Moving Day

Today we are going to leave our cozy little apartment in the hills above Stalos, just west of Chania, where we sat on our balcony for dinner and sometimes breakfast and looked down at our pool and, just beyond that, the blue Mediterranean.
It is 9:15 a.m, our rental car will be delivered at 11, or thereabouts, southern climes not being famous for punctuality, and by noon we will be checked out and on our way to Heraklion, stage 2 of our adventure in Crete. I am munching on black olives because the pack we bought on the first day is still unfinished, the kids won’t touch them, the wife neither, so they are all mine. As are baklava, halva and, after yesterday’s taste test at yet another lovely Greek restaurant right on the beach, dolmades. My family are not, as a general rule, adventurous eaters.
Interesting point: one of the purposes of this trip, for me, was to reconnect with Greek food, but I realized yesterday, just after I ordered moussaka, was that I hadn’t actually had it since the last time I was in Greece, more than 30 years ago, and I didn’t actually remember what it tasted like. I remember that I liked it at the time and had tacked it on to that long and eclectic list of foods I like, but if I tried to recall, with my mind’s taste buds, the flavor and the sense of it, I could not. What if I wound up not liking it after all?
No worries, it was delicious.


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