Free Mnemonic by Theresa Kishkan Page A

Piraeus. The harbour was filled with boats and sailors. Catcalls followed us everywhere, and hisses — even into the taverna where we went for a meal. A carafe of retsina materialized on our table with a table of men on the other side of the taverna bowing in our direction.
    It was a night ferry, and most of its passengers were Greek, some carrying cages of chickens; one man had a goat with rope around its neck. There were bunks with mattresses covered with cracked vinyl, wide enough for two. The three of us shared one bunk after a meal of macaroni with nutmeg-flavoured sauce, washed down with a glass of rough red wine. I can’t recall the names of the young Americans, but I remember the woman and I settled lengthwise on the bunk and her partner, a man, stretched out across our feet and wrote in a journal. All around us people talked, drank, and smoked cigarettes that filled the compartment with grey smoke. Children cried; the goat bleated and was soothed by its owner. The smell was powerful — of cheese, and sweat, and wool. Someone played a bouzouki and I fell asleep to its strange familiar music.
    I don’t know what I expected of Crete but it surpassed anything I had imagined. To approach by sea, at dawn, the water dark and Herakleion glowing in the first light. To stumble off the ferry and into the streets where people offered rooms, transportation in dusty taxis, guide services to Knossos or the archaeological museum.
    We found the American Express office and cashed traveller’s cheques before finding out when the bus left for Agia Galini. Tickets purchased and packs stowed by the bus while the driver went out for a meal, we went in search of food for the bus trip. A bakery offered loaves of chewy bread; a small store had bins of tangy cheese, chunks of which were weighed and placed in plastic bags; and I chose some olives — bright green, darker green, and cracked, purple. Tomatoes. I also bought a tub of thick yogurt. The woman in the store asked, “ Meli? Meli? ” She took a spoon and dipped it into a bucket, holding it up to my mouth. “ Meli ,” she smiled. I tasted. Ah, honey! And it became one of my first Greek words — μέλι . And yogurt with this honey — γιαούρτι με μέλι — became my preferred breakfast, the sheep’s yogurt thick and creamy, honey ribboned through it like gold.
    A revelation: the underground public toilet near the bus station. One descended stairs to a cave, where a very old woman dressed in black guarded the entrance. Her anteroom held a bed, a table, and a chair. An ikon hung above the bed and a spidery piece of knitting rested on the table. The woman held out her hand, preventing me from going through to the poorly lit room beyond, and I finally realized that the basket beside her held sections of toilet paper. One had to pay for a few squares before entering. The odour was appalling. There was no door to close. And the toilet itself . . . wasn’t. It was a hole in the floor, with two slightly raised metal rests for the feet beside it. There was nothing to hold on to. I squatted carefully and peed into the hole. The paper was slippery, waxy. I don’t know if I’m correct in remembering that there was nowhere to wash my hands afterwards. The experience felt strangely mythic, and yet I wasn’t sure what it portended.
    When we finally boarded the bus, it was as though we were stepping into a small shrine. The dashboard held many objects, ikons and votives, with still more hung above the window. Some were fringed with small bells, and when the driver turned a corner, they rang and chimed. The driver mostly drove with one hand while the other worried at a string of beads on his wrist. Music filled the bus, mournful at first and then beautiful as it entered my blood, finding my pulse.
    As we left Herakleion, the road became rougher and climbed higher. When I looked around me,