Crete – a chronic condition. Part one.

I’ve been to Crete a million times.

Or maybe a bit more, because who’s counting once, after the third return, you stop telling trips apart from relapses of the same disease? Crete isn’t a place, it’s a chronic condition. A geographical inflammation of the soul – once you catch it, that’s it, no antibiotics of “normal life” will save you.

You know you’ve already been there. You know that stone, that goat, that olive tree’s shadow. And yet you fly again, because your head says: don’t do it, and your heart adds: but there’s tsikoudia there. So you go. And, as usual, you swear this time you won’t get sucked in. That you won’t trudge up into the mountains to tiny chapels again, won’t sit with shepherds discussing the meaning of life over bread with olive oil and cheese that smells like someone made it yesterday – in a stable, in a hurry, between one curse and the next.

And then, of course, you end up in the mountains, sweating like a grill on a Saturday in Malia, with a camera, an empty bottle, and the holy conviction that you’re about to discover something no one has seen since the 14th century.

And you do.

You discover, for instance, that your “long-distance” sandals are not meant for rocks, and that the water bottle you’ve been nursing since yesterday now smells like the ghost of a forgotten aubergine.

You discover that maybe packing WD-40 for your creaking knees wouldn’t have been such a stupid idea, because you’ve known for ages that collagen doesn’t work.

You make the ground-breaking discovery that the goats at Balos are hungry. Victims of this interspecies sociology experiment will include: one cap, a pair of socks, a straw hat, and your entire stash of crackers. The hoof prints on the car bonnet are extra.

Crete is a trap. A golden one, smelling of oregano and dust, but a trap. Because everything that “works” there, works differently.

Order coffee “to go” and it’ll arrive after half an hour. In a cup.

Call it “Turkish coffee” and you’ll pay the bill in euros but get a look denominated in lira.

Ask about bus timetables and you’ll get a shrug and that characteristic look that translates roughly as: my friend, who cares.

Ask if they take cards and you’ll hear laughter so pure you’ll start wondering if you’ve accidentally wandered into paradise.

On Crete everything is slightly “wrong” – in the best possible sense.

Time runs slower, the light is sharper, the wine stronger, and the lies more poetic. Everyone has a cousin who has a taverna, has rooms, has a boat, knows the mayor, knows your cousin from Poland, or at least “remembers you from last year” – even if back then you had hair and didn’t look like a Cretan shepherd after an existential crisis.

Speaking of which: I’ve been mistaken for a local more than once. It happens a lot when, towards the end of your stay, you look like yesterday’s souvlaki left too long on the grill. It’s a strangely pleasant feeling when you manage to fool a local, even just for a moment. It means Crete has taken root and is staying with you for the long haul.

If you’re on a diet – never go to the laïki (the street market). If you’re not on a diet – also don’t go, because you’ll very quickly want to start one. A strict one. You won’t be able to say no, not taste, not try. Everywhere you’re “my friend”, everyone asks where you’re from and whether you’ve already tried their unique cheese, honey, olives and whatever else the season has blessed.

Tourist, truly I say to you: this very day you shall be with me in paradise – and two hours later in hell. You drag yourself back to your room where you had planned a modest breakfast, and realise you’ve already eaten both breakfast and lunch, and in your bag, apart from a quintal of local potatoes, you’re also carrying men’s string underwear that some dark-skinned “Cretan” sold you for one euro. And for all Cretan saints’ sake, do not even think about trying that thing on. Just don’t. No, you won’t drink enough to make it a good idea. And if you do, you’ll regret both the drinking and the trying-on, usually the next day. And if you do try them on, do not let the sheep see you – they’ll lose all respect for you. Your wife you might still talk round. The flock, never.

And you try to understand how it’s possible that all of this functions without a plan. The road ends in a cliff – but someone has parked a car there and is selling oranges. A bridge is closed – but you’ll get across anyway, because “it will be fine”. The water has run out – but someone brings local moonshine. And suddenly nothing bothers you anymore, because you’ve understood: this is not a country, it’s a philosophy.

On Crete even disaster has rhythm. When something’s on fire, someone is already frying calamari. When a rock falls, someone says “it always falls there”. When you get lost, some old man appears who doesn’t speak a word of English but knows everything about your life and Polish politics because he watched TVP1 in 1998.

On Crete even sadness has its own steady pulse. It can be piercing, boring a hole straight into your head. We often don’t understand the tragedies, the horrors the island occasionally throws at us. We stop for a moment, staring with our mouths open, unable to believe that this is happening here, on “our” beloved island.

Crete is like a heartbeat, like an ECG trace. Peaks and troughs, with a clear recurring phrase. Sometimes faster – like when you’re running. Sometimes slow – like in sleep.

And you sit there on that stone, eating bread with olive oil, looking at a sea that doesn’t need filters or philosophy.

And you think: maybe that’s the whole point of life – not to speed anything up, not to fix, not to overplan. Just to live between one sunset and the next.