Now it was time to get on with serious touring. We dropped Nanda, the tour guide and my best friend, and all but one member of the group at the 4,000 year old palace at Knossos. Alas, I had to miss the tour; I had work to do: to take the one member of our group who was ill and plead with the hotel staff to find her a room at 9:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and to make sure the luggage for the entire group was off-loaded and in a secure location.

The hotel had hosted a weekend conference and was full of young Greek businesspeople. They were descending unhurriedly from their various rooms with briefcases, cigarettes and cell phones in hand; the latter having replaced their forefathers’ worry beads.

They were in no hurry and the reception area was leisurely chaotic. The management was asking for an accounting on missing items from the mini bars: several waters, a few whiskakia (little bottles of scotch), but not one ouzo!

As soon as the smoke cleared somewhat I edged my way to the reception desk and, in my best Greek, asked for a room for our needy tour member. “Amesos,” right away, was the reply, and in less than five minutes I was handed the key along with, “If there is anything she needs, just call.” As I settled her in her room, I was pleased to see that in the two or three years since we had last been at this hotel, all the rooms had been completely renovated, and the once dark gray-green walls were now light and sunny, allowing men to shave without slashing themselves too severely and women to put on make up and present themselves in public without looking like hookers on the prowl.

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The luggage is piled all together in a secure place, at least as secure as it gets in Greece. (against one wall of the reception area). It is only 10 a.m. and Nanda had said it would be an hour before they return to pick me up, at which time I can go with the rest of the group to the museum. I know Nanda’s speech by heart and I know that no way would she have enough time to get from the beginning of the tour at the bust of Arthur Evans, the British archaeologist who excavated Knossos, to the end of the palace where she tells the story of the good father Daedalus and his naughty son Icarus.

Even if the labyrinth part of the palace has been closed for restoration for some years and is not open to the public, I know that the tour still takes at least an hour and a half. So I hunker down with a good book and wait in the lobby for their return. The interesting book is not nearly as fascinating as the Greeks coming and going. I am a people watcher at heart and these are the people I would rather watch than any others. They are no longer the village children of their grandparents’ generation. They carry lap-tops and are dressed in the latest European fashions: chic leather and suede boots; even the briefcases they carry are Gucci and Fendi. These children are no longer of the village. They work in offices in the city and will never again live in humble surroundings.

Sure enough, an hour and a half later, the bus pulls up. I get on, give my report to the sick woman’s husband and to the rest of the group, and off we go to the museum – a museum rich in treasures but so old and so ill-maintained that I am appalled and embarrassed. Many items in the cases are missing – On loan? In storage? Who knows! The cases are dirty from age and finger marks. The signage is poor and the rooms too vast, with massive amounts of marble magnifying the slightest whisper. And though it is Sunday and relatively uncrowded, and mercifully cool, it is still a tour guide’s nightmare. The museum guards assemble by twos or threes and share the latest, their voices amplified in the huge space. Nanda has a difficult time finding some of the precious objects which have been moved or removed. There is a temporary photo exhibit which chronicles the excavations at Knossos. But it has been installed directly in front of some beautifully painted Minoan bath tubs/sarcophagi, which make them totally unviewable.

For the first time I can’t wait to get out of there.

By 12:30 p.m. we leave “our kids” to their own devices. Most opt to stay at the museum for awhile before exploring the city of Iraklion on their own. Their choice is a good one – as bad as the museum is, it is better than the hodgepodge that Iraklion is. The town’s centerpiece, “Freedom Square,” is solid concrete, punctuated by huge metal lights – all gray – with not a plant or pot of basil in sight.

Nanda must stop at a few shops to see old friends from old times. First, the jeweler who says that business is rotten, but then, it has never been otherwise. Then to the textile shop where Eleni, the octogenarian owner, explains that she has had to give up half her shop to a fast-food place and has had to replace some of her textile inventory with more saleable tourist merchandise.

I am in a hurry to get to the old Venetian square with the lion fountain. We make only one more stop, since it is Sunday (otherwise we would have to visit countless other shops), to buy a newspaper. Nanda discards almost half of the unwanted reading material before continuing to the kafenion on the square.

So, here we are, in “our” traditional place – we have lots of them, and this is but one of many. Nevertheless we are happy to be here, just the two of us, as we have been many times before. There are several kafenia on the square. All of them sell this delectable pastry called bougatsa, a concoction of pastry filled will either cheese or cream topped with a healthy sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar and served warm. And though there are many other choices of places to sit, we choose the same place we have always chosen. It is warm and the day is clear and all the kafenia are filled with Greeks – there is not one tourist as far as the eye can see.

We deliberate over which bougatsa to order – cream or cheese. The decision is monumentally difficult. We both have cholesterol problems and are committed to one piece between us. But which? Alas, we capitulate: one of each. After all, we’ll walk all the way back to the hotel and that rationalizes that!

There is a table for two right next to ours. Three young, well dressed men are sitting, each reading his own paper, a plate of bougatsa in front of him, along with cups of Greek coffee and glasses of water. There is hardly enough room to open their reading, and they must adjust their elbows in order to accommodate the array of newspapers.

Our bougatsa arrives along with two glasses of water. Each square piece is cut meticulously into 12 smaller squares, like a miniature checker board. A little fork accompanies each plate. One is set before me and the other before Nanda. But which is which? We each taste our own, warm and tender, and yes, sensuous. Our forks dart like dueling swords to each other’s plate, sampling from both. Back and forth we go unceasingly until only one or two bites on each plate remain. We are satiated, utterly satisfied. Nanda digs into her Sunday news. I try unsuccessfully to read a few sentences; I am told it is close to impossible for a non-Greek. Nanda is incommunicado while immersed in her paper, so I am back to my avocation of people watching.

Three beautiful young women join the three men sitting at the table for two. Kisses on both cheeks are given all around and then some. Three more chairs are squeezed around the tiny table, newspapers are abandoned, and more bougatsa is ordered.

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