Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
Written Sunday, October 5, 2008
Conditions: cool, blustery, mixed clouds and sun and rain -
whitecaps on the sea, with the wind out of the northeast.

ARRESTED – WITH POMEGRANATES

Whipping along on National Road #1 at racing speed, playing dodge-em with traffic, ignoring lane markings, and working one’s way up past any vehicle in front of you just for sport: This is standard Cretan driving practice. A Cretan man will get no respect from other drivers if he lollys along on the edge of the highway driving like a ya-ya (grandmother). And I, not wanting to be considered anything less than a Cretan man worthy of respect, am playing the game in my black rental Toyota shaped like a speeding bullet. Varooom!

Suddenly. Out of the bushes alongside the road steps a man uniformed in silver helmet, tight black leather jacket, high black boots, masked behind sunglasses and armed with a pistol. He gestures: PULL OVER AND STOP. Motorcycle policeman. Uh-oh.

“Greekity-Greekity-Greek.” he says.
“Parakalo, signomi,” I say, “Thin milao Hellenica.” (Please forgive me, I do not speak Greek.)
“No problem. I speak the English. You have been arrested for speeding.”
“Oh.”
“Your papers please.”
He takes my passport, my driver’s license, and my car rental papers.
“Wait with my colleague,” he says. Another man in black carrying a gun steps out of the bushes and frowns at me. The policeman with my papers straddles his motorcycle, cranks its mighty engine, and roars away in the direction of Kastelli – where there is a police station and a court and a judge.

For thirty minutes I sit and wait. And think.
The Greek police are notoriously harsh. They will find out about me and everything I have ever done that is wicked. He is going to bring the paddy wagon. I will be pulled from my car, handcuffed, beaten carefully so as not to draw blood. Then I will be carted away and thrown into solitary confinement. By night I will be deported to Iran where I will be held hostage as a terrorist working for the CIA. I will be tortured. I will confess everything. Finally I will be cut up into small parts and thrown out into the desert, where buzzards will pick my bones clean and beetles will consume my bones. Captain Kindergarten will never be heard from again.

One is inclined to be somewhat paranoid when detained by the police, no matter for what, no matter where. Busted. They have you in their power.

I wait. And wait. And wait some more.

Slowly my thoughts return to normal.
Why was I in such a hurry? I am in Crete, for god’s sake. There is nowhere I must be and nothing I must do. It is a beautiful day in early October. The sea is out there – the olive trees are over there – the sky is blue – the air is warm – and in the yard of that nearby house there is a tree hanging heavy with ripe pomegranates – the first true sign of fall. The pomegranates are not just red – but a combination of egg-yolk yellow, sunrise orange, cyclamen pink, sunset magenta, and geranium scarlet. I would not have noticed the beauty of the pomegranates if I had not been arrested and forced to sit still by the side of the highway. I imagine the carmine red of their juice. Grenadine syrup. The color of my fresh blood. This will be my last lovely memory before my miserable life comes to an end in Iran.

Suddenly my reverie is shattered by the rumbling presence of the motorcycle pulling up beside my car. It is my main man in black. He is smiling.
“Here are your papers, sir. You are free to go. I warn you: Stop driving like a Cretan, or else . . .”

Or else? What? Or else they will catch me again and send me to Iran?
No. Or else I will miss what cannot be seen by a man in a hurry? Yes.

“Epharisto poli – para poli,” I say. (Thank you – very much.)
How can I explain that it is not for being let off with a warning that I am thanking the policeman. No. It is for stopping me. For making me sit still. For giving me the pomegranates.

Turning off the main road, I took the long, slow way through the narrow back roads of deep Crete. Through the farms and villages. Noticing the pomegranates all the way home.