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If you have followed the author of this blog’s excursions up to this point, then you are most likely familiar with the fact that I like hiking; it’s hiking that doesn’t like me.


I’ve hiked the gorge of Preveli and survived, by the skin of my teeth. I’ve gone on multiple hikes across America, Europe, and South America, to varying degrees of success. Against all odds, I love the great outdoors, and to this day I cannot keep away. So it should come as no surprise that I decided it was time to hike Samaria Gorge.
Growing up, this hike was hyped up to me by my father, who spent several summers on Crete as a teenager. He told me what an adventure it was to hike the gorge, how incredible a natural wonder it was. He also told me it was a challenge. He quite often told me that it was a hike I should prepare for, but that if I did, and we were lucky enough to go to Greece, he would take me.


But me? Prepare for a hike? Please. I’ve hiked through mountain trails and desert paths, through crevices and canyons and cliffsides. Though I have certainly had my fair share of pain, (not to mention regretted not bringing along just one extra water bottle), I have never felt like I needed to prepare for a hike, and I was not about to start now. It’s not like I was doing the really challenging ones, anyway. There’s an old saying in my family: you can’t get off a couch and expect to climb a mountain. My existence was a testament to the opposite.


However, I will admit: I was intimidated by this one.


Samaria Gorge is one of Crete’s most well-known natural wonders, located on the southwestern part of the island in the White Mountains of Crete. It’s a 10 mile track through a limestone canyon that is traditionally open from May 1st to October 31st, whereupon the rains of autumn make the trail too dangerous to traverse. It is the longest gorge in all of Europe, making it a popular challenge for hiking enthusiasts. If you want to hike the whole length of the trail, you must arrive before 1P.M.


Depending on whether you feel like hiking for six hours, there are ‘lazy’ versions of the trail that exist. There are different starting points within the trek that lessen your hike time, and serve as a great alternative for those who are unable (or unwilling) to hike for long periods but still wish to see the park. There are, of course, tours you can purchase that come with a guide to make sure you don’t get lost. Some even include breakfast. All include transportation, most departing from the city of Chania, though there are some that will pick you up from your hotel, or in Heraklion. Most tours arrive at Samaria Gorge at about 7:00 A.M. in order to make the most of your day.


There were plenty of logistical reasons for me to worry about this hike, but the selling point was that for the most part, the trail went in one direction: downward. Six hours of hiking sounds like a rough day, but in my hubris I was convinced that it truly would not be that bad. So what if I had to wake up at the crack of dawn to catch a pre-arranged bus to transport me to hike at 7 in the morning? Today was going to be a good day.


As I stood outside the entrance to the trail on that brisk morning, I regretted staying up late. I also regretted coming alone. The jokes about not being prepared were starting to no longer feel like jokes, and in the back of my mind I questioned the decision to do this solo. I stared up at the entrance to the park and could not help but recall the immortal words of Dante Alighieri: “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.”


Of course, I tend to lean on the overdramatic side, so I squashed my anxieties and marched through, into the trail. ‘I’m prepared,’ I reminded myself. Unlike the Preveli Beach trip, where I was forced to walk up the mountain in flip-flops, I had purposefully brought hiking boots. I had packed not one, not two, but four bottles of water in a drawstring backpack. I had my trail mix, something I had to remind myself when I glanced longingly at the cafe that sat just outside the park’s entrance.


It was a beautiful day, and though the sun was steadily growing hotter, the dry heat meant I felt all the benefits and none of the drawbacks of summer. I am a Florida native, and any hot day without humidity is a relief to me. As a solo hiker, I took my time. The last thing I wanted was to run into any issues while I was locked into this hike for six hours, and I was more than willing to take in the beautiful scenery as I went.


There is something very humbling about walking in a gorge. I’ve never felt smaller when juxtaposed with the awesomeness of solid rock walls that jut out on either side of me. Nature, in general, is where I retreat when I want to recenter myself. Hiking offers clarity, peace, and a chance to expend all the energy I acquire sitting in front of a computer most of the day. It’s a break from a world with non-stop connection, a chance to be at one with my thoughts and the natural world. Samaria Gorge offered all of that, as well as the chance to spot one of the Kri-Kri, an endangered species of feral goat that calls the gorge home. I regretted the decision to leave my DSLR camera at home, thinking the extra weight would have made the trek more difficult. The beauty of Samaria Gorge was too beautiful to capture on a smartphone, no matter how well their technology has advanced.

Samaria Gorge is a one-way hike that ends at the coastal town of Agia Roumeli. By the time I reached that town I was dying for a dip in the ocean, and I did not restrain myself. If you happened to be hiking the trail one summer day and saw a woman plunge into the waters of the Libyan Sea after just barely taking the time to remove her hiking boots… no you didn’t. After refreshing myself from my six-hour hike, I bought a beach towel, dried off, and spent a good hour in a taverna. I had earned my lunch that day.

All I had left to do was wait for the boat that would return me to Sougia, where the bus, complete with air conditioning, would be waiting. I had conquered another hike, lived out a childhood dream, and I had done it all by myself. As I looked out onto the waters of the Libyan Sea, watching the dappled light reflected from the waves, I could not help but think…


It had been a good day.

By Katarina Kapetanakis

I have been writing for Wine Dark Sea Villas for almost two years now, and I am shocked to discover that I have not written about the city of Chania in all that time. I’m flabbergasted. Surely, I thought to myself as I scrolled through old entries, I would have written about Chania? Crete’s oldest port city, its original capital, my first real introduction to Cretan life…surely I would have written about this beautiful town by now. Sadly, I have been remiss in my duties as vacation raconteur, a mistake that I wish to rectify immediately.

Chania has roots that stretch all the way back to the days of the ancient Minoans, the original inhabitants of Crete. Back then, it was known as Kydonia, the source for the word quince, (which is appropriate, considering the prevalence of the fruit). One myth establishes that the ancient city-state was founded by Cydon, a son of Hermes (or Apollo, depending on who you ask), and his wife Akakallis, who was the daughter of King Minos. Another myth states Minos himself was the founder of this powerful port. Archaeologists are still excavating parts of the old town, and have determined that this ancient city-state (for all major cities on the island were self-governing seats of power) was not only an important center for trade, but was also constantly at war with other city-states like Aptera, Phalasarna, and Polyrrinia. Kydonia even has a small appearance in Homer’s Odyssey, though the mention is quite brief.

By 69 B.C., Kydonia had been conquered by the Roman consul Caecilius Metellus, though it was allowed to operate as an independent city-state. Fast forward a few hundred years and we find Kydonia renamed Al Hanim (Arabic for ‘the inn’), during a period known as the Rule of Arabs, once the island itself was conquered and the previous Byzantine rulers were ousted. In 961 AD, the city was reclaimed by the Byzantines, and renamed the city once more to the Greek ‘Chania’. The name has stuck, despite a temporary change under Venetian rule to the Latin ‘Cydonia.’ Since then, the city has changed hands multiple times, from the Venetians to the Ottomans, from them to the native Greeks, to a brief occupation by the Nazis during World War II, and finally, back into the permanent hands of the Cretans, though the capital of Crete was moved to Heraklion in 1971 after thousands of years of turmoil. I’ve done my best to condense a rich history for the sake of clarity, but I highly encourage readers to look into the fascinating and extensive history of this beautiful port city.

 

Of course, my own history with this city also has its twists and turns, and my impressions of the place have led to a deepening appreciation for Chania, its people, and its impact on the island of Crete. Every time I visit, I make sure to pay at least one visit to the city. You can never actually park close to the old parts of town, (unless you’re extraordinarily lucky, that is), but the parking garages that lie just outside the borders aren’t too far away to stroll leisurely into town. You may be tempted to visit the beaches there, with soft sand and clear blue water, with strange and curious ruins dotting the coast line and the road leading into the town, the Necropolis of Chania. The path is a straight-forward, uncomplicated one into the heart of the town, where vine-covered trellises grant much-appreciated shade to restaurants. Though the smell of the food might beckon you to stay, as it most certainly does to me whenever I go, I recommend that you take one of the alleyways down to the pier before you eat. There’s time to eat later.

Pick any one of the alleyways that presents itself. As long as it leads downward, you’re going the right way. Wonderful shops line both sides of the street, from the more touristy beach shops and ice cream stores, to the markets and stores that sell gorgeous and intricately painted wooden religious iconography in the orthodox style. Maybe you’ll pick up a set of komboloi, unique to you, that you can flip over your hand as you stare out over the harbor and out into the open sea beyond. It’s perfect for that kind of meditation, after all.

The harbor itself is lined with shops and tavernas of all kinds, though perhaps it is best not to dine at these particular tavernas that tend to overcharge visitors who come from the cruise ships, knowing they have no time to wander the city streets. Once you’ve decided to eat, you’re better off at one of the delicious tavernas you passed on your way down to the harbor. There are more novelty shops along this road, perfect for finding just the right gift for that friend or relative you’ve left behind. You can’t go wrong with a postcard. But the best thing about the harbor is the beautiful crystalline water, a blue-green window into another world where colorful fish often swim amongst the rocks. There are glass-bottomed boat tours that you can take for a leisurely two-hour excursion, and even a submarine ride that can show you the ocean in ways the average tourist has probably not seen before. In all the years I’ve visited, I’ve never taken either voyage, but one day I hope to.

 

If you’re facing out towards the water, the right hand side of the pier is where an ancient and beautiful mosque lies, a remnant of the Ottoman occupation. On the left hand lies the War museum and the Nautical museum of Crete, both filled with impressive collections that will thrill history lovers. (There are, in fact, several worthwhile museums to visit in Chania, including but not limited to: the Archaeological Museum of Chania in Saint Francis Monastery, the Folklore Museum, the Municipal Art Gallery, the Byzantine/Post-Byzantine Collection, the House of Eleftherios Venizelos, and the Museum of Typography.) Of these museums, I can only really speak in great length about the War museum, a place I highly recommend for anyone who wants to learn more about the heroic Cretan resistance to Nazi occupation.

Explore the alleys leading up and away from the port. Don’t be too afraid of getting lost: you can always find your way back by heading downhill. Up in the twisting alleys, you’ll find art galleries and unique pieces, evidence of Chania’s growing artistic community. If you’re a photographer like me, you’ll find wonderful shots around every corner, from open doorways leading to vine-covered stone courtyards to cats resting in the shade, and if you want to find wonderful, handmade textiles, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Stick around the town for a night of music and fun, as there’s quite an indie scene that’s up and coming in Chania, not to mention the flourishing Jazz scene. (Don’t even get me started on native Cretan music, which you can find in abundance).

Chania has something for everyone, whether you simply want a fun day out in the sun, a day on a boat, an afternoon of exploring museums and shops, or culture. It is rich in a history that is palpable, architecture that entrances, and a people who have pride in their city. Though I’ve been remiss in sharing my love of this enchanting place, it’s better late than never.

 

By Katarina Kapetanakis

Those who know me best know that I am unable to resist a kitschy tourist trap when I see one. I can’t help it: the minute I know it’s there, all of my mature appreciation of art and culture flies right out the window, and all of my thoughts are consumed by an almost primal desire to do something dumb for the sake of the doing it. I can’t even claim that it’s done ironically: I genuinely enjoy exploring tourist traps. I love finding joy in roadside attractions, in things that may be more expensive than they’re worth but are nevertheless enjoyable, in things that, while on the surface a dedicated traveler may consider a waste of time, I consider an experience. I’m reclaiming my joie de vivre one wacky, weird thing at a time.

Which is how I came to be a patron of the Doctor Fish spa.

How could something so…relatively…cute be so flesh-hungry?

It is, as the name suggests, a fish spa. I had never heard of such a thing before, and had never even seen one in America, (although some people have informed me that they do indeed exist). The premise is this: the unsuspecting tourist, lured into the spa by the employees looking for anyone who’ll bite, is asked to first rinse their feet off in a sort of shower. Once they’ve rolled up their pants and handed over their sneakers, the tourist awkwardly climbs up onto a padded bench and unceremoniously dips their legs into tank containing twenty or so relatively small fish. For the next fifteen minutes, your legs are suspended in water, as these fish nibble the dead skin away. After your time is up, you awkwardly waddle back to the shower, wash your feet, and go about your day. The end result is supposed to be that, now all the dead skin on your calves and feet has been eaten, your skin has been exfoliated and is silky smooth. Bizarre? Yes. Hygienic? Possibly. The jury is still out. Just weird enough for me to want to try it? Of course.

To some, a nightmare. To me, an adventure. But also a bit of a nightmare.

For months, I had seen the store, as I had to walk past the place in order to get to Heraklion’s pier. I would walk down the main thoroughfare, glancing at it wistfully. Every time I asked my family if they’d like to try it out, they looked at me as if I had asked if they had wanted to try some sweet bread. It wasn’t easy, as I walked up and down this street often, buying souvenirs for friends. Each time I passed by the fish spa, the employees working the crowd would lock eyes with me. They knew. They could see it in my eyes that I wanted to enter, and they used that to their advantage. But alas, I couldn’t cave to my desire to stick my feet in a bucket of fish. I had places to go, people to see. The fish spa…would wait.

And then the end of my Summer arrived, and I found myself full of the usual bout of end-of-vacation blues. I didn’t want to leave the crystal-clear Cretan waters, the sunshine, and the like. I didn’t want to give up gyros and freshly cooked lamb. I was in a slump, and only one thing could lift my spirits: a final high note, one last ride, one final experience that would be the cherry on top to my Summer. The fish spa’s hour had come. That afternoon, my family and I headed to the fish spa, not quite sure what we were in for, but aware enough that we were going to have…a time.

Let me start by saying, don’t wear a dress to the fish spa. Climbing awkwardly up a bench that’s just a little too high for you, only for you to need to scoot down the bench to your allotted tank, makes a dress a hindrance. Secondly, definitely go with other people. Bring friends, family, distant cousins, acquaintances you made on your cruise, your yiayia, what have you. It is so much more fun going with people than by yourself. Not only does it distract you a little from the agonizing tickling sensation around your feet, it is the highest form of entertainment. I have three or four videos stored forever in my phone, which I watch sometimes when I’m feeling down, of my mother on the verge of screaming as the fish tickle her relentlessly. My brother mocks her mercilessly, bragging about how the fish’s tickling hasn’t troubled him in the slightest, while my sister and I have cast aside decorum and burst into uproarious laughter. Two random strangers in the video stare at us like we have grown three heads. It’s one of my favorites.

Pictured: my friends and family suffering at the behest of my whimsy

I was aware the feeling would not be…comfortable, but I wasn’t prepared for how strange it would feel. The farther up your leg the fish latch onto, the easier it is. They’re tolerable, those fish, the chill dudes of the tank. I liked them. They didn’t activate my fight or flight response. The fish that latched on to the top or sides of my actual feet were on thin ice. There was definitely a strong sense of discomfort produced by their presence, but those weren’t the ones that sent me into peels of tickle-induced laughter. That honor went to the little bastards who targeted my toes. If you’ve ever wanted to know just how strong your stoic endurance can last, buy yourself a fifteen-minute session at a fish spa, and see how long you can keep a straight face. Extra points if you can keep yourself from squirming. I think the hardest part of the whole thing was forcing my legs to stay still, instead of kicking them about like instinct demanded. But I survived, as did my poor mother, who vowed to never visit a fish spa again.

I’m suffering, but I’m also living my best life

I didn’t stick around for a manicure, which was one of the many other spa services Doctor Fish offered, but the next Summer I visited Crete, I went back to the spa twice. What can I say? There’s a satisfying kind of schadenfreude that comes from bringing your friends to a torturous fifteen minutes at the fish spa.

Oh, and my skin? Perfectly exfoliated. Beauty isn’t pain…it’s a swarm of tickling fish.

 

By Katarina Kapetanakis