Like anyone who makes this sort of trip, I have stories – trekking up to the discovery site of the Venus de Milo at dawn, then sitting in a quiet, grassy, old amphitheatre to watch dolphins swimming in the bay below; trying to stay calm as a death-or-glory bus driver threw his ageing vehicle – complete with stickers of fighter jets on the windscreen – around the tight, narrow bends of the road that zigzags up the thousand-foot cliffs of Santorini; the discovery that pelicans are really, really large creatures. All these stories, as important as they are to me, are pretty usual. If you’ve ever been backpacking around Greece, you’ll probably have at least some of them yourself. There’s one story from this trip, however, that is not at all usual. One story that is odd and unsettling. This is the story I’m going to tell here. We arrived into the port of Heraklion, Crete, at dusk. We’d picked a hotel in the city and, because we were tired, we decided to blow some of our dwindling funds on the luxury of a taxi to get us there.
What do You think about Better Than Fiction 2 (2015)?
