In this blog post, I calmly reflect on my experience of encountering Kazantzakis and Zorba in Crete.

On Saturday, February 6, 1999, I boarded a flight from Athens to Crete. To me, Crete was all about Kazantzakis and Zorba. The island, crouching atop the indigo sea, resembled the shell of a giant turtle, and I felt as though I were entering Crete like a soldier from the frontier going to pay homage to a king. Heraklion Airport was named “Nikos Kazantzakis Airport,” and I paid my respects to the Cretans for naming their capital’s airport after a local author.
His grave stood on a pyramid-shaped base at the corner of Megalokastro, built by the Venetians. I was particularly struck by the simple wooden cross—one said to be used only on the graves of those excommunicated by the Greek Orthodox Church. Literary critic ○○○ once remarked that he saw the author’s “stubbornness” in that wooden cross, and those words still seem to echo in my ears.

“Haha, so this is the grave of that stubborn old man.”

The theater director ○○○ set up an offering of Jinro soju, bananas, and a pack of domestic cigarettes he’d brought from Seoul, then asked me to bow. I was grateful for his devotion—he’d managed to “stash away” the soju for this pilgrimage to Kazantzakis, despite nearly two weeks of nagging from his colleagues. Our group paid our respects with a moment of silence, but I felt that silence alone was insufficient, so I took off my shoes and bowed.
The Cretan woman ○○○ who guided us could not hold back her tears. She said she couldn’t contain the tears of deep emotion welling up inside her as she watched people from the distant East—with different languages and appearances—pay the utmost respect to a writer beloved by her country. She told us that Zorba’s daughter, who lives in Bulgaria, had also visited the grave just a month earlier. My ears perked up immediately, and I asked how old the daughter was.

“Sixty-five, I believe?”

In ‘Zorba the Greek’, there is a passage in a postcard Zorba sent from Serbia to his father: “I’m still alive. It’s so damn cold I had no choice but to get married. There’s a photo on the back, so take a look at her face. I’ve landed myself a proper woman. The reason her waist is a bit thick is that she’s currently making a little Zorba for me.”
So I wondered if Zorba’s daughter, who turned sixty-five this year, might be that “little Zorba” he made back then.
Although Kazantzakis’s birthplace has been turned into a museum, I was told it closes during the winter because so few people visit. Regrettably, I had no choice but to turn back. At lunch that day, I bought retsina (a pine-scented wine) for our group. The weather was bleak, and soon a light drizzle began to fall. Standing in Eleftherias Square, where Kazantzakis’s bust stands, I thought about the years Zorba spent in Serbia.
Six months later, on August 27, my wife and I landed again at Nikos Kazantzakis Airport.

When I asked a rental car company employee if there was a bus to the village of “Myrtia,” where the Kazantzakis Memorial is located, he told me I would have to take a taxi and that the driver would likely ask for 5,000 drachmas. When I went out to the taxi stand, I saw that police officers and soldiers were jointly controlling the area.
I asked a police officer what a reasonable taxi fare to Myrtia would be. I figured it was better to check, as Greek taxi drivers are notorious for overcharging. The police officer said 3,000 drachmas would be reasonable, and when I asked a taxi driver right there how much he’d charge, he also said 3,000 drachmas would be fine. It was 2,000 drachmas (about $6) cheaper than I’d expected.
After about a 30-minute drive, we arrived at Myrtia, which looked exactly like the village depicted in ‘Zorba the Greek’. The taxi driver promised to pick us up in three hours and left. The village was a tiny mountaintop settlement with fewer than 20 houses, and it was striking to see elderly people gathered in front of the ouzeria (tavern) from early in the morning. Plants in pots labeled “Demos Nikos Kazantzakis” were placed throughout the village; these were not the usual clay pots, but rather recycled olive oil cans made of tin, painted white.
The memorial was located right in the center of the village. Although it is commonly known as Kazantzakis’s birthplace, strictly speaking, it was not his birthplace—he had merely lived there for a time—but rather the birthplace of his father, Michalis. On display were personal belongings from his lifetime, translations from around the world, handwritten manuscripts, and posters from performances of his works; there was even a letter sent to the author by the real-life character Zorba. Though small, it was not shabby; it had a rustic charm but was by no means luxurious.
Although I had been looking forward to this memorial so much, what remains in my mind even now is not the emotion I felt there itself. Kazantzakis’s personal effects held little meaning for me. What I had wanted was the living Kazantzakis, the living Zorba. Fortunately, in Mirtia, I was able to meet them—albeit through my own petty self.
Even when the agreed-upon time arrived, the taxi did not show up. As I later learned, the fare I had agreed upon with the taxi driver in front of the police officer—and which the driver had also agreed to—was far too low. For that fare, the driver could have earned enough just driving around town without having to go all the way out to Mirtiá. In the end, the taxi never came. I spent my time under the scorching Cretan sun, thinking of the giants. Because I had saved 2,000 drachmas, I was stuck in the village for two hours and had no choice but to hitch a ride in a kind Cretan’s Fiat.
However, I decided not to blame the taxi driver. After all, if that spot where I had been waiting for a taxi, sweating profusely under the scorching sun, hadn’t been Kazantzakis’s memorial, I wouldn’t have been able to take the saying “greed leads to great loss” to heart.
‘Zorba the Greek’ is a book I translated into Korean twenty years ago, in 1980. At the time, the translation seemed quite good, and those around me said so too, but now, as I proofread it with the mindset of revising it, there are quite a few passages that make me cringe. It feels quite special to be revising and republishing this work. Kazantzakis and Zorba, two giants born in the 19th century and who lived through the 20th, remain very real to me as I enter the 21st century. I am confident that this is also true for my younger friends.