Tales of Crete©

“Gypsies on my Mind”
13
By Jack Schimmelman

With watermelons and bales of hay safely ensconced on my resume, I

embarked on a path towards riches. I again tidied up my cave,
arranging all of my unnecessary items neatly against several large
stones and jumped to the beach at first light. The sand was deserted,
caves resounded with the echoes of midsummer night dreams as
everyone was deeply caressing their evening slumber. I needed to
leave Damnoni, my sanctuary, and venture into the mountains of this
formidable island. With hope securely placed in my backpack, I started
towards the paved road, hoping to meet a bus going towards Iraklion. I
had been told that there were grapes to be picked and that this was
the second highest paying work (“ergo”) to be found on Crete. The
day before Margot had complained to me that she was constantly
being asked to pick olives by the olive grove owners because he had
olive skin and was close to the ground and well they just knew she was
an olive picker. This upset Margot no end. “Don’t they know I’m from
Berlin!” No, Margot. They only know you to be an olive picker. Now
truthfully, that skill was purported to be the premier vocation in
agriculture on Crete. Margot was highly valued. But I was no olive
picker. I was not short, nor squat. I was big and fat, although the
sun’s furnace was slowly, but conclusively diminishing my bulk, if not
my height.

Upon reaching the pavement, and after passing the ever-increasing

stream pulsating through the side of the mountain onto the road, I
stopped a bus on its way to Iraklion, Crete’s biggest city. I watched as
my dream grew smaller in my mirrored mind, off to grow my
drachmas.

Although Crete is an island, it encompasses many worlds, a myriad of

landscapes and climates. The south shore has beautiful beaches
clinging to the edge of magnificent mountains and valleys. It gives
arid new meaning during the months I was there: May through
September. The interior has magnificent mountains where it actually
rains. These areas are lush. The north shore has all of the main cities
and unveils a show of beautiful, fragrant, wild flowers that embody the
word sensual. The mountains are painted with magnificent colors,
various shapes, sizes of exotic plants. It is ridiculous to try to describe
Crete’s many, different climates and landscapes. It would take many
lives and words would not do justice to the beauty that is everywhere
at any time. I have read that in April 1996, a beach in one part of
Crete was too hot to walk on and the very next April 1997, snow lay on
a beach close to the one that had been an oven the previous April. In
short, Crete is life. But I digress.

When I saw a road bordered by infinite purple grape vines, I asked the
bus driver to stop to let me off. Walking along the road, I met a guy
who was from Switzerland. He was a short blonde guy about my age
who spoke English, as well as French, German and, most importantly,
Greek. His name was Gilles. We immediately hit it off as we both were
looking for the same work, harvesting grapes. While walking on a dirt
road towards a village we knew was ahead we came upon a group of
Gypsies walking towards us. For some reason, they invited us to walk
with them and so we did. We came to their tent, which was huge and
they sat us down. Gilles was able to communicate with them as they
spoke Greek. He translated for me. The women sat in the back of the
tent, totally covered from head to toe. I wanted to look, but one
glance from Gilles and I knew it was forbidden. I also saw I was being
closely watched by the elders of the tribe. I did manage to sneak a
glimpse towards the ladies of the house and the females noted
immediately my dangerous behavior. They denoted their perception
by giggling. The elders asked Gilles our nationalities. When he said I
was American, the atmosphere in the tent changed. The hatred in the
air was palpable. I could smell their ire. The atmosphere had texture.
So, I just sat there without movement as a rabbit who had been caught
on someone’s lawn. I remained still while Gilles tried to explain that I
was a “good” American, but they were having none of it. I did not
breathe. The head guy took out some cards to show us. They were
tarot cards. I thought, how cliché. But this wasn’t the moment for a
critique. During that time of my life, I was dabbling in reading tarot
cards and it so happens I had a deck with me. So I unwrapped my
cards and showed them to our hosts as a sign of friendship. I exhaled.
Stupid American. Really stupid American. They took one look at my
cards and I knew instantly that I had made a major faux pas. I didn’t
understand what they were saying, but somehow no translation was
needed. As I covered the cards with my cloth, Gilles explained to me
that they were offended by the images. The deck was by Aleister
Crowley, an Englishman who had commissioned a special deck to be
designed by an artist. The cards were beautiful to my eye but
disgusting to the decidedly different culture with which I had made
contact, for these cards were liberally painted with naked, idealized
women, much like goddesses. Ok. So, here I was the American enemy
who introduced nude women into a tent which had its women

2
inhabitants hidden in the back, totally draped so as not even their
faces would show. I could see by Gilles’ eyes that it was best I leave
which I did as quickly and discretely as possible. I bowed, smiled
painfully and left while my “hosts” seem to be contemplating how
many ways they could dispose of my body.

Later I met Gilles in the village and he asked me incredulously how I

could do such a thing? I pleaded ignorance and then he told me the
punch line. I had not noticed, but there was a young, blonde hair, blue
eye girl amongst the women. She was maybe 5 years old. After I left,
the tribal elders tried to sell this child to Gilles. They did not want her.
She had (a) blonde hair, (b) blue eyes and (c) was a girl. She was a
black mark on their tribe. Gilles politely refused and apologized for my
behavior as he also backed out of their tent.

We were sitting in a café in this mountain village, sipping coffee, fresh

from our tarot experience, wondering how we would find work.
Evening had slipped onto the cobble streets. Gilles asked around and
was told to be back at this café in the morning along with the first rays.

By this time, we found others who had come for the same purpose.
So, we wandered out of the village into an alcove in the field under a
fig tree and lay out our sleeping bags. I was unique in this group. I
was the only American. Surely, a “stupid American” and the only
person whose life had been recently threatened by a band of gypsies.
I felt honored. I hardly slept.