Outside of the Xania Air Station, which is in Crete, there stands an old Greek Orthodox monastery dating from the 6th Century A.D. It has seen the invasions of the Moslems, Crusaders, Venetians, Turks, Germans, and NATO.
Somehow it exudes a sense of serenity, focus and devotion to God. Young mothers and husbands, older grandmothers and grandfathers all file silently for the vespers and services at Saint Paul's Greek Orthodox Church. The bell on the small chapel beckons believers to mass twice daily; an eternal claxon shivering the temporal apathy and indifference of this world; saying to those faithful "stop, quiet yourself and commune with Me."
On the far side of the church is the ancient cemetery, rocky and weed choked. Walking through it gives you a strange feeling; like walking backwards in time. Most of the headstones are engraved in Greek, a few in Latin, and fewer in English and German. These souls were combatants during World War II, adversaries in life now comrades in death. The wind blows a drying southern wind from the African Sahara and the sun burns down on you to either hurry you into the cool darkness of the chapel or to some other respite.
Such a respite is Steve's, a local restaurant, complete with dark, cool interior and grape arbor. Many of us stationed at the NATO Air Station spent our evenings and weekends here. Steve offers a menu of fresh feta cheese salads with rich ripe olives, dark rye bread and "Fix" beer; a locally produced island beer with a hint of "retsina" (a turpentine like substance that "infects" both beer and wine?definitely an acquired taste).
Most evenings he offers tasty chops, French fries, feta salads, beer, wine or various sodas. The remarkable thing is that nobody has ever seen Steve: legend has that he was a retired Greek-American GI that fell in love with Crete. I know that he brews an excellent cup of Joe, having needed it desperately after a night of too much wine. He also served the finest crème horns that I've ever tasted, anywhere that is. Those served in Munich and Vienna pale in comparison.
After an evening of good food and wine, we would walk back to the Air Station. The moon would shine so brightly that the surrounding country was clearly visible. We knew that we were near home when we saw Saint Paul's Church beautifully backdropped by the moonlight. You could almost here a faint ring of the bell as the evening breeze increased, the old monastery offering a final benediction as we passed through the guard gate.
