Istanbul to Crete

The view from Annaview Apartments

Day 12 – Istanbul to Crete

Breakfast was another mediocre affair: soft pastries, a bland boiled egg, but excellent Turkish coffee, strong enough to shake off the cobwebs. I ate on the hotel’s roof terrace overlooking the calm grey stirrings of the Bosphorus. A meaty man with a shaved head, weighty gold chain and thick Russian accent sat opposite and evoked my inner Bond movie. Every time he drawled into his phone, I imagined subtitles reading: 

“Then we rip off his fingers, da? One by one. Into the Moskva, da da!”

In the cab to the airport, the driver flashed a pack of cigarettes and asked if I smoked. I said no, and with a tragic sigh, he put the pack away. We drove in silence—just me, the highway, and his tragic nicotine cravings.

Istanbul Airport has security before you enter properly. That meant chugging my water bottle then preparing for a Pre-TSA checkpoint, checkpoint. Once inside the airport, I realized something was off. I didn’t need earbuds because… it was… quiet. No CNN from hundreds of TVs barking at me. No looped medical ads threatening “DEATH OR LIVER DAMAGE” in bold font. No gate agents shrieking about boarding groups. Just peace. New York airports, take notes: not everyone needs to be scolded every five minutes with announcements about illegal handguns on the plane. STFU and let us breathe!

My flights were smooth and easy. Before I knew it, I was in Heraklion, Crete, standing in the mild breeze of a Mediterranean afternoon waiting for a white van to shuttle me to my rental car. Ten minutes later, I was in the usual back-and-forth over insurance. I waved my own policy and after refusing their additional cover for the third time, they stuck a $950 hold on my credit card like a penalty. “It will be released 30 days after the rental.” He said. 

My car was a cute, sky-blue Fiat that looked like it had just emerged from a gelato commercial—sunny, compact, and ready for adventure.

With my phone clipped into its holder and my “Jankee sunny honey lovely” playlist in full swing, I cruised west along the coastal road, the Mediterranean shimmering on my right.

It was magic hour. The sun hung low and golden, casting long shadows and painting everything it touched in warmth. I was grinning like a fool—singing, swaying, high on the thrill of returning to the island I love. The place I dream of retiring to. The place where my stress dissolves, my breath slows, and the light speaks to me like a silent siren.

The air was thick with figs, hibiscus, wild thyme, and the hum of crickets in the olive groves chorusing in the breeze. Above me, the sky swelled—clouds bloomed like brushstrokes across an endless blue canvas. It felt like the gods were welcoming me to my next chapter: one filled with long, lazy creative afternoons in a sun-kissed dream. 

I love you Crete!

By the time I rolled into Myrthios it was dark and the wind had gotten feisty. I parked on a steep incline below the sign—AnnaView Apartments—and fought to open the car door until it gave way and nearly flew off the hinges, slamming back with a bang. As I fought the gusts, a tiny woman battled her way up the hill towards me, her hair whipping across her face. She shouted something that was lost in the wind, but it turned out this was Anna—of Annaview Apartments.

“Reservation? You have thirteen,” she said in her thick Cretan tongue, pointing to the door marked with the number. I opened it and inside, everything was lit and ready. 

“You have milk, you have coffee, you have tea, you have beer!” she beamed, nodding with each noun, proudly showing off the cozy apartment and its stunning view.

Later, I met her daughter, Ero, who informed me that the nearby taverna, just a few steps away—Dionyssos—was open.

When I asked about my beloved Plateia Myrthios restaurant she told me it had closed for the season, only last week. I was floored. I actually nearly cried! 

I’d been fantasizing about Plateia Myrthios’s rabbit stew for days—tender meat slow-cooked in white wine and lemon, spooned lovingly over a bed of crispy Greek potatoes. Washed down with a fat glass of local red. And then the orange cake: syrup-soaked, citrus-kissed, served warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

It was meant to be my glorious welcome meal.

Instead of falling to my knees and yelling: “You broke my heart Ero! You broke my heart!” I decided to have a quick shower and skipped 10 feet from my door to Taverna Dionyssos for my long-awaited dinner… only to be told they were slammed. 

“Please wait, very busy, very busy!”

A flustered host implored, showing me to a spot across the path where I joined a group of couples sipping wine, waiting patiently in an open-air holding pen. A man appeared and asked me if I’d like a glass of wine while waiting and took me through to another holding area in the kitchen. Here, more hungry people waited, biding their time watching waiters argue over orders while the Greek mama’s yelled and plated steaming stews, zucchini flowers, lamb shanks and moussaka like it was a reality show. 

I was bordering on hangry, so I jumped back in the car and made the winding 10 minute drive up to Mariou Taverna. The car park was almost empty, it wasn’t busy! The waitress asked:

“Inside or outside?” I hesitated. 

“Is it too cold?” I asked. She shrugged:

“I don’t know. Is it too cold for you?” 

I laughed. Touché. I opted for outside.

Not too cold!

I made friends with Maria, the waitress, who agreed to help me with my Greek lessons by insisting I ordered in their native tongue. I did pretty good—lamb chops, fries, salad, tzatziki, salad and a glass of wine under the stars. Maria insisted the lamb chops be eaten Greek style—with my hands! No problem!

Lamb Chops!

When the food arrived, I was instantly glad I'd braved the nerve-wracking night drive through the mountains to the taverna. It was my first time driving solo in the dark. I was even prouder of my bold order—the lamb was perfect: a crackling, smoky crust giving way to tender, juicy meat, each bite bursting with rosemary and the sweet char of the grill. As I ate, I realized that for the first time on the trip, I felt truly, deeply relaxed. I had made it. This was my final stop, and stretched out before me were seventeen glorious days to enjoy that feeling of indulgent solitude in my favorite place on earth.

The first thing I did was make friends with the local cats, flicking them scraps of lamb as the warm mountain breeze, thick with woodsmoke, honey, figs and olives, slipped through the tavern’s stone terrace.

As the cats gnawed away, the owner appeared, his expression caught somewhere between a frown and a question.

“Hello,” I said.

“You’ve been here before?” he answered, walking over.

“Yes, with my family!”

He broke into a laugh.

“I remember. You and the ladies, your family, yes. A few months ago!”

He explained that he was half-asleep because they were preparing for the raki harvest the next day. Long days of hauling grapes, removing stems and crushing them before the fermentation process.

“We’ll close in 10 days to harvest olives,” he added, with a shrug and a smile that spoke of more gruelling labor.

I made a mental note to return before then—and maybe even offer to help. After all, who wouldn’t want to say they’d helped with an olive harvest in Crete?

He offered me a glass of raki and a plate of grapes as a nightcap, but I politely declined. I was too stuffed and merry, and I would return before they closed for the season.

I drove back along the cliffs, the sky now thick with stars. Once terrifying, the winding roads felt almost friendly now, as I coasted along hugging the cliffs of the rocky landscape. I felt warm, at home—or close enough.