Farewell to Crete

Last night I stood at the back of the ferry and watched the lights of Crete get smaller and smaller until I could no longer distinguish between the line that separated the black sea from the black sky. A man asked me if I wanted a cigarette, but I nodded my head with a slight smile and said “oxi, evharisto,” (no thanks). This was the first time that I responded in Greek to a Greek person, or at least for the first time naturally. I spent my whole time on the island struggling to not instinctively use English. The man was disappointed that I did not take his offer but politely smiled back and turned his head out towards the undecipherable line where the sky meets the sea. So did I. I wanted to cry. I even tried to force a tear but my eyes stayed dry in the sharp wind. I then wanted to shout out, I'm not sure what, but something meaningful. I only managed to quietly clear my throat. I figured by this point that there is nothing I can do or say that can express the remorse I felt when I realized that might not come back. I wish I could recount all the stories, paint all the colors, capture the landscape in more than a dingy photograph, trap in a jar the distinct scent of olive oil, goats and oranges in the mountain air, or even bring with me an old Greek man with an oversized white mustache, cap, shepard's staff, brown leathered hands like bear paws twiddling around some glass worry beads and loud booming voice tracing the heritage of every success of the modern world back to the Greeks. But I cannot do any of these things.
For now I sit on a cold bench in the ferry terminal waiting for Jon to get a rental car big enough to fit all of our luggage. And so the adventure in Italy begins.