A Constant State of Repose

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Whenever I think of the Greek Islands, apart from envisioning gay men writhing around on various Mykonos dance floors, and Australian Topdeckers singlehandedly keeping the economy afloat through alcohol and coconut oil consumption, I see those little white houses attached precariously to cliff faces, looking out over endless stretches of beach and the flat, sparkling Mediterranean Sea. Something like this: http://www.4321.co.il/greeceweddings/wedding-in-santorini.jpg

And so, when faced with the tough decision of what Greek island we would most like to visit, I based my vote almost entirely on those little white houses. It was My Greece, just like Granada was My Spain - I had to go to these places in my mind's eye, if for no other reason than to settle it with myself that they exist and are as beautiful as they are in travel magazines and my head.

We were staying in Perissa Beach, which is situated at the Southeastern part of the island. It is a black beach, thus the sand is mostly made of lava, and it stretches for nearly 7km, dotted with straw umbrellas and watched over by the massive Mesa Vouno, the site of ancient Thira. Our first introduction to this beach was when we passed out on the sunloungers at about 9am on the day we arrived. But first, let me take you back to Santorini Airport, 7am ...

We actually flew in closer to 6.30am, but had erroneously informed our shuttle bus it was 7.30. Cut to us waiting outside the airport, sitting on our bags, pale faced and desperate to close our eyes anywhere that wasn't the stone floor of Athens Airport. At 7.30am, Roberto roared into the carpark, manning the mini van like it was some sort of Aston Martin-esque vehicle, not a white 1994 mini van often seen at Catholic school events. He leapt out, threw our bags into the boot and then, in stilted English, proclaimed 'I be back. I need,' and he wielded his index finger in our face for emphasis, 'ONE coffee. Ok?'

Ok. We fell asleep sitting up in the back of the van.

And then we feel asleep on the sunloungers whilst waiting for our room to be ready.

And thus we were welcomed to Santorini. Wild driving, patent need for coffee (just one)and lying in the sun. A succinct summation of the lifestlye, if ever there was one. And, to be honest, nothing much changed. Wild driving continued on quad bikes (not ours, we appropriated them from our English friends) the patent need for coffee is a constant state for me, regardless of the city, and lying in the sun was only ever not happening if we were lying in bed, or lounging on our favourite couch at our favourite bar. In fact, I would hazard a guess I spent most of the week in some sort of reclining position, moving only to shove food in my face. And when I say shove food in my face, I mean consume some of the most delicious food in the world because, in my mind, Greek and Italian food are in a constant tussle for superiority in the food stakes. Greece also excels in the canned food department. Dolmades, giant beans, okra ... even moussaka (but I didn't go that far ... tempted as I was). Not to mention the non canned goods Greece also excels in (Leni and Jojo feel free to correct my spelling), fetta, loukumi, spanikopita (sold at the 24 hour bakery which was singlehandedly run by an octogenerian woman who, hair in a severe bun, permanently be-aproned, ran every store on the bloody island) halva, baklava, eggplant, taramasalata, tzatziki etc etc. Yes, this entire blog could very easily become about food.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, the beach (and me lying on it, having cocktails brought to me from the Beach Bar) from which we only moved to go to Dorian's pub for sweet red wine and then onto Fusion for cheap cocktails, where we befriended the owner and unofficially became spruikers for this fledgling bar. And when I say spruikers, I mean the main part of our job required sitting on the same couch every night and drinking until the early hours of the morning. So good were we at enticing people to this bar (and when I say enticing, I mean sitting and drinking) that a job was offered for next summer. Come and live in Santorini, there is a room above the bar for you, and we will pay you to stand outside and smile at people. And all drinks are free. Mum and Dad, if I disappear around next July, you know where to find me.

Fusion turned out to be a hotbed of social activity that week. It also introduced us to a vast and varied cast of colourful characters who border on fictional. There was Mark who we met one night sitting on the wall of someone's house. He not once dismounted his scooter, even when needing to minimalise the metre distance between us to shake hands ... he, instead, scooted over. The metre. On his scooter. There was Harry who genuinely did not speak one word of English, so opted for an eternally benevolent expression regardless of the conversation subject matter. The perpetually shirtless DJ who mistakenly invited me into his box to 'spin some records' ... an offer I, regretfully, didn't end up taking him up on. There was the owner, Allison, whose life is what Under The Tuscan Sun esque novels are made of; fed up with her dreary London life, one way ticket to Greece, meets Albanian lover in Athens (aforementioned DJ), opens bar in Santorini. It was also at Fusion that we encountered the dubious company of two Norweigans who consequently and indeed simultaneously, fell in love with Satie. She won them over with her sparkling wit and ability to conceal her repulsion at them smearing tobacco over their gums every fifteen minutes. Now, there are times when removing oneself from cloying conversations is nearly impossible. And, to her credit, Satie really did pull out all stops. However, it came to be that the most viable option was to simply find a new conversation circle to enter elsewhere in the bar, seeing as ours was proving impossible to enjoy and impossible to exit. Our knights in shining armour came in the form of an English family - Dad, his best mate Big Phil, and the three sons. The Norweigans joined in, leaving only when Krister literally couldn't see anymore. To this day, Satie shudders when her phone beeps, lest it should herald a lovelorn text from one of her two Scandinavian lovers.

And so Santorini passed on a Summer breeze, a haze of cocktails, black sand and sweet red wine. By day we lay sprawled on the beach sun loungers, by night we reclined on Fusion's loungers. Little bronzed children kicked the soccer ball in the street our balcony looked over, Roberto coaching his own little 3 year old bambino with the vigour reserved only for Europeans (Greeks no less) and football. Our hair became wild with saltwater and our skin got darker and darker until we blended in with the sand.

It was a little slice of heaven as Europe's autumn closed in on our Mediterranean Summer.