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Destinations February 25, 2025

Melidoni Cave

One of my favorite things about going to Crete is the grand variety of caves. This may come as a bit of a shock to those who know me best, as I make no pretense about having a healthy respect, (i.e. a borderline fear) for caving. Nothing gives me pause quite like the thought of finding myself wedged between a small gap between two rocks miles and miles under the dark, damp earth. However, the cave experiences I’ve had in Greece are the kind that are walkable and open, and dare I say ‘breathable.’ In Crete, I can act like a tourist paying my respects to the bowels of the earth, a visitor who dips their toes into caving without the risk of bodily injury. It is a quintessential outdoors activity.

There’s no greater place to enjoy some ‘relaxed’ caving than Crete. The island is dotted with so many wonderful places to explore, and I’ve already touched on one of the best-known caves, Diktaion Andron in the Lasithi Plateau. All of the caves on Crete are seasonal; they open in April and close in October, as the rains and snow make exploring the caves too dangerous. But once spring rolls around, tourists like me are free to explore these natural wonders. Some of these caves have guided tours while others are self-exploratory paths. These caves are protected as national monuments by the Greek Government, so if you choose to visit these caves, it’s best to go in with a respectful mindset, of not only the rules that are in place to protect the health of the cave, but as well as the history it represents.

This brings me to the beautiful Melidoni Cave, which can be found on the way to Rethymno and 1800 kilometers from the village that shares its name. Should you decide to go, I would advise you to be careful on the way to the village and take that last stretch of the A90 slightly slower so you don’t miss the turn, and be forced to drive your slightly-too-large grandfather’s car through the streets of tiny villages that aren’t your destination. If you miss said turn, which I must admit is easy to do, you can trust the maps to redirect you and perhaps see a lesser explored part of Crete. Passengers who accompany you, however, will be more prone to screaming if you happen to follow the GPS through a tiny village with even tinier side streets. As your side mirrors are pushed inward, the village cats watch you with a mixture of caution and disdain from the steps of homes you are praying your car is thin enough to squeeze between.

This may surprise you, but it was I, gentle reader, who found myself wedged in that uncomfortable predicament. If Melidoni cave was one of those caves in which explorers had to wedge between rocks, I might have taken my mistake as an ill omen, but I followed the road safely out of the small villages with little to no discomfort. Using the GPS with slightly more attention, I found my way to the town of Melidoni without incident, relishing normal roads. The 2km road leading out of town and up the mountain to where the cave awaits is a beautiful expanse 200km above the valley, which results in a splendid view the entire valley, which in the spring colors the valley in flowers that disappear come the summertime.

All one must do upon their arrival is pay the €4 ticket fee (€3 for children) to enter into the garden path beyond the café. I took my time on the short walk up the path to the mouth of the cave, savoring the dappled light that filtered through the tall trees that rustled softly in the breeze. It felt, to me, like it was the last kiss from the outside world before I descended into the mouth of the cave. As I neared it, the path in question became less woodsy, as if the last concentrated area of sunlight was something I was meant to savor before my descent.

The stairs in Melidoni Cave were very well managed, and not nearly as steep or long as I have experienced in other caves. It was, in fact, one of the safest set of stairs I’ve been on when entering a cave in Crete, and though I took my time, I felt sure-footed most of the way down. I went to visit the cave during the height of summer, so the drastic temperature change from almost 100°F to roughly 75°F was a welcome relief from the Cretan sun. The stairs led right to an almost cathedral-like main room with an altar right in the center of it, stalactites hanging from the ceiling in in an arch-like fashion that only added to the majesty and imperial nature of the cave. All along the floor were small electric lanterns that gave the place the sensation of being inside a chapel rather than in the bowels of the earth, and a reverential hush fell over all of us who entered. I decided to explore the surrounding walkways before making my way to the obvious focal point of the stone altar, and took the pathway to my right.

If you check the website for the cave beforehand, you’ll see many references to the worship of Talos. For those not in the mythological know (or those who never say Ray Harryhausen’s depiction of him in the 1963 version of Jason and the Argonauts), Talos was an automaton crafted by the god Hephaestus. Made entirely of bronze, it was said that this giant robot served as protector to the island of Crete, and was worshipped by the ancient Minoans. This was when the cave was known as Gerondospilios, rather than by Melidoni.

Of course, the cave served many purposes besides a meeting place for the worship of Talos. All along the cave walkways were informational plaques that told of the vast archaeological discoveries within the cave. The people of the bronze age used to use caves for refrigeration, storage, cooking, and shelter, and so many bronze age artifacts were uncovered here. Most of the artifacts are on display in the nearby archaeological museum of Rethymno for the public to view. The cave also has a distinct tie to the worship of Hermes, as inscriptions (i.e. ancient graffiti) on the cave wall make reference to the cult of Hermes, even up to the period of venetian and turkish rule of the island. The cave calls these inscriptions the ‘book of visitors,’ as many who came to pay respects left their names upon the wall. Worshippers seemed to address the messenger god as Hermes Talaios, though I am unsure as to why he received the additional moniker.

Following the pathway around the ‘Room of Rocks’ and towards the ‘Stone Curtain,’ I slowly made my way back around to the initial room, marveling at how the carefully placed lights made the room such a hauntingly beautiful place, the shadows against the stone walls resembling a kind of drapery. Finally, I was ready to approach the altar that served as the focal point of the cave, and read the plaque that told me why such a thing existed inside the cave. It was not, as I had first assumed, because the cave had been used as a place of worship: it was, in fact, a place of refuge. In 1823, during the war for independence from the Turkish forces, 370 women and children, as well as 30 resistance fighters, ran to Melidoni cave for refuge from Hussein Bey, the leader of the Ottoman forces at the time. The escape plan resulted in those 400 people becoming trapped inside of Melidoni cave with nowhere to run, which was good news for Hussein Bey; if he could starve them out, he would get a complete surrender, dealing a blow to the resistance movement. The problem, of course, was that he was dealing with the people of Crete: their answer to his request was “Death, no surrender.”

Hussein obliged. He ordered his troops to light fires at the cave entrance and then blocked it off, sealing the people inside with no oxygen and a growing, suffocating cloud of smoke. All 400 people perished within Melidoni Cave, perhaps, I realized, on the very ground I had been walking on earlier. Egyptian troops, whose stake in the war was to assimilate Crete into Egypt, arrived days later and desecrated the corpses. However, the bodies of the fallen resistance leaders and the 370 women and children were cleaned, and their bones were put into the ossuary that I had originally mistaken as the central altar.

The stone above me, in front of me, below me and to all sides suddenly felt a little too close as I imagined this being a final resting place. With the lights in the floor and the sunlight leaking through the mouth, the cave was beautified, almost peaceful. I tried to imagine it dark, with the doors closed to me, with smoke filling my lungs. It was not so peaceful then. But I suppose that is the power of memorial: we take the places of great tragedy and turn the wounds of the earth into scars, as healed as we can make them. We try to give those who perished alone and afraid into a place that they might find restful. We leave on the light in a place where women, children, and fighters died alone in the dark. Maybe it isn’t much. But the quiet reverence of the cave, palpable from the second I set foot on the stairs, was perhaps the only way left to visitors like me to honor them.

I made my way out of the cave, like Orpheus departing from the underworld, step by step. Like Orpheus, I turned to look back one final time before I had made it completely out of the cave, staring at the altar in the dark as it was gently lit up by the lanterns on the floor of the cave. I thought about those who could not leave, and all the visitors across millennia, like myself, who could. I thought about how this cave had been in the service of this island for thousands of years, and how even now it served us by teaching us about those who came before, those who used the cave as a place of worship, comfort, and all the aspects between life and death. I passed out of the cave and into the sunshine once again and breathed in deeply. The air was sweet and hot and I was glad of it all.

I thanked the cave for all that it had been, and left to see what else the day had in store for me.

By Katarina Kapetanakis

Destinations December 24, 2024

Christmas in the Greek Islands

It’s that time of year again. Malls are a madhouse, and the post office is running on fumes. Tannenbaums are huddled closely together in flocks, waiting to be chosen as this year’s Family Christmas Tree. Moms and dads alike are throwing out their back muscles as they strain to get the lights hung just so, and all of us are anxiously balancing our checkbook, hoping we’ll be able to make the rent come New Year’s Day. Stockings are hung by chimneys with…relative fire safety measures in place, and for the remainder of the year, you can’t enter a single store without hearing some variation of a holiday pop standard.

But across the Aegean Sea, the holiday season is in full swing. Lights illuminate the winter nights, and yes, even the illustrious Christmas tree can be found in homes and public squares alike. Presents are purchased and the overall excitement for the holiday is just as palpable, but there are many beautiful traditions that you wouldn’t find anywhere else. Though the summer fun grinds to a halt in December, the unique beauty and wonder found in the Greek islands transforms both Crete and Rhodes from a sunny paradise into a wintery wonderland. So come wander with Wine Dark Sea Villas into the wonderful world of Christmas.

Food

For those of us in the United States, the idea of fasting between now and Christmastime seems like someone’s horrible dream. The weeks leading up to Christmas are usually filled with parties, family get-togethers, even the ubiquitous ‘Friendsmas’ party, all brimming with homemade dishes of both the savory and sweet variety. But for the Greek people, the days leading up to Christmas involve fasting, not stuffing their face with…stuffing. From November 15th to December 24th, the people of Greece dine on only fish, except for certain days where they sacrifice even that. On fishless days, the people of Crete and Rhodes dine on a bean dish made with raisins and honey, and after December 17th, they abstain from fish completely as well. During this time even wine is verboten, and not simply because it is viewed as a luxury. In the orthodox tradition, foods that contain blood (or are historically stored in animal hides, such as wine used to be), are to be abstained from until the period of fasting ends.

However, when the fast is broken on Christmas Day, the people of Crete and Rhodes indulge in a period of great feasts and fine sweets. In fact, since gifts are not actually exchanged on Christmas Day, the focus of the day revolves more around the feasting and friendly gathering, making food the star of the hour. Though traditional Greek foods are often found in abundance, with a Christmas lamb roast usually being the feature on the menu, the people of Crete include a delectable smoked pork, called apaki. There is a longstanding tradition of featuring pork dishes for Christmas for the Cretans, from flavorful sausages to the tsigarides, a kind of crispy suet fried with spices and lemon juice, and even omathies, a regional dish found in Lasithi made from pig intestines stuffed with rice, raisins and liver.

Meanwhile, in Rhodes, families roast turkey in addition to the more typical Greek fare. Families gather in droves for festivities that usually include feasting and general making merry, and to exchange some of their favorite holiday sweets. Like families all across the country, the citizens of Rhodes busy themselves with baking special holiday cookies, Melomakarona and Kourabiedes. Melomakarona are egg-shaped cookies made from flour, olive oil and honey, and are usually flavored with sugar, orange zest, cognac and cinnamon, while Kourabiedes are buttery almond cookies flavored with brandy and vanilla, then sprayed with rose water and topped with powdered sugar after baking. And, of course, one can’t forget the Christopsomo, a special Christmas bread that translates to ‘bread of Christ.’ Much like a hot cross bun, this loaf has a large decorative cross of dough baked across it, and sometimes contains walnuts or an egg at the center.

The highlight of holiday sweets, however, is the Vasilopita. Baked all across the country, this special cake is actually served on New Year’s Day in honor of St. Vasilios, (or St. Basil). Similar to the King cake, this celebratory baked good contains a hidden coin suspended in the dough. As the cake does have religious significance, the first few slices are reserved for Jesus, the Virgin Mary, the Poor, and the House, respectively. This orange flavored cake is then distributed to all, oldest to youngest, all hoping that they will be the lucky recipient of the slice containing the hidden coin. Whoever finds it wins a small prize, but more importantly is said to have good luck for the coming year.

Traditions

Many know that the origins of the Christmas tree began in Germany, and became popularized when Queen Victoria had one installed in her palace to make her husband feel more at home during the holiday season. But the use of the Christmas Tree was not a popular holiday decoration until King Otto of Bavaria brought them to the country in 1833. Today, of course, the tree is much more commonplace on the mainland, but the original central decoration, the Karavaki, still holds sway in the Greek Islands.

Though the central saintly gift-giver is not St. Nicholas in the Orthodox tradition, he is still a prominent figure throughout Greece as he is the patron saint of Sailors. His feast day falls on December 6th, and though this is still a period of fasting for Christmas, people take time to celebrate by decorating boats for Christmas. Literally translating into ‘little boat,’ a Karavaki is decorated and displayed from now until January 6th, which is the feast of the Epiphany and the 12th and final day of Christmas.

Besides the prominently featured and festively colored sailboats, Crete also has Christmas markets in Eleftherias Square where crafts, bougatsa, and mulled wine are sold. From 2018-2022, an official Santa Run was held on the 26th of December in the port city of Chania. Though the run may not be happening this year, it’s still worth a visit to see the old Venetian port decked out in lights, with an illuminated Christmas tree opposite the lighthouse. If you happen to be staying with us at Wine Dark Sea Villas during this period, there’s a good chance you might hear groups of children who are singing kalanda, or Christmas Carols. They often go door to door in the villages with nothing but their voices and their triangles, and usually receive little gifts like coins or fruit.

But what about the Christmas goblins, you ask? That’s right: while Wales has the Mari Lwyd and Germany the Krampus, Greece has the Kallikantzaroi. It is said that these mischievous, vile-hearted goblins live underground every day of the year, working every day at sawing through the trunk of the great World Tree, whose trunk keeps the earth from collapsing. However, during the 12 Days of Christmas, these goblins lay down their tools, tempted by the frivolity taking place on the surface (and because this period takes place between Christ’s birth and his baptism, thus giving room for chaos), and wreak havoc above ground. During this time, sweets may be stolen and things may run amok in general, but there is a way to combat these seasonal tricksters: Kallikantzaroi cannot count above the number three, and in fact struggle to even say the number aloud due to it being connected with the Holy Trinity. All one has to do to thwart these little goblins is to leave an overturned colander near their front door. The goblins become so focused on trying to count the holes all night, having to constantly restart once they hit ‘three,’ that they are busy all night and thus cannot cause mischief. Though this may seem like the opposite of a good thing, their absence allows the World Tree’s trunk to heal completely. When the kallikantzaroi are banished once again beneath the earth’s crust, they must begin sawing all over again.

New Year’s Day

Religiously speaking, Christmas is a minor holiday, especially when juxtaposed with the most important holiday of Easter. However, Greeks love to celebrate the entire 12 Days of Christmas, and though their gift-giving day does not fall on the 25th of December, they still have a special day reserved for presents. Across the mainland and the islands, gifts are exchanged on New Year’s Day in honor of the Greek Santa Claus, Agios Vassilios, or Saint Basil of Caesarea. Born in Pontus in the year 330 A.D., St. Basil was born to a life of wealth and privilege. During his lifetime, though, he gave away all of his earthly possessions and fortune to the poor and needy, and turned his family estate into a monastery, writing extensively on the importance of monastic life. Though St. Nicholas, also of Greek origin, did give away many gifts to the poor in secret, his importance to the Greeks lies in his patronage of sailors, and less on his gift-giving. St. Basil also gave away money in secret to the overtaxed poorer families, but his method (according to folklore) was to bake the money into cakes, surprising families who cut into them, hence the origin of the aforementioned Vasilopita.

Though New Year’s Day is the big gift-giving day, it is also a day seen as a chance to renew or bring in good luck to the family with the ceremony called Pothariko. After New Year’s mass, the families have pomegranates blessed by the priest. When the family returns home, a family member breaks the blessed pomegranate on the doorframe or door. Traditionally speaking, it is usually the man of the house who gets to smash the pomegranate, but it can also be the person that the house considers luckiest, or simply the eldest family member. Whoever it is must then enter the house with their right foot, as if starting their entire household’s year on the ‘right’ foot, and tradition states that this ensures your year will be blessed. Of course, whoever has to clean that red stain out of the door frame probably doesn’t feel so lucky.

The Christmas season is a wonderful and unique time for all of Greece, but especially in the Greek Islands. For a place that shines so brightly in the summertime, it’s wonderful to see how magical and special a place it is during the holiday season. Though are customs may be different, and though this time may mean different things to us all, there is the promise that this season brings of hope and love that is strong enough to unite us all and bring peace on earth and goodwill to all men. For just a little while, we can come together and hope that the new year will bring us a little luck and a little peace, and most importantly, give as much of that love and peace as we receive. But for now, as you gather with your loved ones, be they friends, family members or a spouse, let me be the first to wish you a very Kala Christouyenna!

Merry Christmas, from all of us at Wine Dark Sea Villas.

By Katarina Kapetanakis

Travel Tips April 17, 2019

There’s Usually Money in The Banana Stand: The Hidden Gem Near Vai Beach

I am not a person who usually craves bananas. Maybe I just tend to contain the recommended daily dose of potassium naturally, and have never needed to seek it out from an outside source. Or maybe I just don’t crave bananas. That’s not that weird. I enjoy a good banana milkshake every now and then, and those little fruit-shaped candies that come from vending machines that are shaped (but most certainly do not taste) like bananas are fine, and banana bread is great! But I don’t seek out bananas like I do other fruits, and I’m perfectly okay with that. This is just how my life is, I assumed. Some people are banana people, and some just aren’t. I fell into that latter category for no other reason than it just happened to be how life was.

My cousin said it was because I’d never had a decent banana.

“You have never tried bananas like the ones near Vai.”

“The beach?”

“Yes. There is a man who has a fruit stand, right before the turn to go to the beach. He sells the most delicious bananas in the world.”

“Those must be some bananas.”

“You have to taste it to believe it,” he said. “He always sells out early.”

“So, you’re saying that there’s always money in the banana stand?”

My cousin didn’t get the pop culture reference, but that was alright with me. I wasn’t exactly foaming at the mouth for those curvy yellow fruits, but I didn’t mind taking fresh fruit to the beach. I was also very excited to visit Vai, which I had heard was an incredible beach, but is, alas, a story for another time. If you think I can’t tell an entire story about a banana stand and how the banana man thwarted me, you’d be wrong. So wrong.

The drive to Vai was about an hour and a half from where I was staying on the island of Crete, enough time for me to observe the beauty of the natural landscape of the place, and take some blurry photos on my phone. I slumped back into my seat after about fifteen minutes of failed photography, (though I guess, with the right filter, it could have been hipster-Instagram worthy), and closed my eyes. Car rides longer than 20 minutes will put me right to sleep, and the lull of the van as we rose and fell and curved with the land was the perfect sedative. I felt blissfully at peace, with the sunlight floating through the crack of the open window; if I had been a cat, I couldn’t have been happier.

The car eventually slowed, causing me to stir and look out the window, expecting to see palm trees and a wine-dark sea…and instead, saw a dirt road, and to the left of me, a shack. Or maybe a stand, but a stand that was larger than usual, of questionable structural integrity. It looked as if it had been painted at some point, but had definitely seen better days. Two or three different families were standing around, picking up fruit and asking an elderly man (who was sitting behind the stand) questions. My cousin, seeing I had arisen from my slumber, handed me some euros and told me to buy some of the bananas.

“Wait…why me? I don’t speak any Greek.”

“That’s okay, lots of tourists stop here. You’ll be fine.”

I looked around at the shabby stand and found myself doubting very highly that tourists frequented this place.

“But how many bananas should I get?”

“I don’t know. Try to get a kilo.”

“That sounds like…a lot of bananas…”

“It’s not really that much.”

“I think I should—”

“Just go get the bananas,” said my sister, who up until now had been quietly sitting in the back seat, minding her own business. She was in the part of the car that didn’t have quite as good air circulation as the rest of us, and was eager to get the bananas and get into the water. I felt like telling her to get out of the car and buy the bananas if she wanted them so quickly, but I sighed, put on my brave face, and approached.

The “conversation,” if you could call it that, was as awkward as I had expected it to be. I didn’t really know how to ask for a kilo of bananas with any fluency, as the Greek vocabulary in my arsenal consisted of “γεια σας”, “Καλημέρα”, and “κοτόπουλο” (due to me temporarily owning a pet chicken while on Crete, but that is a tale for another day). But the man running the stand knew enough to get my money, and I successfully made off with maybe 6 or 7 bananas, noticeably less than how many bananas made up a kilo in my mind. It was of no consequence: the fruit was purchased, the bananas were gained, and finally we could continue on to our beach day.

The beach was a wonderful time, with soft white sand, clear water, and sunshine galore, with a gorgeous palm forest stretched out behind me and to the left of me. I felt like I was becoming one with the beach as I let myself cook in the hot rays, and I wondered how feasible life would be as a tent-dwelling beach bum, when my musings were interrupted by my cousin handing me a banana. I was still skeptical of these bananas tasting anything other than how bananas normally taste, but I obliged him, and realized without question that I had tasted forbidden fruit. My cousin may have had a point when he told me I’d never had a decent one. These were sweeter than the bananas back home, so much so I’d almost classify them as being rich, and yet I felt refreshed after I ate them. They were the perfect complement to a day at the beach. They simply tasted like Summer.

I had to have more.

When we were packing up the car with our damp towels and beach covers, I asked my cousin if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to stop once more at the stand.

“I don’t know if he’ll have any left, it’s late in the day.”

I had not considered this, but by then my thoughts were consumed with the primal, caveman-like desire of “obtain more bananas.” I had to try, damn it. I had to try. My cousin shrugged, and two minutes later he once again pulled into the makeshift ‘parking lot’ of the fruit stand. I got out of the car with the desperation of someone trying to hurry up and abscond with the last bits of fruit in a shop’s possession while poorly disguising said desperation by trying and failing to check their speed. I glanced at the place where the bunches had been hanging before: success! There were two bunches left! I sped-walked over to the Banana Man, and asked him if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to buy his remaining stock.

“No, I can’t.”

I wondered if they had been sold, but the answer was…much more perplexing to me.

“I cannot sell them to other people if you buy. I lose money.”

In my mind came a flurry of thoughts that I had neither the ability or knowledge to convey. But if you sell all your bananas to me, you make the same amount of money that you were going to make if you sold them to other people. I just…I want to buy your bananas.

“Okay…can I have half of them?”

“Half?”

“Ah damn—can I take just these?” I said, gesturing to one bunch.

“No, I’m sorry. I need to sell to other people, or I make no money.”

But—but I’m still giving you the same—please just let me buy your bananas.

“Can I have three more bananas?”

He shook his head.

“Two more?”

He shook his head again, and I heard the desperation creep into my voice.

“One banana?”

You can probably guess how that ended. I looked around at the stretch of empty road, and at the only other people at the stand, a Dutch family that were examining some dragon fruit that quite frankly also looked just as good. But I couldn’t leave now. I couldn’t be thwarted by the Banana Man. How can you get a customer hooked on your product and then deny them another purchase? The gears in my head turned and clanked about as I tried desperately to string “γεια σας”, “Καλημέρα”, and “κοτόπουλο” into a sentence that would convey how badly I wanted, nay, needed, those bananas. But while I struggled and tried to make the pieces of this grammatical conundrum fit, the Dutch family glanced at, admired, and purchased the lovely bananas right out from under me, Banana Man smiling the entire time.

My eyes narrowed, my mouth opened just a tad, and in my mind, I could not help but wonder if it had indeed been personal. None of it mattered though. I was left banana-less, and, bereft, I turned back to the van, where my cousin looked at me, confused.

“I thought you were going to buy more?”

“I tried.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t sell them to me. He said he would lose money if I bought them all because he couldn’t sell them to any other beach-goers.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

I couldn’t do anything but gape at him, so I did for a brief time, wondering just whose side my cousin was on here. We could be eating bananas right now. Beautiful, sweet, magical bananas. The best damn bananas in the world. And yet…here we were…empty-handed. And empty in soul. Had I made some sort of pact with an otherworldly banana salesman who operated on rules based in a supernatural plane and not our own? Was I now paying for my pride, my belief that bananas were nothing special, until some Greek trickster banana god thought I should be punished for my folly? Maybe. Probably. I like to think so.

So, if you’re planning on taking a trip to Vai, and you come across a lonely looking fruit stand of questionable integrity, with maybe three other people clustered around some bananas…make a stop. Buy some bananas. Enjoy them. And don’t, whatever you do, take them for granted.

By Katarina Kapetanakis