On the evening of March 9, 2020, Husband and I boarded Delta flight 162, bound for Amsterdam, the first leg of our journey to Greece. In a delightful turn, the head flight attendant called us out of the main cabin, upgrading us to first class.
I settled into my new seat near all the fancy people, recalling my conversation with friends only three days before. We had discussed the Coronavirus and how it had already stripped stores of hand-sanitizer. The singular case of COVID-19 in the state of Minnesota—in Ramsey County, to be exact—might have dropped a dark cloud of dread over the Twin Cities, but it wouldn’t stop our travels to Greece, would it? We could wash our hands and keep ourselves safe, after all. Fear was humanity’s worst enemy, wasn’t it?
Thoughts of the virus flitted away as we nestled into our futuristic business-class cubes. Our aircraft poised to wing us across the Atlantic, we settled in for a journey filled with more excitement than question marks.
My fully-reclined seat gave me a restful sleep, and after our in-flight breakfast, Husband and I disembarked at the Amsterdam airport, eager to meet up with Adonis and Murphy, our travel companions, who had beat us there by a handful of hours.
The four of us boarded our flight to Athens, and after that, yet another flight, via Olympic Air, to the island of Crete. On that final flight, the female flight attendants—brunettes all, with red lips—wore navy sheath dresses, neck scarves, and pillbox hats, spiriting us back to the 1960s while attending our present-day course to Zeus’ birthplace.
Once on Crete, we left the airport in Heraklion and rolled in our rented BMW along highway E75’s curved route. We could glimpse the Aegean Sea, darker than the night now covering us, and it lapped at the island’s shores far below. Odysseus had ventured here too, or so he said, once upon a legend.
After a stop-off for our first souvlaki in a small village along the way, we arrived at our timeshare, the Grand Leoniki in Rethymno, at almost 10:00 p.m. Was it already the end of March 10? Time flies when a person traverses the world going eastward in three flights and a car ride.
At our timeshare, a woman in a business suit named Dosia greeted us warmly at the glass doors, which she held open for us and our luggage.
“Welcome,” she said, handing us our room keys. “No need to worry; there’s no Coronavirus on the island. Enjoy your stay with us.”
The next morning, I mumbled a “Kalimera” (“Good morning”), imitating the passing housekeeper’s greeting, and strode to the reception area. No breakfast was available, but there on the bar squatted a coffee pot and a few cups stacked nearby.
A man arose from the desk and scuttled toward me. I glanced at his nametag, and he introduced himself: Stathis.
I indicated the coffeemaker with a hopeful smile. “Is there coffee here for us, by chance?”
“No,” he said. “This is my coffee, but for you, I make some.” He held up a finger. “For you and your husband. Don’t tell your friends.”
I laughed. “Thank you.”
He grinned. “Come back in fifteen minutes.”
Husband and I were savoring our cups of coffee at our patio table by the outdoor swimming pool when Adonis and Murphy emerged from their room.
“Did you hear those feral cats fighting in the night?” Murphy said. I shook my head. “Our window was open, and they were loud.”
With the morning sun warming us by the pool, we pored over local magazines and maps of the area. What delights did Rethymno hold? We formed a plan for the day and abandoned our patio chairs to explore the town.
The sidewalks, lined with lemon and palm trees, were mainly naked of humans, since the tourist season wouldn’t begin for another few weeks. We strolled past coffee shops and car rentals, a grocery store and a bakery, before spying a butcher shop. We stepped inside.
At our first question, an older male employee summoned the youngest guy in the shop, indicating the young worker knew English and maybe he could help us. We meandered through the place asking other questions too—what was that dried beef that looked like slices of medium rare steak?—but although understanding was tricky on both sides, the smiles of the workers, while handing us generous samples, communicated all we needed to know.
The first male employee disappeared into a back room and reappeared with what looked like a big plastic water bottle of clear liquid and little glasses he plunked on a pedestal table.
“Raki,” he said, grinning. He doled out the cups and filled them, keeping one for himself which he raised in the air. “Eviva!”
We swallowed the drink, and I shuddered. A Google search of raki (pronounced “rocky” or “raw-chee”) revealed what we had just ingested: “A fragrant, grape-based pomace brandy of Cretan origin”—apparently free to us for visiting the butcher shop.
We exited with our purchases of cheeses, dried meats, and olives. Motor scooters with food deliveries from local restaurants zipped by as we looked for a lunch spot. In spite of the encroaching virus, eating establishments remained open, and we chose one where we tucked into a table by a window, the sunshine spilling over us and our meal of saganaki and gyros.
Our timeshare, complete with kitchenettes in our rooms, covered all our needs, save one: ice. Maybe the Greeks didn’t enjoy ice as much as we Americans did.
I peeked into the freezer. “No ice cube trays for us to make our own either.”
“I’ll see if there’s an ice machine around here somewhere,” Husband said.
He and Adonis headed for the reception area and returned with instructions.
“Dosia said we can ask for ice at the bar across the street but to bring a bowl with us.” Husband rummaged through our cupboards and extracted a glass one.
“Wait,” Murphy said, buzzing to their room and back again with the plastic crisper drawer from their refrigerator. She handed it to Husband. “Use this instead.”
The men set off in search of ice. They returned with an empty container, a full grocery bag, and a story.
“We asked for ice at the bar like Dosia said, but the guys there gave us a weird look when they saw the crisper drawer. ‘You can just buy it at the grocery store,’ they said.” Husband plopped down the grocery bag. “Turns out they were right.”
We sipped our drinks—with ice this time—at what had become our meeting place: the patio table by the pool. We had important things to discuss, like food.
“We could buy some meat for dinner at the butcher shop,” Murphy said.
“I’ll ask if they have a grill,” Adonis said. He left and soon returned with an answer. “They don’t, but Dosia said if we find one, she’ll join us.”
We strode through the streets of Rethymno that evening in search of dinner, but the golden light of the waning day first demanded an impromptu photoshoot on the shores of the Aegean Sea. Small shops lured us in, and their owners gave us samples of honey (with thyme) and raki, flavored with honey, cinnamon, and mulberry. We continued our quest. Our first dinner in the Mediterranean called for fish, and the few locals we asked along the way all agreed on the best restaurant for it: Prima Plora.
A server at Prima Plora, a man named Costas, held the door open for us as we climbed the steps to enter. Sleek and upscale, the place was nearly empty, and he seated us immediately.
As we dined on dakos, fish, and shrimp, the restaurant filled with patrons. Costas tended to us throughout our meal and finished our delicious experience with a platter of pergamonto (bergamot) rind in honey along with a skinny-necked bottle of raki—both the dessert and drink on the house.
“You’re not worried about the virus?” he said in his cheery way, filling our glasses.
In unison, cell phones throughout the establishment, including ours, pinged alerts. The four of us gazed at our screens, the urgent message in Greek. Scrolling down to the English translation, we distilled the warning about the approaching Coronavirus into three words: Get home now.
In spite of the strange ending to dinner, we fell asleep in our beds at the Grand Leoniki that night, expecting the rest of our vacation to float along as planned.
At 3:00 a.m. on March 12, however, the repeated thudding in my dream materialized.
Someone was rapping on our door.
*Tune in next week for the second installment of our Greece adventures. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of our trip so far.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.