A Return to Crete

by Robert Boumis (United States of America)

Making a local connection Greece

As an Air Force brat, I spent the first six years of my life on a military outpost on Crete. Overseas bases operate like little colonies with their own schools, grocery stores, and hospitals. Life off-base is filtered. I only learned a few kitchen phrases of Greek: counting to ten, "hello," "thank you." We visited tourist sites like Knossos and the markets at nearby Santorini. But the airmen and their families remained tourists, perpetual outsiders. In spite of this, I loved Crete in a way I never loved another place. Even as a toddler, I appreciated the sunsets. The sky turned oranges, reds, and pinks, punctuated by the silhouettes of rocky islands. I always remembered the one island resembling a sleeping dinosaur. Local foods seemed to infiltrate the base more readily than other aspects of Greek culture. My favorite foods were a chicken kebab-like dish called souvlaki and artichokes. In fact, an artichoke farm abutted against the base. At the end of the Cold War, the US had a harder time justifying the base to the Greek government and the lease was allowed to expire. The base was handed over to the Greek Army and we moved to Arizona. Arizona has a dusty kind of charm, but nothing could live up to Crete. Rumors from dad's old Air Force buddies suggested that the Greek military did not have the money to maintain the base. Looters and apathy had reduced many buildings to ruble. By the time I moved to northern Europe, I had stopped idealizing my childhood home. I'd seen sunsets over the grand canyon, beaches from Pismo to Dutch Harbor, and tried the souvlaki at every Greek restaurant I ever came across. None of the sunsets ever matched the almost surreal colors of the Aegean sunsets in my mind. None of the souvlaki tasted quite right. But during a break in my schooling, I realized I might never get another chance to see Crete. I'd also heard a developer had designs on the old Iraklion Air Station and they might finally bulldoze the remaining ruins. So I booked a flight and a hotel for the week. Like many tourist destinations, the locals have a love/hate relationship with tourists. My father said that local businesses tended to gouge tourists. Ironically, our Greek-sounding last name tended to elicit a deep discount when shopkeepers decided we must be long-lost cousins from the Peloponnese. But I did not really experience this. A modicum of respect and humility seems to go a long way. During the trip, I got my scuba certification and the guys working the dive shop were amazing. Instead of a pool, the initial lessons were held in a semi-sheltered beach. An unusually-strong current led to a rough first day. But the instructors remained upbeat and supportive. By the end of the week, my instructor trusted me enough to show me the location of an octopus den. The den was a guarded secret since octopus is a local delicacy. Outside of diving, I explored the area around Heraklion. The area lends itself to the sort of itinerary-less traveling I prefer. The palace at Knossos was a highlight. The palace was the seat of power of the Minoans. This Greek people was so ancient that their name has been lost to history; later scholars named the culture after the legendary King Minos. I also had time to poke around the more recent ruins of the Iraklion Air Station. I made the happy discovery that my childhood home is still standing and even still in use. The Greek Army left most of the base to go to seed, but some of the family housing remains in use. And somehow, the artichoke farm survived the bloom of hotels that have filled in the coastline around the old base. Crete exceeded my expectations in a way that few places have. The people are friendlier than I had any right to expect. The souvlaki tastes better on Crete than than anywhere else in the world. And the sunsets really are as beautiful as I remembered. *Heraklion is the most common spelling, but the US Air Force spelled it "Iraklion."