Paleochora, Crete - Reminiscing

Paleochora

May 17, 1985 From Roger's Journal, written in Crete on a Bus

The old bus slithered up the mountain road like a snake following its serpentine path in search of prey. The driver honked the horn at each curve in the switchback, rhythmically, like a snake flicking its forked tongue. The mountain sides appeared as a checkerboard of green. The waxy-silver of the olive trees, the yellow-green of the vineyards and the dark green of the orange trees contrasted with the red umber of the clay soil.
The metal and glass serpent continued its trek up the ever steeper and winding road. On the distant mountain side small buildings cling to the the hill looking like red topped sugar cubes cast there by the hand of a giant. Along the road there was a profusion of wild flowers in reds, pinks, and yellows. The red poppies were the brightest and if the seed pods of this plant produced resin of the same color as the blossom there would surely be a big demand of Cretan “Red.”
The snake rounded a curve and there appeared its first potential victim. An old woman dressed all in black was riding side saddle atop her tiny donkey. They ignored each other. This twosome was obviously too old and tough a meal.
White crosses along the roadside marked the demise of previous victims.
The sugar cube houses slowly became a village. A few houses are scattered on both sides of the road. Each house is similar in construction but highlighted by a brightly colored door or a window box of flowers. The proverbial coffee house has a few tables and chairs in front where it appears the whole male population is seated. They drink their small cups of Greek coffee (it used to be called Turkish coffee) followed by sips of water. Smoking cigarettes, playing cards or backgammon, reading newspapers, and discussing the world political situation, keep them busy.
In each town there is always one old man wearing the traditional Cretan costume of thigh high boots and loose fitting trousers - always in black. This old man walks with a shepherd’s staff and limps from a wound received when serving in the Cretan Resistance against the Germans. The Cretans are a proud lot and never let it be forgotten that parts of Crete never fell to the German invaders.
An occasional house stands in ruins. The roof long gone and only the walls remain. A couple of ancient amphora are propped against th ! e knarled trunk of the ever present olive tree.
At last the snaking bus spies the object of its culinary desire -  a flock of goats in the road. As the bus approaches, the flock explodes in all directions just like a rack of pool balls struck by the cue. Alas the serpent will go hungry this trip.
Suddenly the sea is visible and a small town straddles a spit of land. One side is open to the Libyan Sea with nothing between there and Africa. The other side is a wide beach facing a protected bay. The beach is widely scattered with a variety of reddened bodies - some women topless - some in minuscule  bathing suits.
We’ve arrived in Paleochora!