Santorini (Thira)

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Amongst the ruins we tramped. The occasional tree blocked the sun momentarily. Our feet stirred up a fine, choking dust. The hot, still air let the dust hang there for a moment. Then, if it didn't reach the back of your throat, it lodged in between teeth. I wondered if Santorini would be like Rome.

Looking out the Aegean Air jet, doing a flyby of this Waiheke-sized island (pop 12,000 + tourists), the prerequisite barren hillsides under clear skies were getting their late afternoon respite from the sun.
The jet lowered and turned back for the final approach. We sunk lower and lower towards the deep navy sea, a brief flash of cobalt blue and rocks, then the black runway cutting through tan fields.
A short taxi and we were out on the tarmac. It was 6 pm and the sun was going down.
Warm, dry breaths of wind cuffed us as we got into the bus for a ludicrous 150m trip to the terminal.

Collecting our bags we trundled out to the pickup area and waited for Stelios our hotelier.
Soon a Mitsubishi van, like the one friends of ours had growing-up squealed around the bend.
A man waved. With one hand he took Michelle's bag and shook mine with the other. “Hello, I'm Stelios”. It seemed odd. All this time travelling. No one had shook my hand. But here on Santorini I would be shaking many hands.
We sat in the back as the van made it's way up into the island. His daughter had come for the ride. She sat up front playing some game on her cellphone. Occasional interrogatives would grunt out between father & daughter. He asked us where we were from. New Zealand we replied.
“Ahh very far away, further than Australia”. Remembering that tons of Aussies are but a couple of generations removed from Grecian roots, the comparison worked well.

The shadows were lengthening over the white, sugarcube houses as the van reached the crest of the long road winding up the hillside. The narrow road was shared by big 20 ton trucks, mopeds, quad bikes, taxis and utes. There before us for a moment flashed the sun bouncing off the sea at the base of the caldera 1000 feet straight down. Stelios whistled to a hand-puppeted plumetting motion.
At crossroads we flew straight across, up another twisting road.
Soon we crested again but kept going down. Either side of the road was bordered by rock gardens choked with weeds. The clumps of buildings gradually coalesed into a town with the sea straight ahead. The light lay gold in front of the houses as the sun itself faded orange.The sea's blue, horizontal line getting larger. A donkey & her foal grazed on hay in their pen behind the first proper trees we'd seen.

Narrow alleys cut over the narrow road. Scooters and cars ducked out of the alleys adding to the growing traffic. Impossibly big tour buses would stop everything going both ways, then slowly lumber away, releasing the procession again. We turned into one of the alleys. Passed a derelict house, the bare concrete pillars sprouting reinforced steel rods, twisted and buckled.
Stelios hauled the van into a driveway. The clattering diesel van went quiet and the sudden silence almost remained if it were not for the subtle hum of a pool pump.
The hotel, stuccoed white, sat beneath a looming, craggy hill with a solitary house hanging halfway up in it's own pool of light. The sun was gone. People drank around the glowing pool, Russian voices murmuring at each other.

Our room. Small with a squeaky bed, but mercifully airconditioned. After Rome it was paradise.
Hungry by now we walked back down the alley, turning right down to the beach. On the van ride, a meaty, barbecued smell had wafted in the windows. “What is that smell Stelios?”. “Souvlaki”.
A tepid gust blew up the street carrying the smell to us again. Turning a final corner we were on Perissa Beach. Across the road running the entire beachfront was the gravel beach and it's dead calm water. Deckchairs with sun umbrellas lined the boardwalks lying there as if they were hardwired into the roadside like a giant circuit board.

A row of restaurants stretched in both directions. It was about 7.30pm and hardly anyone was dining. We couldn't discriminate the good from the bad using our formula. They all had large english signs. One restaurant perched over the beach open to the elements save for straw roof caught our attention. It's blue & white livery the sole deciding factor. The colours of the Greek flag.
We sat down, one other couple sat opposite us. The woman ordered Sangria, her robust frame accentuating her Cork accent. The solitary waiter arrived. Nick asked us where we were from. “New Zealand”. “Ahh, very far away!”. Yes, indeed. He asked us where we'd come from. Michelle said Rome. Nick didn't need any prompting. “Rome! Very touristy, yes?” As he placed laminated menus complete with Yorkshire Pudding on our table.

The menu was easy to use. Accompanying each category of food were pictures to guide us. Nick the waiter was a helpful sort. He steered me clear of the octopus, it was frozen. But it left me wondering what else was processed to buggery.
I prodded at a couple of good looking pictures. The result was mixed.
Hunger aids food fantasies. I imagined my souvlaki to be an aromatic, light & spicy affair. The meat was dry and the pita a little old. The good thing about souvlaki is you can drown everything in hummus & yoghurt. The calamari was light and had that bouncy, freshness that falls on the good side of rubbery. Michelle's sardines were fishy and lacked the fresh tang of a proper charcoal bbq.
The meal was ok, now we had a reference point for the island food.
Apart from Nick the waiter and the Irish couple no one else but a scrawny stray cat begging for food came in. Michelle fed it sardines, it tried it's luck with Cork woman. She batted the cat off the windowsill it panhandled from, annoyed at the interruption she returned to drinking her Sangria.
The irrespressible cat picked itself up from the beach below and returned for more sardines from Michelle.

Next morning we had work to do. We had no flight booked to get off the island.
Months ago we'd casually decided to take the long, relaxing way back to Athens on the fast ferry.
Neither of us had looked at the timetable. As I sat in the internet cafe doing the belated research on ferries I found out a couple of things.
Santorini may be the size of Waiheke, but judging by the 45 minute flight here from Athens, it wasn't going to be a 30 minute boat trip. More like overnight.
None of the ferry sailings were going to get us back in time for our flight to Dubai.
That's ok. We'll fly. On the day we planned to leave Santorini there were about 5 flights back in time for the connection to Dubai. There were only 2 seats left on the 6.45am departure. At 125.00 Euro's per seat (that's NZD$250 each!). So much for it being shoulder season.

I have this unpleasant character trait of blaming others. Now, seething inside at Michelle I made my way back to the hotel with gritted teeth. 'No I will not take it out on her. I could have done more myself to avert this sort of thing'. I recited to myself.
I can't remember my exact words when I told her. But, she bolt-upright, finished her breakfast in record time and we were out the door. A more direct approach was needed to secure a more humane flight time. We had to try.
First of all we had to sort out transport to get around the island. Imagine a sickle on it's side with the handle at the bottom.
Perissa Beach lies close to the bottom, outside curve of the sickle's blade. The main drag, Fira, which overlooks the Caldera sits right in the middle of the cutting edge, about 10km away from Perissa. The bus service is hampered by the traffic on the narrow roads, car's have to find somewhere to park and riding a bike invites maiming by motorists.
Loads of scooters & quad bikes zipped around. I have a Vespa back home and it wouldn't be too much of a scare renting one.
Just down the alley from Stelios Place was a long row of machines for rent.
Nick the Greek, yes that was his name. Who had a striking resemblence to a Troll Doll (see reference picture) except he wore a singlet, shorts and jandals, eagerly shot his hand out to shake mine.
“Where you from”. “New Zealand”. “Ahh, very close to Australia”. Yes that's right. Now that we'd gotten the ritual out of the way Nick got down to business.

The quad bikes looked nice and comfortable for two people.
Unlike the airlines who seemed to limit supply very well. Nick the Greek had lots of competition, there was a glut of rentals it seemed. “how long you want bike?”. “3 days”. “Ok, 45 euro's”.
It turned out to be 60 euro's by the time we accepted Nick's kindly offer of 'Tyre insurance', but we were very happy. “You fill with gas!” Nick harumphed. No problem I said; There was a gas station just up the road. In no time we zoomed-off on our bright red, bulbous tyred, off-road machine.
Actually, it was a pig to drive as the tyres were underinflated and going uphill it had the sole advantage over a donkey of not killing you by smell.
So we set off, back up the long hill, over the crest and down to the airport to try our luck with buying tickets over the counter. Optimism filled my heart. For no reason the bike started cutting out. I checked the gas, it looked fine. Lot's of gas sloshing around the tank. After stopping for a minute on the flat the quad 'roared' back to life. Now, back to the idyll. The sky was fresh, clear and deep blue. A dry heat roiled up with the breeze as we drove along following a long line of traffic.

Winding our way down the other side I wrestled with the steering. You had to exaggerate turning the handlebars to get any change of direction and the tyres seemed to sag out from under the rims.
It felt like walking round on legs that had gone to sleep. After negotiating the dead-leg slalom we arrived at the airport. At the Aegean Air desk sat a woman behind a glass partition sternly reading something. Smoke curled up, out the partition in the glass. “Yes, can I help you?”. I explained our situation, she grimaced, took a pull from her fag in the ashtray and said “Only 2 seats left, sorry. You can go standby if you like”. There was already a massive queue building, overflowing outside for a departing flight. Standby would kill us.
We left the counter 50% less hopeful of finding a decent solution. We could still double-check at the ferry office in Fira about the sailing times. Maybe their website was wrong or incomplete?
Back on the quad, we droned back up the hill, then sputtered and stopped once or twice. I'd be taking this Grecian chariot back once we'd sorted out Travelgate.

No, the ferry sailings were correct. It'd have to be the flight. Scalped tickets to the Led Zepplin reunion concert would've been cheaper. But we still would've had to fly there.
As much as it was the cost that annoyed me, it was the inconvenient time that prevented us from enjoying our last night. We'd splashed-out on the honeymoon suite. For one night only we'd have a cavernous room, complete with spa pool & a stunning view right over the Caldera. It'd cost double what the 4 nights at Stelio's Place had cost. We considered cancelling and taking the overnight ferry but the hotel had already taken the money off our credit card.

There was nothing for it. We just had to accept it and move on. By now we were crawling up another hill when the quad bike cut-out again. The last couple of times simply stopping on a level surface got it going again. No such luck. Then it dawned on me.
Twisting off the gas cap I found the tank bone-dry.

By now I was quite unpleasant to be around. I have no game face, no buddha calm emanates when I'm angry. A couple of years ago I decided if I was going to be angry, I'll be angry.
Michelle wanted to be dropped-off back at the hotel. She didn't want to be the target of my resentment but was stuck here with me pushing a quad bike up the hill. The top of the hill signalled another, longer one. This one gave motorists time to slow down and gawk at the hapless tourists getting a workout. One of the great things about travel is no one knows you but yourselves.
Finally, the gradient changed and in our bobsled stances, peering over the handlebars we saw flat tarmac. Michelle hopped on. Locals now had the sight of an angry woman sitting on a quad bike being pushed by an angrier man looking like an over-heated jaffa, his bright red helmet still on.
I was about to explode, a gas station hove into view. Michelle coasted in with Moi trotting behind.
A man stood at the pump, eyebrow raised. “Fill!” I commanded and we never came near empty for the rest of our stay.

Sitting there, sulking in the sun. Both of us hungry we ate in a patio restaurant in silence.
Everyone has feelings and my silent scorn just wouldn't go away. At times like these I'm like some sort of angry magnet repulsing people and inside I'm the baddest man on the face of the earth.
Michelle made a concilitory gesture. Resting her hand on mine. I did the opposite of the right thing and told her exactly what I thought of her holiday planning. She accurately pointed out my part in it all and the standoff resumed. You've got to go through things rather than around them. Round 2, more silence and something just gave. We talked some more, kissed and made up.

The day needed rescuing. We still had the afternoon to unwind from our morning from hell.
Consulting a map we found the way to Red Beach. Back on the quad bike we hurried downhill to the bottom outside point of the sickle. Once again we passed the walled-off fields seemingly choked with weeds. They turned out to be caper berry bushes. So now you know where capers come from, well some of them at least. I was confused by the roadsigns which had traditional Greek character names (a bit like Cyrillic Russian) at the top and english translations which may or may not be phonetic sitting below. Michelle, feeling the hesitant deceleration would yell in my ear, ordering left, right or straight ahead. Santorini isn't even the correct name for the island. It's Italian, the Greek name is Thira.

Turning left, we snaked down a narrowing road lined with caper fields into a cleft which opened onto a fishing village, blue & white boats bobbing at anchor. Parking-up with a bunch of other bikes we negotiated a scoria path, over a headland, down around a bit and landed on Mars.
Red Beach isn't named after communist sunbathers. They were all shot in the 50's.
Around 3,600 years ago the Minoan's got a rather rude shock when the middle of the island erupted. Erupted is a bit of a dry understatement.
The Minoan civilization was wiped-out in minutes. The explosion was so powerful that rock from Santorini came crashing down in Crete, 110km to the south.
Today we can thank volcanism for an astounding 12 x 7km lagoon with 300m cliffs on that form the blade of the sickle. Also known as the Caldera. Red Beach is a short, narrow beach clinging to an eroded red scoria cliff. The rusty red scoria giving way to fine black pebble sinking into crystal clear Aegean seawater. We mingled with day trippers from the half-dozen cruise ships moored in the Caldera. Ownership rules are a little different here it seems. No Queens Chain applies on the beach. Deckchairs cram every usuable square metre, people paying 6 euros for the priviledge of comfortable bathing and shade. Maybe they do need some Communists after all.
After chasing windmills in the morning, taking a dip washed away the remnant of ill feelings.
Although it's wise to buy booties for the pebble & rock beach we discovered. We left Red Beach in
a better state than we arrived in.

Night time on Santorini without the peak season crowd is a relaxed experience. Nana & Papa Maude retire early for some TV viewing and a good book. Sometimes I'd sit at the outside table on our deck and write this blog. Apart from the wind through the palms & the whir of my laptop it remained quiet. I think Stelios' business plan relied on guests buying his breakfast & drinking his booze. We were hardly model customers, staying in our room eating our supermarket purchased breakfast cereal from our travel plates. We even had a fold-up fridge bag for cold Coke's.
Some of the guests never left the poolside. Perissa Beach had warm water and sun. But the ancient lava on the beach proved slick with sea slime and the wind gusted up in the afternoons.
I was happy enough on a deckchair by the sea, watching Germans step into the sea with the care of first time iceskaters. We had taken the quad bike down the beach half a km or so and stopped by a collection of attractive looking deckchairs with thatched umbrellas. An African looking man stepped forward and said “Please, use deckchairs. No fee.” Palm outstretched, he turned around facing a beach bar. “But please, if you need drinks or food. Come here to me”.
It was September, businesses were starting to scrape for customers on the near deserted beach.
We liked his style. I felt guilty about the cold drinks we'd brought with us. We promised each other we'd get lunch there.

Here we were, on the other side of the world. Michelle had nodded off, asleep under her beachtowel in the warm breeze. Now here I was alone again, looking out to sea feeling wondrous. A cotton wool haze hung above the horizon. Between the blue sky and deep blue sea a solitary island, dark and smudgy in the distance put it all into perspective.
I remember years ago, sitting on Karekare beach, alone by a campfire. A jumbo from Auckland Airport howling over me, disappearing out to sea in the darkness. Going someplace, whilst I lay there incapable of going anywhere but down.
But it's alright now, finally seeing what's on the other side of the world.

Michelle got a bit beached-out and went back to our hotel for a lie-down. Feeling a bit restless myself, I took the quad bike and went on a tiki tour of Perissa town.
Alleys connect with side-alleys and before I knew it I was happily lost inside the town. Everywhere you looked there was a building site. Either abandoned or half-finished but showing signs of activity. We never got to the bottom of what people do on the off season. The brisk November/September wind we felt on the beach picks up into a sometimes gale force wind late November. By January the temperature can drop to 10 degrees.
So here's what I think happens...All these abandoned building sites come back to life. Slowly, every winter, stuff gets down around here. Nick the Greek, who is Nick the Quad Bike Guy in summer becomes Nick the Builder.

I'd been following a road up and up. It started off with a narrow 2 lane, the houses were modern, square blocks. Then it became a one-way and the buildings now became squatter and more colourful. Whites, blues a dash of pink and orange. They looked like Yoda's summer residence.
Then the road became a path, steadily becoming steeper as the pavement gave way to cobblestones and finally loose rock. By now I was hemmed in by 8 foot high stone walls on both sides. Overhead sad looking arches buttressed the meandering path.
I was close to the top of a narrow valley, it was really a gorge. But I saw no river. It was dusty, bone-dry. The walls had decaying gates hanging on buckled hinges.
The quad bike couldn't go any further. So I killed the ignition; The only thing between me and perfect silence were the cicadas thrumming under the hot sun.
I had found my own genuine abandoned ruins. For the next hour I walked around taking photos like I was back on a 7th form photography field trip. If any desperate art students out there need loads of rustic stock shots. I'm your man.*

Red Beach would remain unillustrated unless we went back. I'd gone on photo strike but was now back into playing photographer. No problem, lets go back. A quick look at a map of the island painted on the side of a cafe piqued our interest. Just around from Red Beach was White Beach.
Stopping for directions at a hamlet along the way, the first Greek we accosted spoke no English. She turned away from our burbling quadbike on the curbside and went into a corner store.
Out came a grizzled old man with a snow white moustache. He asked us where we where from. “New Zilland” we chorused. “Ah, I know Lyttelton, Wellington & Auckland! Very nice place!” He was a retired merchant seaman. “You retire here?” I asked. “Yes! Only place I can afford” he guffawed cheerfully. He gave us directions and off we roared.
Back at Red Beach I got my snaps then we went back to the fishing village and just made the boat to White Beach.

Anthony Quinn and his geriatric team of commandoes loaded us onto the boat. Navaronne must be close by. No seriously, this guy was a spitting image. Was Mr Quinn really a Greek, with an Irish name? The converted fishing boat put-puttered round the bay, past Red Beach, between some rocks and turned into a much smaller cove. Which fittingly enough was chalk white.
The boat's prow met a man who'd waded out and down went the boarding ladder.
Then we were ordered to slide into the waist deep water. A panicked rearrangement of electronic gear prevented my camera and phone from a salty wet death but my wallet didn't make it.
The going rate at White Beach for furniture was 4 euros each. This time we'd come prepared.
Beach booties and cold, cold drink plus this little gem of a beach. Almost Paradise.

Now's a good time to mention my beloved hat....
The carefully picked-out, expensive Equadorian Panama hat I'd come to love since purchasing in Venice. The hat I had taken strenuous efforts to keep. I'd found a haberdashery shop in Rome and had sewn in a velcro loop to hook it onto my backpack when not being used.
On our way we'd stopped at a shop on the Perissa beachfront to buy some booties. I'd left my hat secured down on the quad bike's rear railing. It had stayed put even at 50kph on the road. Safe enough you'd think. We came back out from the shop. It was gone.
Gone! Worst case scenario Simon kicked-in. Some thieving tourist on their last day had walked-by and nicked it. They were probably wearing it on the bus to the airport as I seethed.
A couple of laps up and down the beach failed to locate my hat and said millinary thief.
So with resignation we abandoned the hunt and headed to the beach.
Maybe he'll be going to Red Beach?!
Like George Bush I feel underestimated. Unlike him I know how to write my phone number and email address. Michelle had mocked me for writing my cellphone number (complete with international calling prefix) AND email address inside the hat.
My SMS beeped! I grabbed the phone, there it was. A message saying my hat was found!
Michelle pre-empted “Go on, say it”. I grunted “What?...oh yeah”. Then heartily I roared “I TOLD YOU SO!”
It wasn't over yet though. The message read, 'Hi Simon! Found your hat at Perissa. Want it back?'
Of course I did! Politely I replied, 'Yes please'. Was this a ransom text?
No, just as second language speakers can appear rude, they can also threaten if subtlety is missing.
It was fine. The mystery caller left the details of the shop he left it at and that was that.
Now that the imaginary thief had parted along with my paranoia, I sat back and enjoyed the glorious day.

Our last night in Perissa we went to a restaurant referenced in the Lonely Planet. Good things had been said about the food here. Lava Taverna served traditional Greek islands cuisine.
Great! The waiter beckoned me to the back of the restaurant. Displayed in bain maries behind a glass counter was the food. Dennys on the beach? No way. That's in horror, not amazement; I might add. For once my lack of shame deserted me, we were in too deep to leave now so I ordered for Michelle too, waiting expectently back at the table.
The stuffed peppers, meatballs, roast chicken & mince-topped aubergine arrived one after the other.
Delicious, hearty, good food it was. How wrong could I have been. Shame sometimes has it's place.

Next morning after packing and going down to do emails we returned to Stelios Place for our free airport transfer. Lucky he wasn't talking to his daughter. I'd asked her if we could transfer to the Aroma Suites. No, only the airport was her answer. I'd rung ahead and asked The Aroma Suites if they'd pick us up from Perissa. No they said. Only from the airport it turned out. We were fuming. This place was costing us a bomb for one night and they wouldn't drive 5 minutes further to pick us up?
I had no idea how much a cab would cost. Instead of checking we decided to engage in some justified subterfuge. We'd get Stelios to drop us off at the airport for our 'flight'. The Aroma Suites could pick us up from the airport. Then it got tricky, Stelios asked me what time our flight was. The time was 10am , I said 12noon. Eyebrows raised, he said we had to wait until 11.00 and go with a nother couple he was dropping off. On the uncomfortable van ride to the airport he started quizzing Michelle about our flight schedule. I desperately dreampt-up a conversation killer like “I have bad Turkish herpes” but the Germans butted-in and we were saved.
Minutes after being dropped-off another van arrived to take us to The Aroma Suites. The charade this time centred around us pretending we'd never set-foot on Santorini. Somehow we talked the driver out of hiring us another vehicle to see the island.

Paying for stuff, expensive stuff creates expectations. As we skipped down the gray steps amidst the polar white, square, igloo-topped buildings the beauty of the Fira village was self-evident.
Our Honeymoon Suite was going to be a treat. Not so fast.
For starters we had a shared balcony. No romantic, sunset cuddles free to talk in revoltingly cutesy-wootsey tones to each other. Smokers had last used the room, the minibar had generic cola instead of real Coke! But worst of all, the only satellite TV channels we could watch were middle-eastern.
Every decent western channel had big fat $$$ signs next to it. The DVD player made a clattering sound when I tried playing Zorba the Greek. Starring...you guessed it...Anthony Quinn....whose actually a Mexican by birth and had an Irish father.
All the staff had left for siesta.
Nevermind, all you really need in here is each other, the whirlpool bath & candlelit music.
There were no matches to light the candles with. After a fruitless search I went and found a proper hotel who freely gave me boxes of matches. Returning, I lit the candles then threw the logo-embossed hotel matches around the room. I wonder if they do hints here? No, sorry. That service is extra.
By now we were getting hungry. We were right in the epicentre of Santorini looking for a restaurant the hotel had recommended. Epicentre - Not really a word they like around here. In 1956 an earthquake devastated Santorini, levelling most buildings and killing hundreds. So although the island is ancient, the buildings are not. This is a good thing. Around the Caldera, hanging onto the edges, just above the sheer drop are these fine Art Deco-ish houses. The churches a stunning combination of circle and square. Zig zagging it's way down to the port below is a donkey track. Dozens of donkeys led by stubborn old men dressed in clothcaps, leather jerkins and corduory lead. Their smell proceeds them. Once we got too close to a group of old men. They demanded we ride donkeys. We laughed defensively, they spat back Greek swear words as we retreated.
After finding the restaurant and eating a fine meal we retired to our room for a jacuzzi.

It's compulsory in a WWII submarine movie to feature a scene where desperate submariners wrestle with valves and pipes. Trying to stop the torrents of water from burst pipes and a cracked hull from sending them to the bottom.
After waiting ages for the jacuzzi to fill I discovered that the plug was half in. No problem, I'll close it with my heel. It quickly filled above the water jets, ready to use. But the water was cold by now.
I couldn't drain it because the plug was well and truly stuck closed.
Michelle has a very narrow operating temperature and she promptly returned to bed to read a book.
I tried the reception desk again. An old man with no english sat there. I sign languaged 'broken jacuzzi, please come and help'. He seemed to understand. He inspected the plug and mimed telephone; Coming back minutes later he jimmied-out the plug and I shook his hand. He was a cheeful old chap. We now got into a mimed discussion about what all the different buttons did.
He (or was it me?) pressed a button just as the water drained down, over the water jets. With an urgent whine the pump water pump started up sending jets of water in all directions around the room. I jabbed the button repeatedly but it wouldn't cease. The foot of the bed got hit by a shot of water. The old man sprinted over to the fuseboard and plunged the room into darkness.
Slowly, experimenting with different switches the lights came back on revealing the extent of the flash flood.
Michelle, clutching her book, stifled laughter. I felt like jumping off the top of the Caldera.
The old man just smiled and left us to clean up. I found a couple of mops and toweled up the rest.
A cleaner showed-up about an hour later.

Taking refuge on the terrace we sat there drying out. Michelle had a book, mine was rubbish and my laptop was running out of battery. All the chicanery we'd employed that day bit us one last time. I'd left the universal adapter for the laptop at Stelios' Place.
There was no way I could return there to claim it after the wee fibs we'd told.
I'd wound myself up into an anxious wreck. Constantly fidgeting, I found it hard to sit still and left Michelle reading to go take some more photos. As I roamed along narrow footpaths jutting over cliffs I started to hear voices. Luckily it wasn't coming from within. Then, looking round I saw random people staring, fixated on a point just out of view. Like zombies. A railing was close by, I stuck my head over and there was a couple, exchanging vows, getting married overlooking the bay.
Seeing such a lovely sight snapped me completely out of feeling sorry for myself.

Thirasia, an island I omitted from the sickle analogy (it just wouldn't work with this minor island included) lies opposite Thira. Now the sun was setting, gracefully behind as we watched from high up on the caldera. Some time ago, the island wasn't there. It was actually part of the caldera but seismic/volcanic activity collapsed part of the ring. We hadn't made it there or to Nea Kameni, the volcano in the middle of the caldera. The dormant volcano has hot springs.
As we watched the sun burn it's way thru the haze, down behind Thirasia. A procession of boats made there way ant-like, back to the cruise ships getting ready to set sail.
A jet wooshed by. Flying dead straight across the water, carrying people away, with a last pass at the island. The rumble and whine of the engines faded off to nothing.
I could hear a pulsing vein pass blood near my ear.
No traffic noise, burble of people, clink of glass nor flutter of birds. The stillness arrested all sound.
We'd come looking for something an this was it. A place so beautiful and quiet, that you could hear yourself think and the thoughts were nice ones at that.
Why worry about tomorrow when we could enjoy the night ahead?

6am, Santorini Airport. We're leaving. The island has been a fantastic experience, a lifesaver.
Even though at one point we felt like being at separate ends of the island from each other, we sorted it out and really came to love the place. Santorini is great value for money, the people are friendly. Their parochialism can get in the way of getting what you need though. Just make sure you book everything well in advance.
The flight back to Athens was on a plane twice as big as the Whisper Jet we'd flown in on but half-full. Would the flights at a later, more convenient time be just as empty?


*My 7th form art teacher hated my guts. Probably because I had no discernible talent and wasted most of the school's film stock. But hey, it's the digital age now!

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Photos

Caldera sunset
The view from our deck at Aroma Suites

Our balcony
Aroma Suites, overlooking the Caldera

Cactus
Perissa Beach in the background

Sunset
The view from our balcony at The Aroma Suites