Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
The end of May 2026
The weather bounces from spring to summer and back again.
My recent posting about Homer and the Odyssey stimulated my memory of my first experience of the Greek world, where I spent many years. That beginning always makes me laugh. Here’s why:
ASBESTOS GELOS – AGAIN
For more than thirty years, I have spent several months on the Greek island of Crete. Why Crete? I might say it’s because I like history – more than 6,000 years of amazing human enterprise are piled up there. I could say it’s the beauty of the landscape – mountains, sea, and beaches. But, in truth, I go back for the people – the Cretans. I have binding connections with them, their view of life, and their way with strangers.
It all began the summer I was wandering around Europe alone while waiting for my wife to finish her medical residency. No particular agenda – just doing what came next. I went to Crete to see the famous archeological digs at Knossos, and to look in on a graduate school program at the Orthodox Academy of Crete. When I was ready to get off the paths beaten down by tourists, I went to a small fishing village on a gravel road at the western end of the island – Kolymbari.
I found a room for the night and rose before the sun to go running. The day was already hot, so I was dressed only in black running briefs and shoes. (It’s relevant to the story to note here that my hair and beard were white even then.) I ran past the village coffee house where men sat drinking coffee.
They seemed surly, hostile, unwelcoming.
When I mentioned this to my landlord, he said, “Oh, no, Cretans are very welcoming to strangers – it’s an old tradition – philoxenia. But in your case the men at the kofeneion don’t know what to make of you. For one thing, your hair and beard make you look like a priest, and they have never seen a half-naked priest running through the village in what looks like his underwear at that hour of the morning. They don’t know what to say or do.”
“Oh.”
“No problem. Smile, wave, say good morning: Calimera – kah-lee-mare-ah.”
“Right.”
Pause. See this from the point of view of the men at the coffee house. They have been drinking coffee at dawn for years without disturbance or distraction. Suddenly, without warning, the white-bearded, half-naked priest flashes by.
“What the hell was that? Damned if I know.”
The next morning, I set off running with goodwill toward men in my heart. Ready to greet the villagers. The men see me coming.
“For the love of Christ, Manolis, here he comes again!”
Hold the moment. Parenthesis: As I said, my appearance was a bit of a surprise in the first place – the-priest-in-his-underpants look. Then there is the fact of my lack of language skills. During the night, my brain changed calimera (good morning) to calamari, which means “squid.”
And then there was the matter of waving. I did not know that Cretans wave with a gentle gesture of upheld, closed-fingered hand, backside out – palm in. I did not know that the All-American hearty wave – arm extended, fingers open – is the equivalent of giving someone the finger in Crete – “up yours,” in other words.
So. Here I come.
And as I ran by the coffee house, I shouted, “Calimari, Calimari, Calimari,” and gave my big wave to all. From the Cretans’ point of view, it was, “Squid, Squid, Squid” and “up yours.” From the priest in his underpants.
Well . . . They fell out of their chairs laughing.
And shouted “Calimari, Calimari, Calimari” and waved “up yours” back at me.
Greatly pleased, I ran on, thinking: “These are really friendly people after all – my kind of guys.”
The men in the coffee house could hardly believe what had happened.
“What planet did he fall off of?” they wondered. And of course, they did what you and I would do next. During the day they told their friends about the bizarre stranger’s appearance. And when their friends didn’t believe them, they said, “It’s true. Come see. Have coffee in the morning.”
And sure enough, here I come again.
Noticing there are quite a few more men having coffee.
“Look, I told you, here he comes. Shout squid at him and give him the finger and see what he does.” So, they did and I did and so on. Funny. Great laughter all around. I gave them the American sign for OK – thumb and forefinger forming a circle, and ran on. They laughed even harder and gave me the OK sign back.
Wonderful.
Word gets around quickly in a small village. “You’re kidding. No, come see.”
The next morning, even women and children were there to see me.
Marvelous people, these Cretans.
But that same morning, just after I passed the coffee house, a schoolteacher stopped me in the street. Serious young man. He was upset.
“Excuse me, mister, you are making a jackass of yourself, and those idiots at the kofenion are helping you. You should all be ashamed. You set a bad example. What will the children think?”
He explained that no self-respecting Cretan man would go out of his house and into the village dressed as I was. Immodest, to say the least.
And he explained about calamari and calimera, and about how to wave.
Finally, he wanted me to know that the sign for OK in America was the Cretan sign for telling someone to stick their head up their own rear end.
Road rage material in Crete, except with friends, of course.
I felt bad. I glanced back at the men at the coffeehouse. Sheepish grins. Now they knew I knew. And I knew they knew. And so, now what? I walked along, wondering what to do: leave, run another way, find someone to help me apologize, What?
But I couldn’t ignore one clear fact: the laughter.
What had happened was funny. The laughter was real. My best friends and I would have done the same. thing. These Cretans seemed like my kind of guys. I consulted my landlord. During the night, my brain sorted out the problem. At first light, it was clear in my mind. Still in my running shorts, I went forth.
Here I come again – but this time wearing my T-shirt with the blue and white Greek flag on it.
Solemnly, they watched me come. No gestures. As impassive as the first morning. “Look, here he is again. What do you think he’ll do now? Is he angry with us? Who knows? ”
I had asked my landlord how to insult Cretan men in that way permissible only among friends – the grossest things – trusting they know you are kidding. In the same spirit I might say to a good friend, “You bastard.”
“Call them malaccos – masturbators – and slap the palm of one hand on the back of the other hand, with arms stretched out in front of you.”
(It suggests what they do with sheep and their mothers and themselves.)
As I got to the coffeehouse, I slowed down and stopped to face them.
A tense moment.
Friend or foe?
I smiled. And shouted malaccos at them and shot them my newly acquired hand gesture.
The coffeehouse erupted with laughter and applause. A chair was provided. “Come, come. Sit.” Coffee, brandy, and a cigarette were offered. And with their minimal English and my feeble Greek we retold and re-enacted the joke we had made together – from their point of view as well as mine. Above all, they thought my way of handling the situation – the in-your-face-with-humor – had Cretan style.
I was, after all, their kind of guy – and the feeling was mutual.
I went back to the village the next year. And the next, for 30 more years.
I built a house there – with the advice of the men of the kafenion.
They included me in the life of the village – feasts, weddings, baptisms.
For a long time, they had no idea who I am or what I do, really. All they knew for sure is that I am a laugher who understands something about the gross humor and social courage of Cretan men. To me they became friends with names like Manolis, Kostas, Aecheleus, Nikos, and Ioannis. To them, I became the Americanos, Kyrios Calimari – the American, the honorable Mr. Squid.
As I say, I have been going back for many more years. I go in part because I still expect laughter – from jokes and stories that are often raw and reckless and wicked and timeless. About old age and sex and war stupidity – jokes that mask fear and failure and foolishness. They laugh big, belly-shaking laughs, not chuckles. Laughter in the face of hard and serious things.
The laughter is not incidental.
Without this laughter, the Cretans would not have survived their travails and tragedies across centuries.
Cretan laughter is fierce – defiant laughter – an “up yours” to the forces of death and mystery and evil. Life is a practical joke, and they are in on the joke.
They have a word for this laughter: Asbestos Gelos. (As-bes-tos yay-lohs)
A term used by Homer, actually.
Fireproof laughter.
Unquenchable laughter. Invincible laughter.
And the Cretans say that he who laughs, lasts.
They should know – they have been around for a long, long time.
Laughing.
And I’ll soon be there with them again. In person or in spirit.
Laughing.