Or possibly Heraklion. Or both. I don’t get this Greek thing. We pulled into port at about 5am after a fitful night in an overly air conditioned cabin. We paid about 30 Euros for an economy berth, which is the right choice to make.
The ship reminds me of a Norwegian Cruise I took once: huge, with a dance club, restaurant, internet cafe, all the usual cruise amenities. But in addiiton to that, you stumble over random tribes of gypsies sprawled out in the hallways, listening to some funky Greek music. I’m not kidding. An old woman decides to go to sleep by the stair well, cigarette butt stubbed out in a make-shift ashtray she’s fashioned out of a plastic bottle. Honestly, you can’t make this stuff up. I don’t get a picture, because I’m a little fried from the whirlwind tour of Athens, the bus trip from Pylos (4 hours, friends), and the general stress of trying to navigate public transportation for the past few hours.
I sympathize with the first-class passengers: no matter how secluded their cabin might be, they’re still going to here the crazy gypsy music that will keep you up all damn night. You’d ask them to stop, but they massively outnumber you (even though you may be travelling in a group of ten) and they look surly.
Sunrise over Heraklion (or Iraklion) is gorgeous. We find our way to the Venetian fortress, and by slow steps up to the Plataea Venizelou, where we eat bougatzi and I snap a few quick pictures. Luke, the only other guy on this estrogen-filled group (9 gals, two guys), seems to give off a phermone that attracts all the stray dogs in any Greek city he happens to be in, and makes them follow him around like their long lost master.
The good people of Crete have turned their island into a hotspot, and I post these few photos of the Plateia to you, dear readers.