Christmas Eve – Rethynmon, Crete

The bitter wind drives us through the glass doors and into the festive lobby of the Kyma Hotel. The petite, dark-haired receptionist exudes cuteness and Christmas joy as she looks up at the cause of the disturbance. We are cold and dishevelled from the bluster going on outside. Almost squeaking in desperation, I ask “Do you have rooms for tonight?”

She smiles. “Yes, of course.’ My husband and I exchange hopeful glances. So far so good. “Do you have heat?” I ask, imploringly.

The receptionist gives us a look. “Yes, of course!” Me again. “And, do you have hot water?”

She laughs, then realizes I’m seriously asking. “Of course! Where have you been?”

“In the South” I answer. ‘Down in Hora Sfakia.”

“Oh”, she replies. “No one goes to Hora Sfakia in December.”

That was information we could have used five days ago. She should have said, no one comes to Crete in December. And certainly, no one gets married on Crete in December. And if they do, they most definitely should not cross the White Mountain range in a snow storm on Christmas Eve. But we have done all of these things. Getting married, it turns out, is the least adventurous thing we do on our Greek odyssey. After a week in the north coast town of Hania, where the town hall nuptials take place, we drive south to explore the island’s lesser known towns. My new husband has promised blue skies and warm temperatures – just like when he traveled through here 15 years before. I must be in love because I believe him.

Angry storms follow us south and we are greeted in Hora Sfakia by howling winds and surging surf that crashes over the harbour seawall and drenches the sidewalks. The Hotel Samaria is the only hotel that seems to be open. We are the sole guests and the heat has been turned off for weeks. It’s too late and too stormy to go anywhere else, so we climb the stairs to our room, which is as frigid as a meat locker, to hunker underneath the covers until dinner time. Our hosts clearly weren’t expecting guests so the meal is cobbled together from whatever is in the pantry. Chicken, I think, with boiled potatoes and a limp green vegetable long past its best before date. We drink enough home made wine at dinner to numb the cold, then venture out to see if there’s any life.

The raging surf makes it downright dangerous to walk along the waterfront, but we make it to the other side only to discover one lonely bar that’s open. A handful of Greek men sit around a worn table, drinking krassi and talking – maybe it’s an argument? – over the din of an English language medical TV show. No one pays us any attention.

After more wine and a hearty shot of Metaxa, we make our way back to the hotel, taking the winding maze of narrow streets that run behind the waterfront. The only sounds we hear are the steady sizzle of rain, and the muffled barking of dogs complaining of the cold and wet.

My husband keeps repeating, almost to himself, that this is not what he was expecting. Roger that. Nevertheless, we persevere and stay one more day, to hike the Imbros Gorge, before making the return trek over the mountains back to the north, through a violent snow storm.

The storm escorts us all the way to Rethymnon, and the cheery welcome of Maria, the Kyma Hotel receptionist, telling us, yes, of course we have room at the inn on this cold December night. And the dining room is open!

There are no gifts of frankincense or myrrh, but a table top sized Christmas tree delivered to our room has the same effect. We have shelter, heat, food, a beautiful holiday icon, and each other. Christmas is perfect.