On Monday, I drove to Sitia. It’s the nearest biggest town to this little village in Crete and it takes about 25 minutes, winding along an elevated coastal road, to get there. I’ve joined a gym. A proper high street gym. Which has never really been on my list of things to do, especially not in Greece, and definitely not in the high heat of late summer. But if I’ve learnt anything during these uncertain COVID times, it’s that I function more happily if I have some structure to my days. And weeks. I also know that the stronger I feel in body, the stronger I feel in mind. I continue to run (mostly downhill and slowly) on the days in between, and practice my self-conscious beach asanas and meditations. But the social aspect of the gym experience, feeling like I’m a part of something bigger, and making gentle connections (at a distance and with plenty of hand-sanitiser), also adds an extra layer of value for me.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been to the gym, but I still managed to take a wrong turn once I got into town and found myself outside the pet shop. Which I’d been told, in a conversation some days before, was across the road from the police station. I’d also been told that if I wanted to stay in Greece for more than three months, or at least have the option to stay for more than three months, I’d have to get myself a residence permit. And that the police station was where these things were issued.
The short back-story to this is, that with the Brexit deadline looming, all applications for residency need to be completed by December 31st. And also with that, there are certain criteria that need to be met. I’d received quite a lot of confusing, and sometimes conflicting, advice from various sources and was beginning to feel that I was perhaps embarking on something of a wild goose chase. But, despite this, finding myself outside the police station seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. So I parked up, legally I hoped, and went inside. And was sent upstairs to find Mr Cornelius.
I explained to Mr Cornelius the situation, that my mother had a home in Palaikastro and that I wished to make an application for a residence permit. And could he please tell me the simplest way to proceed. Ah, yes, he said, I’ve been expecting you. I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant but Palaikastro is a small village and Sitia is a small town, and who knows who knows who? So I went with it. It felt promising. And, as luck would have it, it was. Because twenty minutes later, I walked out of the police station with a much coveted, beige, residence permit. I still have one outstanding document that I need to fax to Mr Cornelius but he really was beyond helpful and sent me on my way with a lovely smile and an enthusiastic, enjoy your stay. Efcharistò Poly!, Mr Cornelius.
After my session at the gym, Cheshire Cat grinning through lat pulls and goblet squats and thinking about Greek language lessons, I called in at the car hire place. Giorgos, the owner, wanted me to switch cars as he needed to get the one I had, a very inconspicuous white Hyundai something or other, to the garage for an MOT. He told me he had a lovely little Fiat Panda lined up for me. Hugely popular cars here in Crete. But he didn’t tell me that it was yellow. What’s that yellow box you’re driving? My mother asked. She was Cheshire Cat grinning now. I told her it was custard cream. It’s the only yellow car in the village. And any fantasies I had of casually blending in around here, are now well and truly scuppered. I’m the daughter of the English, staying in the Red House and driving the Yellow Car.
This isn’t particularly easy for me. Because I have a thing about being known. Or maybe it’s being seen. If there’s any difference between the two. But I’m talking about the self-conscious-asana side of me. I used to say I was shy. I honestly believed it to be true but no one else that knows me does. And now I’ve solo-travelled half way around the world and back again and made so many wonderful connections along the way, I’m not sure I can believe it anymore either. But I’m from London. I like a little anonymity. And I think it’s why, at least in part, I so much enjoyed the pre-COVID days of Taking Leave. I liked skipping from place to place. Not hanging around too long. Perhaps something to do with showing only the shiny side of me. And seeing only the shiny side of other people. But I can see there’s going to be no chance of doing that here.
And, on top of all this, I’ve taken the huge step of creating a Taking Leave Instagram account. I’ve been a little allergic to those big social media platforms for a while and it’s the reason I chose to blog here rather than Facebook or Instagram in the first place. This felt manageable. And despite being on a public platform, for the most part, it’s felt comfortably enough on the edges of public. Yet still a good way to keep the folks back home informed of my adventures. And of course, I discovered it had the added bonus of keeping me company. But as I was approaching a year away from home and feeling like my trip was coming to an end, I decided it might be an idea to reflect and revisit the last year using the images I’d collected. I have an absolute phone-full that might never see the light of day otherwise. So I’m reminiscing. Daily. Whilst I get my head around this idea of being known.
There’s a link to my Instagram account in the menu bar on the home page. But if you, like me, are a little allergic too, you can also see the photos somewhere way down underneath all these blogs.
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