One Summer in Santorini

On the flight to Athens, I was stuck in the middle seat between a husband and wife, one who wanted to sit by the window, the other by the aisle. They spent the entire flight talking across me in their thick Birmingham accents, as though I was some sort of aeronautical soft furnishing. When I politely asked if they wanted to sit together, they scoffed. ‘Oh no, love, we’re perfectly fine sitting apart.’ I wasn’t perfectly fine. I was developing a tension headache, but they didn’t seem to care about that.

I figured if I was going to survive the flight without having some sort of mid-air meltdown, I was going to need more tea. Tea calms me, tea revitalises me, tea is a miracle drink – tea drinkers will understand what I mean. Thank goodness it was a British Airways flight, because I knew they’d have the good stuff – proper English tea. I rang my call button three times during a four-hour flight and every time was to ask for more tea. This, of course, meant I had to pee twice, but I considered those few moments of silence a reprieve from Douglas and Sharon’s non-stop and not-so-sparkling repartee.

I made a point of losing them as soon as we were inside the terminal. I leapfrogged around other English tourists, striding purposefully towards immigration where I discovered two things: a massive queue and a slew of ridiculously handsome Greek men in uniforms. Apparently, the Greek government had hired a flock of Adonises – or is it Adoni? – to staff the immigration booths. This discovery made the first one much less annoying, and I waited patiently in line while appreciating some of Greece’s natural wonders. When it was my turn, I handed over my passport and endured the handsome man’s scrutiny as he weighed up the Sarah in my photograph – slicked-back hair, no makeup and glasses – with the Sarah in front of him.

As I met his gaze, I was glad I’d kept the London taxi driver waiting a few minutes so I could tame my wayward curls into some semblance of a style and put on some blush and mascara. It’s not like I thought the immigration guy and I were going to run away together, but at least I didn’t look like a complete hag. My heart jumped a little at the sound of the Greek entry stamp being added to my passport. Then it jumped again when the Adonis smiled and welcomed me to his country. Moments in and I was back in love with Greece.

After being so warmly welcomed, I headed off to find the gate for my next flight. Right as I started wondering if it would be quicker to swim to Santorini, I finally found it at the far end of the airport and on the other side of a security check. As I was collecting my things from the tray on the conveyor belt, a giant man who smelled like he’d been steeped in nicotine hacked a wet cough down the back of my neck. Really? I turned and gave him a hard stare, but he was oblivious.

My stuff gathered, I looked around for somewhere in the small transit lounge to wait for the connecting flight. Spying an empty seat in a far corner, I made a beeline to stake my claim, but I was too late. A different middle-aged British couple sat their duty-free bags down on what should have been my seat, then stood next to it complaining about the long walk to the gate.

Clearly, this couple was as clueless as Douglas and Sharon, so I found the nearest empty patch of floor and plonked myself down. I was beyond exhausted, and I still had a couple of hours to kill. I spent the first eight minutes calculating what time it was in Sydney, how many hours it was since I’d left there, and how much sleep I’d had. I came up with such a depressingly low number, I promised myself never to think of it again. I could sleep as soon as I got to my hotel in Santorini.

Instead, I opted to read. I’d preloaded my Kindle with such a broad variety of reading materials, I could match any reading mood I found myself in. And right then, my mood dictated a gloomy crime drama where lots of people got stabbed. I reached inside my handbag to retrieve the Kindle. Unlike the borrowed monstrosity that held all my clothes – and was hopefully being moved from plane to plane at that very moment – the handbag had been a splurge right before I left for my trip, along with my Prada sunglasses.

It was a compact leather backpack – stylish enough to be my handbag, and practical enough to be my daypack. It really was a thing of beauty. And, importantly, a handbag wouldn’t cheat on me with a slut from yoga class.

Three and a half hours later – why did I think a Greek island-hopper would depart on time? – I was seated in a very small plane next to a very large man who was turning greener than Kermit the Frog before my eyes.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said. Texan, I thought, identifying his origin right away – I’m talented like that. ‘I don’t usually fly on such small planes. I’m afraid I may need to get up to use the restroom.’ Even in the throes of air sickness, he was using his manners. Texans are so polite.

‘Of course!’ I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood up in the tiny aisle. ‘How about I sit near the window – in case you need to get up again?’

He nodded and rushed up the aisle to the only bathroom on board. Poor man – at least it was a short flight. As I strapped myself into the window seat, I heard a chorus of ‘Ooohs’ from the other passengers. I looked out my window as the plane banked and there it was, Santorini, a crescent of rusty land in a sea of deep blue. It was stunning.

‘Sorry ’bout that, ma’am,’ I heard over my shoulder as the Texan sat down.

‘Look,’ I said, leaning back so he could see past me.

‘That’s mighty pretty.’

I nodded in reply.

As we approached the tiny airport, I could barely wrap my mind around how beautiful the island was. The rugged red land contrasted with the brilliant blue of the sky and the stark white and creamy pastels of the buildings. It was so striking, it took my breath away. By the time we landed, I was practically hyperventilating.

Santorini’s airport terminal was kind of kitschy, looking more like a Las Vegas hotel from the 70s than an airport. We disembarked via a rickety metal staircase and as we walked across the tarmac, a warm breeze tickled my face. Divine.

Inside the terminal, I noticed that everyone moved at a more leisurely pace than they did in the constant chaos of Sydney, as though someone had slowed a video playback ever so slightly. I liked it.

My bag arrived on the baggage carousel after only a short wait, but it seemed to have gained weight in transit. I hefted it from the carousel and said goodbye to the nice Texan. Stepping back into the sunshine, I crossed the road, almost dragging my backpack, and stood in line for a taxi. And I didn’t mind – the waiting, that is. The island was already having a calming effect on me. While I waited, I breathed in deep breaths of Santorini’s clean, briny air. It was the exact opposite of Athens’ air – or London’s, for that matter.

Before I knew it, the taxi pulled up, the taxi driver got out and took my bag, stashing it in the boot, and I gave him the name of my hotel as I climbed into the back seat – all very normal. But then, two strangers climbed into the taxi, one in the front seat and one next to me.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked as several bags were shoved towards me. I soon found myself squashed against my door, while two voices apologised.

‘Apparently we have to share. I’m so sorry,’ said a young woman from the front seat. What? I’ve been in taxis in so many places in the world I’ve lost count; I’ve never had to share one. The driver got in.

‘Excuse me. I would rather not share my taxi – no offence,’ I added to the young couple. They didn’t seem offended. They probably didn’t want to share either.

‘If you want a private taxi you need to arrange it,’ said the taxi driver. What the fuck was he talking about?

‘Where in the world is a taxi not private?’ I asked incredulously. ‘What are you even talking about?’

‘Look this is Santorini. We have thirty-six taxis on the whole island.’ He seemed undaunted by the rising tension in the car. Then we took off.

I fumed from the back seat and mumbled under my breath, ‘Welcome to fucking Santorini.’ Really, it wasn’t that bad. The young couple were nice enough – she was English, and he was a Kiwi – and we chatted through the awkward tension. We also seemed to be collectively trying to ignore that the drive itself was a harrowing exploration of Santorini’s narrow, winding roads, which our driver tackled by driving very fast with one hand riding the horn.

We pulled up at my hotel, and I offered thanks to Zeus that I’d arrived in one piece. I begrudgingly paid the driver what was obviously the same fare I would have paid if I was travelling by myself in a private taxi, and climbed out of the car. He retrieved my bag from the boot, dropped it on the ground, and before I knew it, he was speeding off to the couple’s hotel, likely to gouge them for another thirty euros. A cloud of dust followed in his wake. I stood for a moment, taking in my surroundings and catching my breath.

I was standing in the heart of Fira, Santorini’s main town. With the amount of whitewash and brilliant blue I could see, there was no mistaking I was in Greece. Despite the shared taxi and the fact that my backpack was sitting in the dirt, joy bubbled up inside me. Around me people ambled along the road, stopping to have leisurely and lively conversations with their neighbours. Scooters, trucks and cars whizzed past, stirring up dust. The air was hot and dry and smelled of petrol fumes mixed with something herbaceous.

Across the road from my hotel were congregations of people – mostly locals – at a handful of tavernas, each indistinguishable from the next to my uneducated eye. They sat at tables playing chess or cards – many of them smoking. Some drank coffee, some sipped clear liquid from tiny glasses. Ouzo, most likely. Laughter and chatter filled the air around me.

It occurred to me that it was a Thursday afternoon, which took some realising given my jet lag. Didn’t these people have jobs? Maybe the whole town was on holiday. Like I was. I was on holiday! The realisation hit me again in a wave of wonderfulness. Greece!

I picked up my backpack from the dusty kerb and walked up the path of my hotel. Inside, the small lobby was cool, and the scent of bougainvillaea wafted in from an open window. A lovely woman, who spoke little English and had a warm smile, greeted me at the front desk. After a simple check-in – I showed her my passport, and she gave me a room key – she led me to my small, neat room. It was basic, but I didn’t need anything more. I was only staying for one night.

It did smell slightly, but I’d travelled to Greece enough times to expect it. The Greeks don’t flush toilet paper; it goes into the little bin next to the toilet. I know what you’re thinking – I’m thinking it too – the Greeks invented civilisation, but they haven’t worked out how to make a sewerage system that can handle toilet paper. It meant that many hotel rooms smelled just like mine did. It was a minor blip. I’d survive.

I wouldn’t, however, survive much longer if I didn’t eat; two packets of airline biscuits, a muesli bar I’d discovered at the bottom of my handbag, and a gallon of tea did not a balanced diet make. And especially not when there was Greek food all around me waiting to be eaten. I decided that sleep could wait.

I stashed some valuables in my room safe and packed my handbag for an early dinner followed by an evening of exploring. Leaving the hotel, I eyed the tavernas I’d seen across the road on arrival. The crowds in two of them were thinning out, as though the jobless folks suddenly had somewhere to be. At the third one, chess sets and ashtrays were being replaced with platters of food, and it looked like it was filling up with local diners. I consider this a good sign whenever I travel, because locals tend not to go out for crappy food.

I crossed the road and took a seat in the taverna at a table for two near the kitchen, where the aromas were unbelievable. My stomach grumbled with appreciation. A waiter appeared and stood patiently while I tortured him with my terrible Greek. I started with, ‘Kalimera’ – good morning – before correcting myself. ‘No, sorry, kalispera.’ He smiled and spoke to me in English.

‘Good evening. I am Demetri.’

‘Hello, Demetri. I need horiatiki,’ I said, not even looking at the menu. I knew it would be on there, because it’s what we non-Greeks call a Greek salad. ‘And lamb, do you have lamb?’ He gave me a funny look. Of course they had lamb. ‘And giant beans.’ I love giant beans. It’s a dish, by the way. I mean, the beans are big, but it’s essentially a stew made with beans. It’s the second-best thing in the world after horiatiki.

Demetri gave me a smile and a nod, and then he offered me some retsina to go with my dinner. It’s Greek wine, of sorts. I declined. I am what you might call a wine lover and as a wine lover, I can’t really abide retsina. ‘I’ll have a Mythos, parakalo.’ Greek beer – much more drinkable.

The salad came to the table within minutes and it was a thing of beauty. It looked like it belonged on the cover of a foodie magazine and it smelled incredible. I piled up my fork with the optimal first bite. As soon as it hit my mouth I groaned with pleasure, half-expecting to hear, ‘I’ll have what she’s having,’ from the next table.

I need to explain something important.

The Greeks grow the best tomatoes in the world. And I know I exaggerate sometimes, but I mean IN THE WORLD. Add to the best tomatoes in the world some freshly made feta, Greek-grown and pressed extra virgin olive oil, fresh fragrant oregano, Kalamata olives grown in luscious Greek sunshine, and all the other bits of goodness that go into a horiatiki, and you have the one thing I could eat every day for the rest of eternity.

The lamb and beans arrived next, and the lamb was so tender I could have cut it just by staring at it. The giant beans were particularly huge and the sauce was rich and tangy. I glanced around me as I finished off all three plates. The taverna was now full – I spotted a few travellers like me, but it was mostly locals who obviously knew where the good stuff was.

When the bill arrived, I thought it was wrong, but Demetri assured me that eighteen euros was correct – for three plates of food and a beer. I wished I was staying on Santorini longer; I’d have happily eaten at that taverna every night for weeks.

When I’d planned the trip, everything I read about Santorini mentioned the sunset to end all sunsets at Oia, which is a tiny town perched on the northern point of Santorini’s crescent. With only twenty-four hours on the island, I’d added the Oia sunset to my list, and when I mentioned it to Demetri, he kindly wrote down directions – in Greek and English. Smart.

Armed with my mud map and a full belly, I set off from the taverna to find the local bus station and the bus to Oia. It wasn’t difficult – Demetri’s instructions were spot-on – but to call it a bus station would have been generous. It was basically a square filled with dusty buses.

I bought a ticket – by holding up one finger and saying ‘Oia’ – from a man who sat inside a grubby booth. He had a cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth, which he managed to inhale from without using his hands. Talented. I picked my bus out of the line-up – using Demetri’s directions again – and climbed aboard.

As I waited for the bus to leave, I watched the stream of people passing through the square. I noticed a tall guy in a baseball cap hefting a large duffel bag and trying to get directions from the passing locals. American. I could pick an American out at a hundred paces. He was a pretty cute American too.

He was tall – over six foot, I guessed – and dressed in long shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was fitted just enough that I could see he had a lean, muscular body. Dark brown curls peeked out from the cap, and although he was wearing sunglasses and I couldn’t see his eyes, he had a general ‘good-looking’ thing going on. I would have stepped off the bus to help him, but I’d already bought a bus ticket to take in the sunset to end all sunsets. Not that I knew my way around any better than he seemed to, but he looked like he could use a friendly face. No one was stopping, and he seemed to be getting increasingly frustrated.

As I was contemplating my next move, the bus lurched forward – I hadn’t even noticed the driver get on – and my last glimpse of the tall, cute American was him throwing his duffel on the ground and sitting on it dejectedly. Poor guy. I promised myself that if he was still there when I got back, I’d go talk to him.

The bus stopped in the centre of Oia, where the smooth, curved walls of whitewashed houses contrasted with the rugged stone walls of others. Walkways and steps separated the homes, and the yards were marked with either rock walls or white picket fences. In the warm milky light, whitewash took on the colour of cream. It was a quaint and quintessentially Greek town.

I found a little spot to sit on one of the steps and gazed westward, taking it all in. The cooling evening air was deliciously fragrant, floral notes mixed with the sea. I took a slow, deep breath. Around me were hundreds of people, and the atmosphere was abuzz with chatter while we waited for the sun to set. Then in a single unspoken moment, the crowd quietened – it was time. The spectacle changed second by second, gold slipping into amber, then crimson, then inky purples and blues.

I could almost feel my heartbeat slowing down.

When the sun disappeared completely, and the last rays of light retreated, the crowd applauded as though we were at the symphony and the concerto had just ended. I clapped along with those around me. When in Santorini …

I wonder if Neil would have liked that, I thought.

Where the hell did that come from? All of the serenity I had felt as I watched the sun seep below the horizon vanished instantly. Bloody Neil. I got up, dusted myself off and followed the others up the steps and onto the road back to Santorini.

Thankfully, a bus was waiting at the same place we’d been dropped off, and I climbed aboard along with about eighty other people. No seat for me this time – it was standing room only – but the tightly packed group was in good spirits. As we jostled along the bumpy road back into Fira, I held on tightly to a handrail and tried to shake residual thoughts of Neil from my mind. To distract myself, I trained my ears to the conversations around me, listening to the various languages and accents.

I was glad when the bus depot appeared in the glow from the headlights. Exhaustion had set in – both physical and emotional – and I desperately wanted sleep. I stepped off the bus, oriented myself and set off for my hotel. And yes, I forgot all about the cute American.

Back in my room, I locked the door behind me, slipped off my already travel-worn clothes and put on my pyjamas. To shake off the lingering thoughts of Neil, I focused instead on the next day, the day I’d start the sailing trip, and damn it if those wretched nerves didn’t come flooding back.

What if I don’t like anyone on the trip? What if they don’t like me? What if this whole thing is a complete disaster?

‘Shut up, Sarah,’ I said aloud. I was annoyed with myself. I’d had a good dinner, seen a nice sunset, and suddenly random thoughts of doom and gloom were sending me into a spiral. I had to change tack.

‘You need to get organised,’ I told myself. I knew if I put things in order, I’d exorcise the demon nerves. It was my tried and tested method of crisis management, particularly if the crisis was all in my head.

Except that when I emptied my handbag out onto my bed, I made a sickening discovery. My wallet was gone. I frantically ran my hand around the inside of the bag, but it was definitely empty. I sifted through all the things on the bed – hat, notebook, pen, camera, lip balm. No wallet. It was gone.

I took myself back through the previous couple of hours. I had it at the taverna, because I paid for dinner. Maybe I left it there? No, because I also paid for the bus ticket and that was after dinner. Did I remember putting my wallet back in my bag? Yes. Did I have it when I took my camera out of my bag in Oia? I think I remember seeing it then.

That meant I’d lost it on the bus ride back. But I hadn’t taken it out of my bag. I hadn’t even opened my bag. Oh my god! Someone stole my wallet from my handbag. While it was on my back! The panic kicked in, and I burst into tears. ‘Fuck!’

Realising I was wringing my hands, I stopped and shook them out. ‘Okay, think, Sarah. What was in the wallet? What do you need to do?’ I willed myself to breathe, slowly, consciously, in and out. I stood in the middle of my room and closed my eyes. The safe! Of course, I had put valuables in the safe before I went out. I rushed to open it.

I took out a credit card, a wad of cash and – thank god – my passport. So, I’d lost my other credit card, about twenty euros and my driver’s licence. ‘Shit.’ I was going to need my driver’s licence to rent scooters on the islands. Well, maybe they would let me rent one with my passport. It was Greece after all, and they weren’t exactly sticklers for that sort of thing. At least the thief hadn’t got my passport.

I tried to remember who was around me on the bus, but I hadn’t registered any faces. We’d been packed in there so tightly, and I’d watched out the front window most of the trip. I sighed and sat on the bed. I needed to call my bank in Australia and cancel the credit card. Even though my room smelled like a toilet, at least it had a phone.

After two aborted attempts to get the international operator to put through a collect call to my bank, I finally spoke to a person who could cancel the card and send me a replacement – to London, where I wouldn’t be until most of my travelling was over. At least that was something, I supposed. I did have my back-up credit card, the one with the ridiculously exorbitant fees for taking out cash and spending in foreign currencies, but at least I wasn’t completely stranded.

I hung up the phone and stretched out on my bed. Exhaustion had devolved into full-blown fatigue. I flicked off the lamp, but my mind was on high alert. I wanted to sleep, but instead I lay there for a long time wondering what else could go wrong. The travel curse had struck again.

*

I woke with a start, not knowing where I was, and smacked the crap out of my travel alarm to shut it up. I looked around the room and recognition seeped into my fuzzy mind – I was in Santorini. I smiled. Then I remembered I had been robbed the night before. The smile vanished.

It had been a restless night. Falling asleep had taken forever. And then there was the nightmare. I was lying in my bed in Sydney in the middle of the night and backpackers were robbing my flat while I pretended to be asleep. No prizes for guessing why I dreamed that.

Dread washed over me as I recalled the moment I’d emptied my bag onto my bed the night before. ‘Oh, Sarah!’ I admonished myself, again out loud. ‘Put your big-girl knickers on and get over it. Everything is going to be fine!’

Surprisingly, giving myself a good talking-to was actually effective. Ignoring the fact that I was now talking to myself on a regular basis, I threw back the covers, showered in my smelly bathroom, and got dressed in a flowery blue and white skirt and a white cotton top with spaghetti straps. I had a big day ahead of me and some bad luck to turn around, and I wanted to look good. And, the better I looked, the better I felt. What is it they say? Fake it ’til you make it?

I tried to make some sense of the mass of curls on my head, but they refused to behave. Sometimes my curls want their own way, and sometimes I have to let them have it. I opted for what I hoped was a sexy-messy ponytail, then looked in the mirror and told myself everything was going to be fine. I’d spend the morning sightseeing, have something to eat, and then meet up with the people from the sailing trip in the afternoon.