The 'New' Airport

I was flying back from Crete late last night and after dropping off the little hired car, I made my way to the Departure area. My previous experiences in Heraklion airport have been well documented on my blog, but I have tended to focus on the depilatory habits of young revelers, and not so much on the badly planned and antiquated building. As a matter of fact, I was going to refrain from revisiting this subject, so tired was I of regurgitating the same old bitter complaints...

And Then....

And then it happened. As I turned the corner a modern and well-designed duty-free area appeared where there had previously lurked a sweaty pizza dispensary in the midst of a gaggle of cold hard metal seats. I got a funny look as I let out a loud 'wow' and even more surprised looks when I told a rather tired saleswoman how beautiful the place looked.  This was perhaps atypical Greek behaviour, waxing on about airport retail design....at the airport. She advised me to get the 'for dyed hair' variety of hair products. I looked sideways in the mirror. "Ermmm...it's not for me" ("do I  look as if I dye my hair?" I wondered). She winked knowingly and pinched my cheek. I guess our five minutes together had given her license. Or she felt sorry for me. Possibly both.

Everything seems beautifully arranged, there are enough tills, great lighting, and super friendly staff, not all face pinchers, either. I was almost moved to tears. I was speechless. Wonderfully displayed local produce. Lots of olive oil packaged in fancifully labelled bottles. Extra green. Early harvested. Younger olive oil. Olive oil from particular villages, monasteries, and presses. Olive oil infused with herbs. Olive oil in cans, bottles, bars of soap, little tins, big drums, elegant urns. Olive oil in soaps, hair products, medicinal ointments, and as a preservative for olives, cheeses, and peppers. There is a lot of olive oil in Crete. They even export to Spain and Italy, where even fancier packaging and the inference of Italian pizzaz elevate the prices to a level that the Greek farmers would choke at.

Back to the refurbishment. I felt a sense of relief and even a little pride by proxy. My 'home' town, my airport. This is what happens if you just have a little patience. Forty years of patience to be precise. Here it is. Stunning really. It's like giving up hope and then finding it again....after four decades. Overwhelming. I will not spoil it by mentioning the lack of air-conditioning and seating and the incomprehensible lack of information screens. I will not go on about the still inaudible announcements or lack of lifts and disabled access. It's the Tourist Industry, after all.

The plane ride was uneventful. There was no woman pilot, we were flying at night so alcohol consumption was reduced by sleep and the imminent drive home, the couple next to me were nicely sedated by their passion for word puzzles and thank G_d for electronic passport controls. No more inane questions by sleep-deprived officials demanding to know the purpose of my visit of where I had been.

So here we are. I spent two weeks speaking another language, eating different food and recognising myself in other people's faces. Am I sad to be back? Not yet. But, as the Universe would have it,  it is what happened once I arrived that shook me out of my prissy self-indulgence. I was brought back down to Earth by my early morning taxi ride. My complaining about air-conditioning and retail details seemed like the rantings of a spoiled teenager. My hard-working taxi driver's life is still rooted in duty and custom. Totally humbling...but that is another story that deserves proper attention and respect. I already have a title for the next post: 'Burial Rights and Duties in Cameroon'.