People in Crete are quick to dispense a favor, and grateful to accept one. We had one opportunity to compensate in a small, indirect way for being treated well. After our excursion to Chóra Sfakíon convinced us that the roads were navigable and that bus travel had serious drawbacks, we decided to rent a car. We had the good fortune of walking into Europeo Rent-a-Car in Réthymnon, where a friendly woman who spoke good English offered us a tiny black Fiat Panda (750 cc[1]). Four days with unlimited mileage for about $100. We drove out of town at noon and were no more than 8 km. from Réthymnon when we chose a detour up a hill toward the village of Chromonastiri to look for our first Byzantine church, Ayios Evtikhios. Along the way I stopped the car to photograph the deserted village of Mili, across a ravine from the highway; stone houses, their walls marbled by time, were being reclaimed by the vegetation. As we stared at the town, an old man approached us on the road. He addressed us in Greek. His first sentence ended with “Chromonastiri"; he pointed up the road, and we nodded, yes, it's that way. The next sentence ended with a town in the opposite direction, and we nodded, yes, we had passed it. He looked confused. What was he asking?  It occurred to me that he might be looking for a ride back down the road. Maryl answered oχι (no), we were not going that way; he nodded and walked on.

I was installing my zoom lens for a shot of Mili when I noticed an old couple walking up the road, toward Chromonastiri. They seemed to be quickening their pace. People are very aggressive around here, I thought. I contemplated snapping a quick picture, jumping into the car and driving off before we had to deal with their questions, but that didn't seem like the Greek spirit. I finished composing my shot, and, sure enough, they walked up and asked about Chromonastiri. I looked over at Maryl, she said vε (yes), and the man crawled into the Fiat's tiny back seat. The old woman seemed hesitant, but he said something to reassure her, and she joined him. The little car would barely accelerate at all, uphill with a full load. Even so, any powered vehicle seems to breeze along after you've been walking a long distance, and especially if this is not your accustomed mode of travel. I remembered this effect from hitchhiking experiences of my own: what a relief to be suddenly rolling effortlessly along the road. I wondered how many kilometers had this couple already walked?  Did they make this trek a couple times a week to get supplies or to visit someone?  We quickly came to the edge of town, noticed the turnoff for our church, and stopped to drop off our passengers. To free his hands the man passed me his cane and a white plastic bag, then hoisted himself up from the seat. He gave a hand to help his wife out. They both seemed very grateful. Maryl caught a few of their words: the woman said “bless you, child,” and the man said, “ειμαι oγδovτα” (I am eighty).

As we left the couple behind and started down a bumpy dirt road I wondered briefly about the changes that had come to Crete and his village in their lifetime. But in a moment my attention was distracted by a small brown, rock-walled church surrounded by thick vegetation. A mere string held the door closed; we unwound it and stepped inside. The floors were dried mud, evidence that rain routinely splashed in through the unshuttered windows. Nevertheless, from a dimly lit wall in the apse of the church the fresco of a haloed, wide-eyed saint stared at us. I longed to hear his story, to learn how many faces he had scrutinized, how many lives he had inspired or judged during the 900 years of his presence on the wall.

Returning to the main road from Chromonastiri, we drove south through a pass between Ορoς Κεδρoς and Ορoς Iδι (Mt. Ida). Our ultimate destination was the Minoan ruins at Gortyn. Although the whole island is only about 100 km wide from north to south, we traveled slowly, rarely above 40 kph, dodging the potholed roads, downshifting to climb the winding roads through the mountains. In the late afternoon, the sun hid behind a thick cloud that loomed over Mt. Kedros, and a biting wind kicked up. I stopped the car at a posted archaeological ruin near Vizari. When sudden cold weather strikes, the first thing to contract is your bladder. Maryl and I simultaneously rushed to separate bushes to “make water.”  Then we walked into a clearing, and stepped reverentially under a decrepit stone arch and into the main aisle of an 8th century Christian basilica, now just a church of the open air. Its marble columns were aligned on the ground near their presumed bases. A few sections of floor mosaic were in place, and only the bottom courses of its stone walls remained. In the east Mt. Ida was ghostly bright in the late afternoon sunlight.

The mountain cold chilled our enthusiasm for further exploration, but we were still hours away from the nearest town that listed rooms for rent. So Maryl, the experienced Greek traveler, suggested trying a nearby village, Fourfouras (ΦΟΥΡΦΟΥΡΑΣ on the circular red-on-blue road signs). We parked and entered the lone taverna; it was warm inside, and most of the tables were filled with men smoking and talking. Maryl addressed the pot-bellied bartender: “εχετε εvα δωματια;” (do you have a room?). He turned away, then thumbed through a phone directory and called someone. He indicated by his watch that we should wait a half hour. We requested ouzo, and sat next to a wood stove in the center of the room to sip it. The bartender also brought us a small tray of crusty bread chunks, green olives, hard-boiled egg quarters, and a chunk of halvah. Most of the men in the taverna were drinking Coca Cola. Two were involved in a loud backgammon game. Against the wall a man, thirtyish, with long curly hair and a bushy beard, (he reminded me of Charles Manson) was the only one sitting by himself. Like everyone else, he carried on a conversation, but with an unseen companion. No one seemed to pay him, or us, much attention.

Before we had finished nibbling, a middle-aged man with wooly gray hair came through the door and said, in English, “I have a room for you.”  He showed us to an old white­washed building. Inside—behind one of several second-floor doors— was a surprisingly modern room with weatherstripped aluminum windows, carpeted concrete floor, and twin pine beds. We paid him, moved our luggage inside, and returned to the taverna to finish our ouzo. We were met there by a second English-speaking man, who introduced himself as “Jimmy the Greek.”  He had once lived and worked in Houston. He showed us wallet photos of his young children, dated 1982. They still lived in Houston, he believed, with his ex-wife, a Mexican woman whom he still loved. “That woman is a snake,” he said. In ten years she wrote to him once, at Christmas, to say she still thought about him. But she did not include a return address or telephone number.

Although no one else in the taverna was consuming anything other than Coke and cigarettes, Jimmy asked what we wanted for dinner. Pork chops and salad greens were offered, so we selected that. He relayed our request to the bartender, who then disappeared out the door. Our room provider, John, responded to our request for wine. There was none at the taverna (the big oak cask was just for show, he explained), but he'd see what he could do. As Maryl and I sipped our second ouzos I noticed John behind the counter, rinsing out an empty plastic bottle. Then he too went out the door. Twenty or thirty minutes went by, and Maryl expressed her concern that we were putting people to a lot of trouble on our behalf. She felt undeserving of such treatment; some woman was probably cooking up a dinner for us at home. After a few more minutes our attendants returned, the bartender and Jimmy bearing plates of lamb chops, a bowl of coarse spinach-like greens drenched in olive oil, and chunks of hard, dry bread dipped in water. John returned with the 1.5 liter plastic bottle I had seen, now filled with his homemade wine. This double-bottle of wine would supply us at lunch for the next four days. The memory of this show of hospitality will remain strong for years.