Eek.

Bats.
For some reason I think they're adorable. Really.

For some reason I have a strange paranoia that their little limbs would get caught in my hair and I'd break the tiny bones rendering them crippled. Really.

As a teen I once woke in my "attic" ceiling bedroom to see a small bat fluttering a foot over my head. Being the dead of night, I thought I was hallucinating until it squeaked. Surprisingly I didn't scream but woke my Mom. If I remember right, by the time we got upstairs it must have flown right back out the open window.

We've seen a few here in Crete. Napping from the ceilings of caves and tombs. There are a couple nesting in the clay tile roof above our patio. Our private mosquito patrol who like to dive bomb the pool on occasion. (Nothing like backfloating to watch the stars and see baby Dracula skitter over you within touching distance.)

Driving home at three in the morning last week, a bat flew in front of our car. It took a minute to register what we saw. The bats here are small, maybe the size of a hamster but what we saw was larger. Much. A gray furred loaf of bread with black leathery wings. Once the idea settled that I saw a cat sized bat a few feet from my windshield and only blocks from our house- I couldn't stop the heebie jeebies from shaking my spine. Big. Cat big. Creepy big. Bite me big. I love my little guys but this one, yikes. Here's hoping he's a vegan.

Holy Hill Hole

Small fishing village.
Small temple.
Big impression.

Stairs to where?

It appears it was renvovated in the last year. Fresh mortar and cement. Proper drainage added recently, chalky white water stain scars a foot from the ground are still visible. Rain must have been a nightmare before the well planned gutter was put in.

Musk oil, cloves, incense and old moisture were thick in the air of this small cave.

The icon portraits glimmered in the faint light. Pencil sized candles burned in a small pit of pebbles.

Quiet and solemn but not welcoming to me. Not when the sun was shining outside this tomblike room.

Four wheeled planks in all four corners

I was happy to find the owner a little while later.

He was adorable practicing his tricks. 
When working he pulled such a serious face but he'd smile all teeth when he looked up.

So damn cute.

Love the Converse too. Always love Converse.

Sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell. -Cake

What happens when goats and sheep mate? Geep. Ugly, ugly geep. Big humped noses and gangly limbs. But skinned and thrown on a Greek grill? No matter what beast it is it's delicious.

The Greek firemen put on a traditional Easter feast. It was delicious thanks to the grilling expertise of Pavlos.

 Tales of the Crypt meets scrumptious.

Host of our humble dining hall: Pavlos.

Gathered together. Greek and Americans, we all gotta eat.

Rednecks of Crete

No. It's not a single wide trailer that someone spiffed up with a home made "vaulted" ceiling. It's the Crete version of hick living. This is a stucco version of reneckism. I was astonished that rednecks were universal.

On the eve before Easter, there were a dozen or so folks shooting off their guns from 10-midnight. Do people know that bullets that go up must come down? Guns. I love 'em myself and am still bummed I had to leave my behind in the States. But bullets on Easter? Thatsa whole new way to celebrate the resurrection of Christ. Hopefully the only other need of resurrecting they'd need is themselves from their raki stupor.

I Love Black Market Stuff

Mommy?! Can you buy me Oppressed Barbie? Pleeease!

Pagans, Christ and Lots of Chocolate

Happy Hopless Easter Bunny!

I've got nothing against eggs and bunnies. They are delicious. Especially in See's Candies form. I'd have a coop of chickens if they laid milk chocolates wrapped in pretty foil. That coop would be a shrine to the chocolate gods- See's, Godiva, Hershey, Seattle's Best...

Eggs. The Bennett clan has a brutal egg hunt every year. My Dad's eyes gleam while giddily dying a dozen eggs (of which only three dozen will reach the table in edible condition, the rest are mutiliated in the fight). The hunt is vicious- sprinting, slapping, shoving, screaming, stealing and lots of blatant greed. The little ones get a head start but are soon trampled by the adults as my folks stand on the porch and watch like Romans at a Gladiator show.

  

Year round, a large pink silk egg is kept in the kitchen hutch at eye level. It's from my Dad's family and contains the names of those whose basket held the most eggs that year. I'm proud to say this fat old lady has had her name in there a few times. Very proud to be there among names that have been recorded since the 50's. Very proud to have my name in there. Pride. Another sin. Dang.
Brian and I are bummed to miss that well adored tradition. Easter is always a blast at the Bennett's Greenbank abode.


But eggs and Rabbit are not Easter. They're blasphemy. Yep, I said it.

Blasphemy? What? Rabbits and eggs? Yep. Putting the symbols of laughable fertility gods alongside the greatest act of grace. Neon colored eggs, adorable fuzzy bunnies and glittering decor next to the Son of God who was battered to death and rose from the grave for us undeserving peons. Yep.

I know I'm a sinner. I'll even boldly say a professional. Despite my many, many, many, well-honed, hourly shortcomings, I am born again. Yeah, don't choke too hard laughing, I am what I am. I know what I know. Christianity is absolutely crazy. An insane fairy tale but it is true. 

One summer night, at the tender age of fifteen, that Truth became my reality. It is the only thing in my life that never wavers- that Truth. The rest ebbs and flows more like the tides but that Truth holds me steadfast.

I can't explain it so I won't try. I'd fumble more than preteen boy trying to undo a bra. See? Colossal sinner. sigh

Now (I say as I step off my humble soap box) here's something I cannot stop smiling over. Not one to handle blood and guts no matter how delicious the meat, I cannot help but like this butcher shop.

Those are rabbits hanging there. Evil zombie bunnies hopping through the haunted forest. Yum.

This is what I know about rabbit from personal experience:

1. They truly taste like chicken.

2. When cooked they look like chicken but have tiny drumsticks.

3. Their poop is perfect little balls of brown. They'd make great Christmas garland. Popcorn, cranberries and poop.

3. Mommy rabbits will eat their young if human hands touch them when they are very little. When I was a kid our adorable white furball destroyed all 8 babies in a day. One day they were there, the next day gone- just tufts of fluff and blood.

4. Rabbits scream like human babies when you butcher them. My Dad never touched rabbit again after that.

Living in Crete, I've added new knowledge:

5. See the picture above? See their feet? Yes. It is cold in the fridge but those bits of fur aren't to keep their feet warm. No. Now here's something to ponder: there are lots of cats in Greece. Oodles of them wandering aimlessly and fairly easy to catch. So much easier than rabbits. Yep. Butchers were selling cats. Once skinned they look identical. Except the feet, hence a law to leave them some toasty slippers.

I wonder if cat tastes like chicken. I'm not opposed to trying any animal flesh as long as it's not a gut, butt or nut. Here kitty, kitty.

Happy Easter. May you know the true meaning of Christianity despite my shining crappy example.

I've got to go crucify some chocolate bunny ears with my teeth.

Speaking of sins- Cindy, my sister, is a serial Peep killer. She loves to nuke them just to watch them swell. What a sinner.

Spiders. Horrible Followed By Adorable (See hedgehog post that follows)

My husband is like Mr. Rogers. Pleasant, kind, smiley and non threatening. And he rarely swears. Until I screeched a string of billigerent curses when I reached for my toothbrush and saw this spider. The spider induced Brian to join my chorus of the angered/heebie jeebie curse song.

I HATE SPIDERS

No. It's not the worst one I've seen. That's what this post is about- the worst I've seen and the worst I just learned about.
This post is not for those who jump on the chair and pray the house burns down around them just to avoid coming into contact with the godforsaken eight-legged ick that somehow ended up in the sink.
But for those of you who like this creepiness- well, you're wrong in the head and read on.

Ew. Enough with the spider in our bathroom. It got squished with a rock in the parking lot. Ew. Ew. Ew.











Ready for more?
We were talking about our icky escapade when a soldier told us about the camel spiders of Iraq. Lovely.

Huge fuzzy things that eat lizards. These spiders covet shade and will chase soldiers to stand in their shadow. Yay. They jump too. Double yay. They can leap pretty high to attached themselves to a camel's shady side. The camel will roll when a few horrifying hopping hobos need to be evicted. That sends them scattering. Hopefully not in my direction.

Here are a couple pics of camel spiders.

Cute. This one is eating a lizard. Hope it got salmonella poisoning and died, died, died.

I don't know if they were fighting (which bored soliders place bets on) or mating or just participating in cannibalism. Fighting, mating and cannibalism- sounds like a kinky date.

Now boys and girls.
There is a heaven and there is a hell. How do I know? Because a demonic molecule escaped and propped itself up in my Uncle Alan's closet in the jungles of Puerto Vallarta. My brother, husband, sister, brother-in-law, niece, nephew, parents and I saw it.

Paralyzed in fear, a few of us saw it unfold it's nine inch, scarlet toothpick legs, rear up and while flashing its barbed scorpion like pinchers- heard it hiss. IT HISSED AT US!

It was a mere two inches shorter than the spray paint can when on all eight legs. The door slammed shut, I have no idea who did it but was glad they did. Retreating to the living room, we all did our best to shrug off the evil that had entranced us.

We all spent the next twenty minutes sitting on couches or chairs with our feet off the floor. Backs beginning to shriek with tension and muscle spasms- we (all but Alan and my folks) lept into the van and drove home in a mad rush.
Giggling the entire way, we shuddered convulsively and swiped at microscopic dead skin cells that felt like little creepy crawlies. It was a long uneasy evening.


Mama spider was in the garage going over her baby roster, "118. 118?"
"Here Mommy!"
"There you are. Did you eat the newborn twin humans up the road?"
"Yes Mommy."
"Good. 119?"
"Here."
"120?"
"He's out on the town eating stray dogs."
"Thanks 243. 121?.....121? Has anyone seen 121?"
"Mom. He's trying to freak out some tourists."
"Huh." she scoffed, "If they think little runt 121 is scary they should see Mommy when she gets her silk thread in a bunch."

Palm Sized Bittersweet

Right off I want you to know this little guy is blind. One eye is gone the other was permanently closed. I teared up when I realized it. It broke my heart- but please notice he is smiling. Okay? Still need a Kleenex? I did.

He was sleeping by the pool when I found him. When he woke he walked until he bumped the wall. A moment later he  found the water and had a few sips. Content, he continued along the wall, stopping to sniff an ant pile then disappearing into the shrubs. I haven't seen him since.

Wheeeeee! Oh crap.

Safety first. Um.

Not here.

Not exactly cripple friendly.

Maybe for the suicidal skater.

Where the sidewalk ends. Off a cliff.

Okay, I'll do my Shel Silversteinism here.

I cannot walk here,

without pant-wetting fear.

So high up.

So far to fall.

Flying would be fun,

the landing- no fun at all.

This new, solid stone ramp was also very, very slippery. Yay safety!

NEW! But Not Improved

I did something today I’ve never done. Aired out my dirty laundry. Well, it was formerly dirty.


Laundry. Mindless/incessant loading, unloading, folding and my least favorite- PUTTING IT AWAY. I have no idea why I drag my feet over such a small task. It irks me to no end no matter how many “spoonful of sugars” I choke down. I detest, loathe, despise, hate it.


Now, here on Crete, I expected to find a “Launderia” like they have around the corner from our hangout in Mexico. The kind of place where they weigh your bodily odored clothes and in two days they hand you a clear plastic bag filled with everything clean, folded and remarkably compact.


I searched. Nope. No one we asked knew of a place either.


So, I go to the hotel’s basement (which is appropriate- laundry feels like torture so a dank dungeon is a perfect setting) where I find two washers and no dryer. Then I realize I’ve seen dryers everywhere since I arrived. The au naturale kind of dryer. Old school dryers of the “apron and wicker basket on a beautiful ‘The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Music’ spring day” kind of dryer. (I must be on a Julie Andrews kick.)


A rectangle of aluminum, which looks like a makeshift harp of the white trash variety, sat on our patio.


Crap.


That’s the dryer.

Hoping that years of reading and watching Little House On the Prairie would pay off, I summoned the spirit of Laura Engles and approached. It was easily enough unfolded and erected. Very simple. Thinking this was good, I was hopeful that my domestic tendencies would take over.


My sisters are laughing at that- domestic tendencies, they know all too well I was deprived of that gene.


Anyway, hoping I possessed something intrinsic over something so menial, a t-shirt was hung. Then I stopped. The autistic/problem solving devil popped up on my shoulder, “Do you really think you should put that in front?”


“No.” To the middle it went. All things long and heavy to the middle. All things lightweight and shorter to the exteriors. Happy, I seemed to catch on and quickly filled two “third world solar/wind powered appliances”.


There’s a curious older man staying next door with his wife. He’s always alone, pulling me aside to comment on the mundane- my least favorite subject- the weather I’m currently standing in. Boring. When my husband isn’t around the man asks what I’m doing for the day- I always reply, “Running around. Errands. Paperwork. The gym.” And then top it off with a glance at my watch and, “Geez, gotta go.”


Those things I can handle. It’s his eye oogling of this chubby, sagging, well below average female husk. What the hell he’s smarmiliy smirking about, I have no idea but it makes me uncomfortable.

 My fluttering in the breeze wardrobe is currently in perfect eyeshot of Mr. Observant’s patio. I quickly realized that I really don’t wish him to get a look at my underthings. Call me uptight Victorian- but I took them down and hung them in the bathroom like my Grandma used to do.


After they’ve all been dried by the Mediteranian breeze, I plucked them off their strings and made myself immediately put them away. The scent is preferable to any dryer sheet but the chafing of stiff jeans is unpleasant on this honky’s skin. This afternoon I will begin an extensive hunt for the elusive “please do this crappy necessity for me” place that I know exists.

Blissed, Blitzed, Blessed and Bloated

Ahhhh, sun.

A day volunteering to clean the beach with our fellow fireman friend Marc, for his Greek friend Bobby.

A glorious day, warm enough for shorts but cold enough to turn men from outies to innies if in the water too long.

Marc helped Bobby at his bar- the white jug was nearly full of grappe when we got there. We polished off a few glasses. Per hour. Bobby polished off an entire bottle of Captain Morgan's Rum all by himself. Wow, he was absurdly drunk, it was incredibly entertaining.

Some other Greek peeps showed up- great folks. The very lovely looking woman who sat beside me with her high end sunglasses, pimped out fingernails and designer sweatsuit had me staring. All that time, money and effort and yet she didn't seem to notice she had the mustache and beard of a high school boy? Yes, yes, I know I'm being rude- but all that effort and no wax? No tweezers? Here I've seen six year old girls with five o'clock shadows. I don't think I'll ever adjust to seeing that. Ever.

Marc, Gayle and Bobby at the table overloaded with meat, cheese, wine and Greek salad. And soda. And chips. And beer. And olive oil. And fresh bread.

So much and so good.

Marc and Gayle are fantastic people. Our sponsors that guide/warn/educate us. Very fun and very funny. Instantly liked them from the moment we stepped off the plane wiped out and in dire need of a shower and another shower (my hair was sooooo greasy).

"Drink," says Bobby.

"Sure," answers Brian and then swigs the entire glass.

Yanni (Johnny) flipped flesh on the grill as the rest of us flopped about in chairs and on the sand.

Another great day on the island of Crete.

Safety First. Except Here.

Oh hell. Two things freak me out- power lines and being buried alive. And germs. And heights (because I want to jump because I am broken in the head. The falling part would be fun it's the landing/smashing/splattering that sucks.) Okay, that's more than two. Sorry.

Anywho, I wish you could see the copper cable laying casually across the road that we were instructed to drive over. Yep. Two guys wearing RUBBER gloves installed a power line. You know, just one pinhole in those gloves and they're crispy.

They're like the idiot Steve-O of power companies. Here's to all things zappy!

Aptera. How many crumbly rocks can you look at before you can say you're bored?

Wow. Lots of old broken bricks.
Parts of this place were used as early as 400BC for worship of the empty calf kind and for a cemetary.
Big earthquakes shook people away a few times.

This is St Johns place.
Those windows have new shutters and doors. There's also power hooked up but it's all locked.
Is there treasure? More broken rocks?

Here's the square of St. John.

It was small but cool. I was surprised the doors were normal height. No reason, just surprised.

This is one third of an underground cistern. There's a larger cistern but its missing the roof.

Slimy dark water, dank stench and ancient brick made for creepy awed Bella Lugosi feelings. Very cool. Creature of the Black Cistern cool.

Oh bummer. I can't remember the name or age of the castle peeking through the arch.

This was one wall of the large public bath. The Roman solider's was twice the size.

Oh. By the way. We're up high.

Really high.

And now I broke the law.

This castle is across the island highway.

In 1959 it was turned into a prison and now seems to be a crappy, single manned Greek military station.

We drove up to it and there are signs posted that we're not to photograph anything.

We're cheating. I don't see any signs from here. And just wait until I get my killer lens. I'll get photos of the guy sleeping in the booth at the gate.

Wool is itchy.

Pastoral.

Almost expect to see some voluptuous, topless woman in a powdered wig being fed fruit while reclined on swirling blankets. You know- those pale puffy people boobie paintings of the Renaissance kind. Instead it's just sheep on a pretty day while a Vespa flies by.

This is my neighborhood. The tolling of tiny bells is acutally endearing. Even early in the morning. But the roosters that start crowing at 3am may meet their death. Cock-a-doodle-dead.


On occasion I have to wait while the herd crosses the street. Stragglers seem to pop out of no where and it's not like playing Frogger. If you hit a sheep you owe the shepherd the sum of five generations of sheep. If you hit six or more sheep it is considered the shepherd's fault. Do you think it immoral if I back up and hit a couple more to meet the quota of no guilt?

At least lamb is delicious.

Lamb Traffic Jam.







While waiting, this Mom had twins. They bounced around within a minute. All skippy and happy. I was so enchanted with the gore and beauty I forgot to grab my camera until they started to walk away. So much cuter than a cow giving birth. Or my sisters.

Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time. -Steven Wright

Where to begin? A simple photo of Chania (Hahn-yah) waterfront.
A city of new and old and gorgeous in both aspects.

Only twenty five minutes away (growing up on Whidbey- everything's a bit of a jaunt and you just deal with it), Chania has everything one needs.
Brian's already been to the oral surgeon for a cracked false tooth he had looked at a few months before we left. Yay-hoo.
Banks, theaters, restaurants, shopping, clubs...I've got to find art and historical museums. That's on my list.


It's winter here and a number of the buildings are undergoing extensive and historically restrictive renovations. (Those last three words are probably as big of a tangle for your tongue as the laws are for repairs)

Narrow streets of brick, rock and smooth stone.

Dogs and cats are abundant. A German Shepherd strolled with us for nearly an hour.

Old, older and today. Wars and occupations have taken their tolls. 20 years,  200 years and 2000 years all in a spot. Greek techno music bounced from an apartment behind me while I clicked this.

Stone, stucco, wood and iron.

Serpentine streets lined with shops- shoes and clothing are the main theme.

No Starbucks on every corner but numerous bakeries and Mom and Pop mini markets.

For now the streets are busy but bare compared to tourist season. Come May the crowds will begin to surge for summer, fading out in October. Winter here is mild, it does snow on occasion, but the sun shines on these cold days of 40-50 degrees. The SUN. Vitamin D for me.