You might have your own katalimata yet and let it gnaw at your sanity. The thought of that very last rock separating you from the huts people three millennia before assembled on the peaks of the steepest gorge I have ever seen, just one very rock and the thought of it. You might see the climbing equipment abandoned by the archaeologists of the past, and realise you got nothing but your bare little hands. You might already have your own katalimata but fret, or you can head to Kato Zakros while munching almonds, just like I do.
Fourth of August. The day began with me moving my mat from the wet part of the sand to a dry spot in the middle of the night. The moon was disturbing me, waning yet brighter than the stars. I opened my eyes again at dawn, as I saw a red sphere of fire gushing out from the sea. I was sleeping on the shore of Paleokastro, and remembered why I detest shores of sand.
I got into the water but did not feel refreshed. I prepared myself to walk to Petsofas, which is less than three hundred meters of altitude but I practically baked under the sun and mistook the trail at least three times, making it three times longer. Maqis is the typical vegetation of Crete, bushes up to a metre tall. No shade. Thyme is still blossoming, and its flowers always save the wanderer from the sense of heat stoke. In other terms, you eat the pollen raw, making sure not to disturb hornets and bees. Peak sanctuaries, such as Petsofas, remain such a mystery to me. Shrines set by these Minoans on the top of a mount, they have no architectonic remains. As usual, what defines them is the findings, now stored in museums and warehouses. Obstinate if not obtuse I tried to scavenge around in search for serpentine stones and steatite, to no avail. Yet anonymous pottery shreds, it is true, are everywhere.
I rested in Agathia, had fruits and local yoghurt. The owner of the store medicated my mosquito bites with beeswax and lemon. I finally bought a journal to learn Greek. I was now, fuck it, let's go to Zakros.
In the car I listened to a cover of Elvis in a loop, felt in love, changed into my swimming vest on the road. I know this bitch is about to menstruate, not the right time, but still the right time to go to Zakros.
I asked a man in the village for stamps. He said nobody uses the word sfragida, he wrote down gramatosmeno on an open envelope. I still gotta write that letter.
I went to Kato Zakros no more looking at people but scanning through possible prince material. Instead of lingering on though, I headed towards a cave. I was mad, out of myself, had said in the morning no more hiking for a day, but a quick swim in the most transparent sea of the Mediterranean put me back on track. I was merely guided by the goats, in a state of pure bliss. I had been raving about my entire life, nobody was there, only the rocks and the goats. I claim I want to find people to be with but in the end of the day I always skip the crowded shores to find that one isolated rocky bay just for myself, to be naked and without a care in the world. I found so much salt in the rocks. I used salt as soap, to scrub over my skin. I washed it away in the sea again and smeared olive oil on myself. Living on the road or in the wild does not have to coincide with rags and scaly skin. There is always a solution, always a path, always a way to conquer beauty. So next time your wife asks you for expensive spa treatments just bring her to Kato Zakros.
I reached the cave Pelekita in the company of three black goats and my voice.