter quote from Zorba the Greek:

“I was thinking of nothing. Rolled up in a ball, like a mole in damp soil, my brain was resting. I could hear the slight movements, murmurings and nibblings of the earth, and the rain falling and the seeds swelling. I could feel the sky and the earth copulating as in primitive times when they mated like a man and woman and had children. I could hear the sea before me, all along the shore, roaring like a wild beast and lapping with its tongue to slake its thirst.

I was happy, I knew that. While experiencing happiness, we have difficulty in being conscious of it. Only when the happiness is past and we look back on it do we suddenly realize—sometimes with astonishment—how happy we had been. But on this Cretan coast I was experiencing happiness and knew I was happy.”