Tales Of Crete - A Monastic Life - 20

Tales of Crete© “A Monastic Life” 20 By Jack Schimmelman Massive American jet planes buzzing our beach now marked Damnoni’s dawns. This was my new alarm clock. It was certainly one reason I had decided to join Stefan, Sabrina and the rest of our gang in a new place of residence, an abandoned stone monastery. August was diminishing. As the morning’s roar subsided, my bones slowly stopped rattling. As per my custom, I hopped down onto the sand, looking for Jorge and Bebe who were now accustomed to the gross intrusion of post-industrial howl that precipitated the morning’s rituals. We wobbled to the café, which housed the freezing shower, continuously shaking our heads of our early morning metallic intruders. After my icy washing, I walked onto the café’s terrace, looking for my usual breakfast of tea and biscuits. Everyone was there. Carlos with his various caftans, Anke, silent as usual; Margot and Werner who were clinging to their relationship trying to be civil to each other. Jorge, Bebe and I completed the portrait. Our soon to be hosts, Stefan and Sabrina, were still in their rooms at the B&B up the hill behind the café. We went to meet them there with all of our various belongings tied up in backpacks, bags, cloth, plastic, whatever we could find. It was the first time in five months that I was moving to another location. As I ate my breakfast my heart photographed the poem of water, light and sand, which had been my home for so long. Tea and biscuits ingested, up the hill we walked, Margot leading the way in her usual goat-like manner, singing some German fight song. Well, I think that’s what it was. She never bothered to define exactly what she was singing. She always, however, had our complete enthusiasm, no matter the tune, lyrics, etc. We were happy to just hear her sing. When we reached the B&B there were Stefan and Sabrina, painter and wife, waiting for us. They asked us to follow, which we did and found ourselves at their Porsche. How Stefan had driven that car down those dirt, rocky roads to get to the B&B, I’ll never know. Today, I believe those roads are paved, so Stefan was ahead of his time; the vanguard paving the road, so to speak. The Porsche stood out a bit, but we didn’t mind. The donkeys staring at us didn’t seem to mind either. The monastery was a few kilometers away and uphill, a short distance up the mountain.

“Get in,” he confidently said. Sabrina was the first. I followed and Bebe sat on my lap. Jorge, Carlos, Margot, Werner and Anke hung onto the car as it drove about 5 miles per hour, if that. I’m not sure Stefan had his foot on the gas. I believe the car moved by dint of our joy and will. Jorge and Carlos were hanging onto one side, Margot and Werner on the other and Anke took her usual crouching position, acting as the hood ornament, pointing the way. That girl never said much, but she was consistent. She assumed the same position, whether on the hood of a car or at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. Stefan hung his head outside the window as the car slowly made its way over rocky terrain, a path just wide enough to fit the vehicle’s body. Ken Keysey might have said, “you’re either on the Porsche or you’re off the Porsche.” Maybe not. After about an hour, we arrived at our destination. We were in the middle of Crete’s majestic mountains. We could not see the sea from where we were and I was feeling queasy about that. The Libyan Sea had been a good friend for a very long time. Every moment of each day was painted with her vast mystery. I was home in her eternal cobalt blue life. Now, I was surrounded by dark, stone, walls and Apollo seemed out of place with his beam being absorbed by dark, cracked, stone, for time had ravaged this monastery. The roof had long disappeared, so shade was a constant chase depending on the time of day and the angle of the sun. Stefan was happy. His wife was once again at peace. My other friends just accepted that this was now their new home. Upon arrival, Stefan set up his easel on the perimeter of the church. Jorge set up his jewelry display in one corner. I found another place in which to lay my sleeping bag. It occurred to us that there was nothing nearby. That didn’t seem to discourage Jorge, who incessantly spoke about the origins of his new creations. The area was overgrown with all matter of nature. No cafés. We were immediately hungry. Stefan laughed as he pulled out the massive amount of food he had thought of buying to get us through the first several days. Our stay would be better catered than my bar mitzvah. The days passed uneventfully. Without the pleasure of the beach, they also passed slowly. We spoke to each other with the same tones we had nurtured during our infinite days of nudity, sand and water. But the music now was empty. The words no longer resonated. We pretended to be interested. One day, a very young girl walked into the monastery and enlightened our hearts with her stories of travel. I thought she was lost. She looked to be 12 years old. I asked her where her mother was and she 2

laughed. She told me she was 20 and that she had hitchhiked across Europe from England to Crete without incident. She said that everyone she met was very kind to her and had taken her to wherever she needed to go. She spoke of the glories of Berlin, of the beauty of Prague and so much more. I looked at this girl and couldn’t believe whom I was seeing or what I was hearing. It just wasn’t possible. She was a living bubble. I invited her for a walk. We passed Stefan’s easel and saw beautiful colors arranging themselves; oil on canvas. The eternal hitchhiker’s name was Estelle and she began talking about the magic mushroom festival that occurred each year in Wales. Or was it Cornwall. I forget. She invited me to this festival and I thought, why not. Besides, I knew that my pockets were light on cash and I needed to leave Crete. I needed to leave. I kept telling myself that. I told Estelle I would go with her the next day. We decided to hitchhike back to England, across Europe. I would find a job in London. My hay baling days were sadly ending. When I returned, I told my friends that I had to go. I looked at Jorge and knew that our friendship would live in time, but not in the present. Margot, Bebe and Carlos were especially sad to see me go. I was nearly defeated. We spent that night singing as we always had. Our music returned, our words once again flying with the clear night breeze. The moon was new, so the air was dark, except for the fire we had managed to light in the middle of cracked stone floors. I did not sleep. As each person peeled away from the blaze to doze, I watched my friends slowly recede into the darkness, leaving only Estelle and me lit by the flames. I could hear my friends breathe. Some of them snored. Through the darkness I was struck by the light that surrounded me, fueled by my companeros’ dreams. Estelle finally said goodnight. I stayed at the fire until it had diminished into its crimson coal elements. I looked up through the missing roof into the heavens and Jimi Hendrix laughed as I thought, “excuse me while I kiss the sky.” The primeval firmament was intact, a silver expanse brilliant against a black backdrop. I did not need a blanket that night in the monastic mountains. The constellations would envelop me, keeping my visions warm. I leaned back, smiled and fell asleep, starry eyed once again.

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