Time Immemorial Mihalis’s red Audi hadn’t been washed in months. Parked on the streets west of the Old City, there was such a layer of dust on it I couldn’t really be sure it was red till I got close. This belongs to the perfectionist weaver of Ρόκα? I thought. ‘We’re going to pick plants to dye wool,’ Mihalis told me. ‘On the way I need to fetch my brother-in-law’s cousin Minoulis. He needs a ride to his fishing place.' Threading the car through the waterfront streets beyond the Old Harbour on the western part of the city, Mihalis pointed to a restaurant so bland and nondescript it scarcely merited an eyelinger. 'That’s the Akrogiali Taverna,' he said. 'The best fish in Χανιά. The owner goes down to greet the fishers as they come in. Buys them still wet in the boat. When he closes at the end of the day, he sells the fish he hasn’t sold to the other restaurants. When you see the words “Catch of the Day” some of it is the Catch of Yesterday.’ We passed an Orthodox church with a large graveyard behind it. Cars lined both sides of the street. People clustered at the narrow iron gate. Everyone wore Sunday Best clothes. 'Orthodox Kritis visit the graveyards on Sundays or a family member’s death anniversary,' Mihalis explained. 'They believe that souls don’t leave their families after death. That’s why children are baptised with their grandparents’ names, so the name lives on just like the soul. Spirit sticks around, we say.' 'There’s an old folk song in America,' I observed, ‘"I’m My Own Grandpa”.' 'The more we revere our ancestors by visiting the cemeteries and speaking well of the deceased, the less dead they are.’ ‘Do people see ghosts?’
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