“For Your Appetites- It Is Good”

We did a thing and got married and that’s another whole story, but then we flew to Greece. A time warp if I’ve ever encountered one – mad dash from Eagle River back to Minneapolis and board a plane to cross the world. And then… un-board. Issues with the aircraft resulting in a ten-hour delay. Of course. Fast -forward through the longest airport happy hour I’ve ever logged, in and out of Netflix on our phones, drinks and apps, another show, another snack. We finally get a working plane and jet off to our honeymoon.

Hop a cab ride into Athens now 10 hours behind. Dionysus, our driver, not the God of wine, pinballs through traffic as if magnetic rails are suddenly altering his course toward a high score and speed limits are merely suggestions.

“Mind if I smoke?” He asks with a Greek accent.

He asks a lot of questions, we’re exhausted, especially after he asks one of our least favorites.

“Are you two sisters?”

I rally with a response. “No. We just got married,” I say with as much gusto as I can muster. I’m still chewing on that phrase out loud, rolling the unfamiliar word around my tongue.

“You surprise me!” He says incredulously. I guess we’re his first lesbians. I’ll be damned. His mythology lessons must’ve forgotten the Poet Sappho of the Island of Lesbos, who’s tales became a sapphic mecca for lesbians all over the world.

His shock resides and he grapples with this new development, he takes a few moments before he says;

“We have a saying in Greece, um how would you put it… ‘For your appetites- it is good.” In which I take to mean ‘Whatever floats your boat.’

This cab ride equates to a near death experience, a dissonant soundtrack of honking horns blaring until we roll up on the sidewalk, parked literally several feet up over the curb in front of our seven story Air-B&B. Dionysus grins and asks us when we need to be back at the airport to catch our puddle jumper to Santorini- he says he’ll be back in 3 days at 8 a.m. Unlikely he shows back up but I guess we’ll see.

But Anne’s pissed, I knew she was pissed in the car and as soon as he departs around the corner I get an earful about not telling strangers in cultures markedly different than our own that we’re married… it could be dangerous and she’s honestly not wrong. My instincts to trust in the world around me sometimes border on naivete, but Anne keeps me from going to far in any one direction and I push her to see outside the lines. This wife of mine and this partnership we’re only just beginning to understand.  

Walk through a dingy empty hall behind unremarkable glass doors, to our right are the stairs and to the left a small rectangular metal door. Push the handle in like an airplane bathroom stall and step into the most fantastically tiny, paradoxically charming & claustrophobic elevator I’ve encountered. A Willy Wonka elevator: it can go sideways and slantways, longways and backways… Okay it really just goes up and down and with a flourish I stab an index finger as button 7 lights up and away we go.

Floor seven- the second lock we encounter, Anne fiddles with the keys, gets through… emerge onto the rooftop patio…to an immediate third lock on the gated door. Open and pass through a final door, with a third and final key, into our apartment. Travel worn, dirty, 10 hours and half a day late; we have nothing but gratitude for the tiny little 4-walled box we’ve arrived at. Little boxes, on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky.

Dump our bags onto the couch which will transform into our bed and step out onto the rooftop patio, our own private side, overlooking the Acropolis. Crème colored faded-stucco buildings falling in and out of ruin, hammocks line rooftops and solar panels charge cell phones and Zeus’ lightning.

Shower, change, and wander out into the night a little zombie-like and overstimulated since we’ve been in travel-stasis-limbo for a day and a half. Anne always being the most prepared downloaded Google Maps and all its backing data before we left Minnesota so we can get by without Wi-Fi for the most part.

Walking city blocks, my kingdom for a pint. Taking it all in, jet lag adds to the dream-like quality of the day. Then lo and behold, printed in neon in plain English “Greek Pub”. 8 p.m., quiet Tuesday evening, spare tables and acrid smoke from hand-rolled European slims, hangs in the air, young people speaking different languages – some I recognize and others I do not. Older folks let the silence rest with the weight of familiar acquaintance.

Bottle of cab, breaded zucchini balls, meatballs, olive oil and balsamic drizzle, and everything with yogurt, welcome to Athens. We made it, we’re married, we’re on the other side of the world. How lucky are we. Eat and drink ourselves out of the travel weariness and settle into the Mediterranean air and a new life. Cheers darling.

We’ve drained the wine and I’ve got to pee. Climb a winding black staircase inside the restaurant and encounter my first Greek bathroom. Greek lesson #1; “DO NOT FLUSH TOILET PAPER”. Ancient plumbing for an ancient city which means your “shit rags” as Anne refers to them get put in small waste baskets to be removed later. Trading plumbing for this adventure is an easy sacrifice.

Pay our bill, drift back home along cobbled streets, bursting, beholden, teeming with stories of old and the night air and the endless possibility of it all.

7 more stories and 4 more locks, TV on and fall into our pullout and sleep dreamily through the twilight.

Wednesday: Fish Feet & ‘Strong Drinkers’

Wake up to our first real day and walk down the street to get teeny, tiny coffees. I feel like Alice after an “eat me” scone, my thumb & pointer finger giant on the little ceramic handle, the liquid within resembling baked mud at the bottom covered by two shots of dark liquid. “Filtered coffee” is the equivalent of American coffee & what we quickly learn how to order our caffeine here.

Keep up the pace, cobblestones & cats- cats on suitcases at small jewelry stands, cats on chairs within swanky alley eateries, felines wallpaper our surroundings and I’m not upset about it, albeit a little allergic. Weaving throughout the metro into an area with more walking streets and intersecting parks as we make our way to the electric bike tour we’ve signed up for this morning. Rendezvous at a small green space, situated between apartment buildings stacked above shops and small businesses accessible by small concrete stairwells set 4-5 steps deep into the ground.

Up & out of one set of these stairs comes our tour guide- Sotos. A tall & lanky Greek man appearing in his late 20s early 30s- personable and easygoing with our small group of four.

Fires up a quick tutorial on the bikes- it’s just Anne, myself, Maggie and Jeff, our North Carolina tour buddies. We each take a turn pedaling down the path between the park and the stacked apartments behind us to make sure we’re able-bodied bikers. All pass the test and fall in line behind Sotos, the path opens onto a well-traveled lane for 2 legs or 2 wheels, up and up and up.

I’ve never actually been on an electric bike and the first time I give it a bit of “gas” with my right thumb on the assist gear I’m slightly rocketed even going uphill. Barely touch the pedal and I’m practically flying. Regular bikes may never have the same draw after this.

We make our way steadily upward and after 15 minutes or so arrive at our first stop, The Hill of the Nymphs. Sotos is a lively storyteller, he recounts how on this hill of old once lay Zeus’ alter, and where Zeus came to pray t’was said the Nymphs would follow not far behind to honor the king of the Gods and dance naked in the moonlight.

“Two years I’ve been working this gig and it has been much different than the job description,” Sotos interjects his own story. “Two years and still I’ve seen no women dancing naked before me on the hill,” he grins and waves us on toward the next stop.

Pedal up and around the bend of the rocky rise- not a mountain but more than a hill. Levels out into a rock basin with a view of the Acropolis on our left and the “speaking stone” on our right. We’ve arrived at the “birthplace” of democracy, according to Sotos & Greek mythology. Democracy, he added with a caveat, “as long as you were rich, and male, and landowning.”

He says up to 5,000 Athenians gathered in this spot to reason with logic and pontificate at the Speaker’s Stone or “Orator’s Stone”. Counting votes cast in physical groups by ideology, gathered by principal, not elected nor represented, but physically standing to make their views known.

Sotos makes sure to mention that the Spartans shared no such love for debate and civil duty, disdain in his tone. Seems like the Spartans and Athenians have not wavered in their animosity these past 2,500 years.

Then we turn to the actual Acropolis- apparently all Grecian cities there had them back in the day. Acropolis simply meaning the highest peak of the land, but this was THE Acropolis, home to THE Parthenon, more on that later.

Saturate in the history, I’ve always loved mythology, take in the view then back on bikes, switch and zip and weave through pedestrians and on broken roads- bikes with a boost, 5 clicks for maximum assist and we’re back on the road.

Whizz by the Parliament House- Sotos explains that Greek men aged 18-27 are consigned to mandatory conscription. We pass such men guarding Parliament in what appears to be a service of State. Young men must be tall enough and of sure enough stature to fill out the uniform and duties, he adds. Fortuitous enough to stand guard for hours upon hours; I see them sweating through hot ceremonial uniforms with bayonets on standby for the honorary procession. I wonder what delegation has arrived to cause for such a display of pageantry.

Next, we head toward the Colosseum, or what’s left of it. The Roman Arch & ruins of Zeus’ Temple, juxtaposed against metal scaffolded pillars assisting 20-plus stone column-relics remain upright, their battle against time evident in every spiderwebbed crack. We watch as a single turtle makes relatively good time across the hot, wasteland-like sand & gravel surface behind the fence barring civilian access to the ruins, destination unknown.

Sotos weaves Greek tragedies into a steady narrative as we pedal along. He says the ancient Greeks, they had no aversion to ending their tales with despair unto the heroes & protagonists, as there were no fiery pits of hell nor pearly gates to heaven in their beliefs. There was only all souls’ eventual descent into in the Underworld, past Cerberus & his triple maws, a pool of souls floating in oblivion on the River Styx.

Finally, we’ve arrived back from whence we begun and it’s only 1 p.m. Sotos graciously provides us maps with hand-drawn instructions and places of interest circled vigorously in black pen: the shopping district, the best eating and drinking districts, where to see the sights. This tour was worth every euro.

Quick pitstop at a café with Wi-Fi, fire up Pokémon Go, order Calamari and a Greek Pilsner. Next up, the “fish spa”.

Leisurely stroll to destination, check in, drop clothes, don robes and into the steam room. Orange & ruby red sarongs. How do we tie these things? …Detox, let it go, soothing heat, but also, too hot. Cold-water rinse and relax in an exotic green room with flowers and ambient light filtering through bamboo roof-slats.

Then massages with fragrant oils on travel-sore bodies… awake to the sound of a gong and both admit we’d dozed off as we settle back into our senses and walk through the door to the lobby. It’s been a long 5 days, this getting married and all.

Before we go, we wash from the knee down in a basin, ridding ourselves of pungent oils, so as not to harm the fish that will nibble away the dead skin from our feet. The finishing touch of our spa treatment, apparently a Greek specialty. Not sure if we’re prepared for this experience but here goes dipped toes into separate, but side by side tanks. Dozens upon dozens of little minnows make quick work when we dip our feet into the busy waters. Anne can’t stop giggling, ticklish as they go to work on callouses & the like.

Then it’s time to wine & dine, but Penelope is late. Our food and wine tour guide went to the wrong fish feet place, apparently there’s a more famous one in the opposite direction, but no matter. Settle into dusk, feeling Zen. However, since we’re now on a different side of town than she would normally begin we find ourselves next to the wine bar- rather than the foodie-er district where the tour would normally begin with appetizers. We may live to regret this seemingly harmless choice.

The wine connoisseur, a dark-haired and tanned Greek man probably in his late 50s, greets and seats us at a small outside patio table, speaks quickly and familiarly with Penelope. I bet she brings people to his establishment three times a day.

5 wines devolve into 7-8 choicier samples and we’ve now had no food since breakfast. The dry pretzel rods and crispy breadsticks with the wine meant to cleanse our pallets do little to dull the tide between wines- dry whites, peculiar yet intoxicating orange rarities and sweet reds.

“Greek was only known for one cheap wine before the 1990s,” he explains. “your parents and grandparents would know this wine. Now, each region of Greece has a different terroir – or the minerality and subtleties of each region’s soil, altering the grapes slightly and affecting the final product with stark character differences.” He points to a mauve map with the Greek mainland and Isles behind him and identifies each region’s particular grapes.

Warm & rosy cheeks after sipping, we ready ourselves for the next stop.

“You’re good drinkers,” Penelope affirms with a nod of her head and a warm wave goodbye to the wine man. I can’t recall his name.

I’ve no real sense of direction but trust as we follow our guide toward now desperately needed food. Penelope keeps a quick pace through familiar street routes, dodging traffic on narrow sidewalks. End up in a slightly nicer, more concentrated dining and shopping area with open plazas between outdoor patios. Penelope walks directly up to the host of a particular place and they smile, exchange a few quick phrases and lead us directly back to an outdoor table with a beautiful view.

I can’t imagine how much business she must bring to this place weekly since they happily offered us our “A”-location table after calling and pushing back our reservation 3 times to extend the wine portion of the evening.

We’re famished, and tipsy. Eggplant and feta, warm gooey appetizer with spiced meats, cold lamb wrapped in olive oil grape leaves, rolled spiced mozz-like sticks or wontons but with unfamiliar texture and finally a white sugary paste on a stick, melts like mallow on my tongue, wash down with a shot like ouzo but clearer and more bite.

“You are strong drinkers,” Penelope affirms once again. We must be her first Midwesterners.

We’re now absolutely stuffed and too full for the main course and “last” stop, which was supposed to be food trucks with entrées and desserts scattered across a bustling market square lined with locals and visitors alike. We’ve paid for much more so when we decline the last stop Penelope insists on taking us to one more place and by now she’s figured out what we mostly care about is beer.

Another 10-15 minute foot trek and we end up on the small covered patio, with standing room for maybe 4 and 3 bar stools facing out from an open service window with hundreds of beers from all over the world. Eureka.

We order stouts and Belgian strong ales and pilsners and Greek Golden beers (some to keep capped and take home) as our voices carry into the street, cheeks ruddy and having the best time. I’m looking up again at the menu and of all the goddamned things to find… “Todd the Axeman” a Surly beer from MN… It’s a fine beer and all but of all the representation of Mid-American brews and Todd the Axeman is what they go with?? I read in small print that this beer was originally a collaboration with a brewer in Denmark, which is how it wiggled its way in here.

Penelope didn’t know we were paying her to pretty much just hang out with us, but we still feel like we got our money’s worth out of the tour. Despite our invitations that she stay a bit later she has to catch the last bus home. She seemed reluctant to leave our little makeshift adventure, but that could’ve been my wishful thinking.

Head back to our little Airbnb haven, Netflix with our haul of craft beverages for a bit and drift to sleep, a rooftop-view of Athens the last thing I see before I close my eyes.

Thursday: Acropolis & The Bad Tooth

Breakfast- We’re getting a little better at counting our euros correctly and ordering without incident. Steaming lattes with cinnamon and Greek hard meats with feta on fresh white hoagie rolls, avocado, spinach and icy cold waters. Sit on a concrete ledge and watch a bus play chicken with a garbage truck trying to pass and do its work on the same impossibly narrow road. The bus wins as the garbage truck backs out of its poor parallel-parking job and circles the block.

Make our way to the Acropolis of Athens, fork over 40 Euros at the gate. TBD if it’ll be worth the coin. Meanwhile, we’ve been searching for a “pillar for Anne to lean on,”; her mother has a picture of childhood Anne leaning against a Greek-like column so we’ve been searching for a recreation since we arrived. Climb up & up fractured, ancient marble stairs, pillars on either side of us.

“DO NOT TOUCH,” the signs all read… or lean. Foiled.

The last stair finally plateaus into rock & gravel and we step lightly onto this ancient citadel containing the remnants of the epicenter of an empire. Then we snap selfies alongside the other tourists. Worn foot trails lead through structures in varying degrees of dilapidation, yet staunchly refusing to fall. Stop in front of a square building- jutting exterior patio facing outward, four women chiseled delicately into the limestone, watching over this sacred space. They call this, the “Porch of the Maidens”.

Hike around the path and arrive at arguably the most recognizable Greek icon, the Parthenon. Massive rectangular hall, pillars cigarette-stain brown after nearly 2,500-plus years of standing sentry. This temple, dedicated to the Goddess Athena was the center of religious life and a beacon of wealth, power and sophisticated culture of Greece.

Most of the 34’ tall pillars are surrounded by metal support beams – as if the industrial age reached into a portal to pull the last remnants of the classical age of Greece from history to keep rooted in the 21^st century. Reminders of empires past – warnings & omens; the history we will repeat if we do not learn.

An olive tree, waxy-sage green & silver leaves, sacred symbol of Athena Goddess of War & Practical Reasoning, grows like a beacon at the base of a final building on the circuit. Not a grove but a single tree, a most resilient sentinel. Definitely worth the 40 euros, I think to myself as we head back down.

We’re starting to get hungry again but have done zero shopping for souvenirs thus far. We walked by several side streets earlier that seemed a mecca for touristy-shit so we turned back down those cobbled streets. We lose ourselves for two hours in this mayhem, I kid you not. Replica statues of Greek gods & goddesses, heroes & myths, line windows in every store; wooden, painted-penis bottle openers are another common trinket displayed. Patronizing American capitalism is what this is and we’re obviously buying right into it. We’re near committing each other’s homicides by the time we find a gift for every family member & friend and get the hell out of there.

We pass through a small market square where we hungrily inhale lamb souvlaki, marinated meat skewers, washed down with a European Pils on draught. Somewhere between eating and moving on we lose a scarf and new pair of sandals we had only just purchased. The scarf I had picked up for my mother was cheap, only 8 euros. Anne is pissed; her sandals were not cheap. Carry our remaining treasures back to the Airbnb and change into evening attire with long sleeves for slowly cooling temps. We Google “gay bars” and head back out into the crisp evening air with two queer-friendly establishments on the docket.

The “Rooster” is our first stop. I’ve had a lot of Greek food the last several days and need to take a break with some good old fashioned chicken tenders. And red wine. Super classy. Our table is one of a dozen or so nestled inside a very small grove of olive trees, ambient in a moonlit garden, like a scene from a movie. Except with more cats.

After dinner we hit up Bad Tooth- it’s not a gay bar but the internet says they’re gay friendly lol. Our kind of bar vibes: black walls and dark narrow hallway, stickers plastered onto every surface, opens up into a small stage and dance floor, bathroom upstairs, I trip and spill a ½ beer on the stairs and on my shirt. No matter, we’re in it and vibin’ in a new place where no one knows our names.

Speaking of stickers, we need some, and t-shirts, obviously. We grab two beers, 3 stickers and a graphic tee and head out into the small alleyway where three or four scattered patio tables line the area. Those are full so we find a tiny bench nearly off the property but close enough to sit and talk quietly in the evening low-lit dusk fading to true darkness. Flushed cheeks, heads bent toward each other, pretty in love in this freeze frame, making life plans and talking about all the things too bold for daylight or sobriety.

Last evening in Athens before we head to Santorini in the morning. And what have we done, where have we been, who are we now? Warm air puffs out of our cheeks with each word sending butterfly effects on the wind. Athens is graffiti and pigeons and a cradle of civilization with more stories than most and receipts after every single item ordered and where cats rest upon every surface claimed or otherwise.

Drift home like ghosts, ethereal and buoyant on our feet even after walking all day. Crack the last of our Greek craft beers on our private patio, not-so distant lights illuminating the Parthenon adding a glow to the skyline as Thursday abdicates with little protest into Friday and we finally tuck ourselves in. Seldom words exchanged for some moments need no narration.

Friday

Anne sleeps in too late, not my fault she turned off her alarm. I’m pretty much ready but she’s now in a mild crabby whirlwind gathering up her things. Dionysus shows up like a vision at 8 a.m. sharp and pulls his little Fiat onto the sidewalk, greets us with a big smile and gently puts our luggage in the back.

Asks if we need coffees, “Yes please.” as he parks along another sidewalk. Asks for our orders, “Lattes,” we reply.

“Laaattayys,” he rolls the unfamiliar word off his tongue several times, repeating it back to us to make sure he remembers the strange word. Comes back with two piping hot cups and we take the scenic route to the airport. He says he won’t charge us extra and we pay cash so he doesn’t turn the meter on until we’re about 20 minutes away.

Scenic route really means scenic route and as we drive along the coast he pulls off and takes a picture of us with the sea as a backdrop. We’re now running borderline late and hop out of the cab quickly when we finally pull up. We take his number down in case we need his services upon our return but this will end up being the last time we see our curious cab driver. Goodbye friend.

Security checks while I realize I’ve misplaced my airport neck pillow; I never could hold onto those things. Add it to the list of self-inflicted grievances and lost goods: scarf, sandals, plane pillow, mask, razer, toothbrush. The list so far.

Can’t forget to hunt for airport Pokémon, slumped up against white walls outside last minute souvenir impulse purchases. We’ve got WiFi and madly click and spin for rare regionals that we can’t get in the States.

At last, boarding all zones, 35 minutes in the air, a quick snooze and I wake up on the breathtaking Island of Santorini.

Anne planned for an ATV rental to pick us up from the airport and guide us to their shop where we would grab a quad of our own. Load up our luggage onto the 4-wheeler and our “chauffer” shuttles us about 15 minutes down the road. Download and pay for quick internet international licenses, sign our lives away and rollout onto the coastal highway toward our resort.

Anne again coming in clutch with downloaded Google Maps so we can navigate without data/internet. I hold her phone tightly in one hand with the other wrapped around her waist as we cruise at about 55-60 heading west from top to bottom along the perimeter of the island. According to the map should be an easy half circle to the resort in Oia (we’d picked up our mispronunciation quickly in Athens that it is pronounced “Eeya, not Oy-a”).

Well, it isn’t. We get nearer the tourist towns and shops and everything is absolute mayhem made of other ATV’s, tiny cars, dune buggies, donkey’s and pedestrian traffic. Small tour busses and large guide vans honk and fight for space as we travel up and up toward what we think is the last mile of road between us and our destination.

Completely lost approximately .5 miles away from where we need to be. One-ways, high-anxiety intersections; I finally hop off and ask a tour guide of all people, what we’re doing wrong… I can see him withholding exasperation as he slowly explains that you can’t enter the resort from this side of the highway. After all that we backtrack up and around the coast nearly to where we started, but at least we’re headed in the right direction.

But then we’re losing speed, engine sputters, and dies.

Barely roll into a dirt parking lot, do some investigating and seems like Anne accidentally left the parking brake on in all the earlier chaos of stopping and starting on steep hills. Whoops, disengage the brake, rev the engine and we’re moving again. Really feeling like tourists at this point. The Anemos Luxury Grand Resort in the distance is not unlike the holy grail after our day of trials and tribulations.

Park our ATV right outside the gate and front door, put the parking brake on, (we think). Press the small button outside the gate and get buzzed inside the blue doors against set against rose-blush walls, and drag our luggage to reception. We are hungry, we are hot, and we are absolutely done with anything with four wheels or two wings. A young receptionist greets us warmly and hand-circles spots on a colorful map and writes notes in the margins.

“Here is where you want to go for swimming nearby, the bay…Is that your ATV?” she trails off mid-sentence as we turn and watch through the lobby window as an ATV, our ATV, begins rolling slowly down the steep hill. We dart outside, by the good grace of Goddess Tyche- goddess of fortune & chance, the back tire catches against another 4-wheeler parked four feet further down the hill, saving it, and us, from imminent destruction. Strike TWO for us and off-road vehicles.

Crisis averted, back to check-in, fit the key into the lock of the door of our room, dump our luggage inside, freshen up a bit and hit the walking trail adjacent to our building. This path turns out to be the last .5 miles in the wrong direction that we see now why we couldn’t traverse: “pedestrians only”. All’s well that ends well and we head out into Santorini proper.

Mom & pop shops and cafes line the cobblestone street bordering the Caldera – shimmering like a vision – gradually transitioning into volcanic rock and then white-washed limestone houses, painted a dazzling bleached-white, reflecting the light of the sun away to keep cooler temperatures inside. Higher-end shops displaying wares and trinkets are interlaced between fine-dining and seaside patios overlooking the south Aegean sea. Grab a couple beers here and there and take in the striking view of the Caldera. Words here simply won’t do it justice, so I won’t bother trying.

We want to head back and shower and enjoy the pool before we get too far into the evening. So we walk back hand in hand, the sun still high in the sky.

Poolside naps- read & doze simultaneously, close eyes, book in hand baking in the sun under an unfamiliar hemisphere. Aegean Sea unmoved & unphased by the passing of hours or movement of the stars, nor the gaze of Helios, the solar Deity-God of the sun, shimmering and ageless.

Ok, okayyyy- wake up, pull sticky, hot, now patchwork-patterned skin off the soft charcoal grey pool pads. Rinse off and refresh, glistening from olive oil soaps, but I never really feel clean here…they use olive oil in everything and I can feel the slight oiliness in the sheen of my hair and rubbed over my skin.

Step out into the warm Greek September evening, dusk upon us, headed west into an island sunset… that we effectively miss, nearly 200 yards away from the dark shadows of people lining the horizon for the most picturesque view as the red-orange globe dips down below the horizon. At least the sun will assuredly set again tomorrow.

Time to wine & dine, our fancy Saturday evening dinner is set upon a terrace overlooking the Caldera that simply never stops sparkling no matter the hour.

Red wine and an overwhelming menu. Hmm – to be bold again in my choices after the failed grilled squid & feta fiasco or play it safe?

I must try again.

“Is this a type of whitefish or…?” I ask the server.

“All the fish in the Mediterranean are white fish, ma’am,” he replies with great patience.

“Oh, right” I reply and order a fish dish I can barely pronounce. Anne gets the lamb shank. We raise our glasses to a glorious evening.

The lamb is way too salty for Anne and I receive a whole ass fish- head, scales and all. The server asks if I’d like assistance with my fish… would I like it “opened up”. Umm yes please.

He seems almost surprised that my response is yes… do many tourists come here and know how to flay open their own dinner?? He waives over a young man with a large silver platter and tongs who proceeds to expertly separate the steaming white meat from the bone of the large fish in front of me after he chops the head & tail from the body with a resounding thud against the platter.

My fish is mouthwateringly good and our wine glasses are never empty and the evening is a fairy tale. Remember this feeling, looking at Anne across the table, with cats between my feet. In all of this I remember undeniably that she’s now my wife. I love you I love you I love you.

Settle up our tab and walk back down the footpath; quick stop at a convenience store as I’ve added toothbrush to the list of lost items this trip. Stroll and take the airs like a grand English courtier, amidst abandoned scooters, grizzled old stray dogs, and voices of giddy abandon carried up on the light breeze.

Goodnight Santorini, more stories to be made in the morning.

Saturday

Reception room breakfast buffet makes for an endearing little community affair. Anne fills her plate with fried eggs, toast, melon slices and black coffee in a small white mug. I take a few bites of an overripe banana. I’ve never been much for breakfast.

Back out through the gate down the footpath, past the shops and restaurants we’re now finding as familiar as our own neighborhood. March down the steep hill towards the southwest quadrant of the island. A fine, silt-like layer of dirt & sand blankets cars as if they’ve been idle decades and not parked merely a day or two. Most stationary objects look just so – as if time has forgotten to pass here and frozen the relics in perpetuity.

Clutching Penny’s hand-labeled map with vigorously circled attractions, in search of a small outcropping where tourists can swim and jump from a ledge off of a small inlet cove. Down and down the winding road we go in the 80-degree-dry sun, me wearing a long sleeve shirt like an idiot. I take it off and wrap it around my waist – 90s soccer mom chic exposing my purple sports bra; feigning “fitness-ready” vs. poorly dressed.

And then just like that – there it is… that feeling you can only find when you’re not searching for it.

Of being lifted all at once, clarity like a child’s; the heaviness of mundane anxieties and hours spent worrying, working, auto-driven towards structure & routine, dissipates from me in every bead of sweat. Were we not always meant to be standing right here, on this particular stone path, at this specific stroke of the hour.

My heat-stroke revolution/love-sick epiphany are cut short when I notice my wife 20 yards ahead of me down the road, deadpan expression, waiting impatiently at the next turn for me to catch up. My knee is still rough from surgery, I have no quad muscle and I’m so painfully slow, particularly on this straight downhill backpedal, while I daydream and contemplate life. This must be love.

Thirty minutes or so to reach the bottom. A small port with side-by-side boutique restaurants line the curve of the bay. We made it…somewhere. Mystic blues and washed greens as far as I can see – ancient and lasting juxtaposed against poignantly modern glimpses of destruction; the current pushes used & abandoned masks and trash continuously against the upper threshold of the sea rock wall just below where it meets the concrete of the sidewalk.

Anne leads us up the wrong steps carved into the hillside above the verandas of the restaurants, as if I needed more cardio. Reverse and I point us in the right direction and cut straight through a walkway edging the water past shaded sea-side patio chairs and tables and out through the other side into darker, more volcanic and rockier terrain.

This trek is a bit more challenging for me, nevertheless I persist. Crawling across rocks like a sidewinder crab using my hands for support going up or down. Eons later… or realistically 15 minutes, until we emerge to a shining miniature cove dotted with a dozen or so people lounging on warm, sunbaked rocks, swimming in the shallow sapphire water or standing on the flat rock ledge built into a volcanic outcropping, about 40 yards out.

We watch a young man race toward the ledge then stop last second, multiple times too afraid to jump. He finally leaps, to the resounding cheers of his friends. We don’t make it out to the ledge, but hangout for another 15 minutes or so with our shoes off and feet dangling into the glistening water before we concede the morning and turn back across the rocky trail. Things to do, places to be.

Quick pitstop back at the first bustling inlet for fried zucchini and eggplant with Santorini brewed, “lava rock fermented,” golden ale – 8 euros for a 12-ounce bottle. Worth every cent. Salty, crispy bites, ice cold sips, stunning view, I could lounge here all day. Alas, check please, trudge back up the hill, mild agony, one million stairs, around the sure-footed mules taking more fortunate passengers up the hill, almost squashed near the top by a procession of a dozen or so, making their way down the hill, jump quickly into small shop doorway cut into stone to save my skin and finally arrive back at the resort. Quick freshening-up and onto our sunset cruise.

The Catamaran

“Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip, that started from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship,” Gilligan’s Island courses through my sun-soaked, blissed-out brain when a black tour bus, like the dozens and dozens others that zip around the island, rolls up to the front gate of our place. The other passengers are already loaded up and we’re the last stop so we ride shotgun with the driver. Back west around the island to the same little inlet we’d been this morning.

When we’re about 100 yards from the bottom, the driver slows and then turns the vehicle around, rear bumper now facing the descent. The cautionary-reverse beeping fills the cabin as we begin to back ever so slowly down the road, dodging compact cars parked on either side, other vans and anxious foot traffic battling their way back up the path. I’m absolutely terrified yet the driver calmy and seemingly effortlessly navigates us through the maze and parks at the base.

Deep exhale, unload, roll call and ticket #s, watch as our catamaran kisses the dock like a butterfly alighting upon a daffodil, and python-thick ropes tossed out to metal-eye hook loops embedded in the concrete platform we stand on.

Numbers called and all aboard. When Anne booked the boat it was advertised as a “sunset cruise” with implied romanticism, but when she dug into the Google reviews we realized that this is a definitely a couples party boat. Let the games begin.

Plastic picnic tables, evenly spaced sit atop a covered deck. We let those fill and head straight for the stern, as they say at sea, where 2 L-shaped red benches lie parallel to the “bar” which houses the alcohol, grill, captain and crew. It’s not even real seating yet feels VIP.

Shove off and our “host” Adonis outlines the rules: no laying on the front netting while moving, rinse off and dry before you get back on the boat from out of the sea so drunk people don’t slip and fall (or something along those lines). And most importantly, beers are 2 euros, but the white wine is free and bottomless. That’s all we need to know before we set out to chase the sunset.

An English woman in a cheetah swimsuit breaks her French tip off immediately upon setting sail and there’s blood specks dripping all over the deck. A savvy crew member quickly bandages her up before the spectacle can advance. She asks Anne and I to take a picture- “Make me look sexy like an advertisement,” she asks. Is this a British thing or a strange leopard-print lady thing?

The wine is flowing, the waves are calm, and the bass bumps well-known American dance beats and party songs blare through the speakers. Dude. We’re on a boat making stops at famous island beaches: a red beach, a white beach and a black beach, aptly named for the stains of their sand.

Our captain and crew must navigate this tour for hours on end through the tourist season. Their lines rehearsed, skin tan and leather baked, calloused hands from worn wood and bristled rope and sturdy feet from the toss and turn of Poseidon’s wrath.

There are maybe 30-40 of us, mostly couples or small groups of friends, but a few lone wolves. A salt n pepper fox in her late 50s or early 60s, turquoise gemmed & quiet, reflecting peacefully despite the party music; or the pale, red-haired, incredibly drunk millennial man tottering about on his own.

As we sail to each distinct beach we get swim time – Anne and I dive off the back (by which I mean step gingerly off with my bum knee and sink casually) into a slightly chilly, brilliant blue sea set against the stark white beach.

We lie back and float with the noodles they provided. This is incredible. Remember this feeling. My wife (I’ll keep practicing this word…I think I like it…) swims over, standing slightly above the water on two sturdy noodles. We splash around and just savor each other’s company. Swim back to the ladder, dry off and don shades.

Next stop the red beach. Don’t touch the sand it will ‘stain your clothes forever,’ we’re cautioned. We skip swimming here as the wind picks up and the air cools.

Black beach, the sand is…black. I think you get the idea.

By the time dinner is served we’ve refilled our glasses copiously and finally switched to beers. The occupants of the boat sway rhythmically and in-sync with the light roll of vessel on the waves, music seemingly matching the tempo of nature.

We are absolutely famished by now so, dig in! Pork & chicken kabobs, done to perfection. Eat ravenously after hours in the sun swimming and idling the time by on the Mediterranean Sea with the best company.

By now we’ve become chummy with the crew members in our “VIP” corner of the boat. We watch the simultaneously perfect view of the open water behind us – and sun slowly sinking overhead before us.

Captain Dmitrius stays at the helm for the most part, stoic and methodic unless the Catamaran is parked. He is also the DJ, kindly denying booze-emboldened girls their requests to play a song.

Adonis, handsome and comfortable in his role as host- chatting, storytelling, and charming his way into a brimming tip jar.

Another crew member, George, sits down beside us to finally eat his kabobs now that the passengers have been served.

George is also from Athens, probably early-to-mid 30s. We chat. He remarks that, if he could live anywhere in the world, it would be… Florida.

“Why Florida??” we ask incredulously.

“I love crazy people,” George replies with a grin. “They’re all crazy in Florida.”

……

The one lone drunk and now hopelessly sunburnt ginger-haired man wanders the craft aimlessly. Couples lean into one another and late afternoon shenanigans yield to an early evening calm. It almost seems to be winding down… and then Dmitrius plays the Macarena, the dance party starts and the palpable energy on the boat is reignited in unison. Everyone floods to the floor space in front of the bar, making familiar moves in unison.

Now that they’ve got everyone’s attention again we see how these young men make their money.

“Watch me whip, watch me nay nay,” blares out of the speakers and we all sing along to Silento. Adonis, George, Dmitrius & company snap into formation in front of an enamored crowd. Their slightly out of sync, “Stanky Legg” has folks going wild as they advance through the synchronized dance routines of numerous American pop songs.

We all carry on in this manner for half hour or so until the sun finally begs our attention and we adjourn to the best viewing spots to watch it sink. The cooled air finally requires everyone to redress and cover their sundried suits. One resilient young woman, long dark hair trailing down her back, refuses to put her pants back on, which is her prerogative, however she happens to be standing 5 feet in front of us with her ass at eye level while we sit on our bench.

You can hardly blame two new wives for admiring a beautiful butt right in front of us. Anne should resist the urge- but emboldened by 4 hours of day drinking quickly snaps a pic with her phone, tucking it away immediately. Not quickly enough. Captain Dmitrius is peering over her shoulder. Busted.

“Did you just do what I think you did?” he grins ear to ear and looks at us in a new light. “Are you lesbians?” he asks good naturedly.

“Yes we’re married!” Anne replies this time (as opposed to me outing us to another unfamiliar Greek man), with less reserve than she might’ve had under circumstances with less wine. We three turn away from the distraction at hand and share a smile. “For your appetites” as they say. The situation calls for two more beers. We refill then sidle up against the port rail of the vessel and watch the sun cede to the moon.

We try and snap a couple pictures but put our phones away, a picture will never be as potent as the molten rose-gold globe dissolving into the sea. This is magic, I’m love drunk, and drunk drunk, and have never been quite so alive and clairvoyant as I am right now. The future seems right in front of us, clear as a bell, a premonition.

Laser reds, slice and bleed out, riding rolling waves in all directions, the last sliver of disc slips resignedly below the horizon, leaving cotton candy colors washed in the clouds and the brilliance of staring too long at the sun etched behind our retinas. Snuffed out like a candle, heave a heavy, satisfied sigh and sail for home. Thank our incredible crew, and tip them well, hop off on legs steadier on the sea then they’d been before and back on solid ground. Load into the bus, back up the steep hill and before we’ve gone 100 yards several couples can be heard snoring softly; the day, the heat the enchantment and ultimately the wine getting the better of them. Anne and I sit, bodies drained, totally spent, but still not yet ready for the night to end.

When we get back to the resort it’s a little after 8 p.m. No time for weary eyes on this island. We rally, quickly toss the bulk of our belongings into suitcases to make the morning departure more efficient. Wander once more into the balmy evening air to seize every last waning minute of this dream. Head go back to our now familiar food chateau, order meatballs and summon Artemis, our kitten. She arrives fashionably late and we drop portions of our appetizers onto the cobbled stones to share offerings with our feline huntress, Goddess of wild animals.

By the time we finish there are dozens more cat pictures on our camera rolls, my allergies are severely agitated, and I am content. Stroll lazily back down the walking path one more time, load up on 24oz cans from the lobby mini bar- add it to our tab please, steal back into our room and crash onto the bed. Giggling and nonsense, Anne spills beer on the sheets while we fall asleep to Netflix. That’s our cue, goodnight Santorini, Goodnight Anne, I love you both.

Home

Sunday is a blur but here’s what I remember. I’m shaky at best, we’ve been going non-stop for 12 days. Quick shopping spree to pick up final souvenirs & gifts and a last brunch beer. Start our ATV venture back to other side of the island like we’d planned; to catch one more afternoon on the beach. Womp Womp; our quad dangerously sputters to a stop on the highway as we stall out on the coast. We really have not had good luck with this thing.

Have we displeased the Gods in some way?? Change plans, manage to force the near lifeless vehicle back to the rendezvous point at the airport, ditch the heap of junk and Google a beach .8 miles away from where we stand. Seems reasonable at the time so we grab our luggage and start walking down the road.

Five minutes later we rue our choice as BMWs race by honking at us dragging our suitcases through the dust & rocks on the edge of the coastal road as sweat drips into our eyes and rocks stick in the wheels of what was my “brand new” suitcase. Chalk another one up for the “stupid Americans”.

We do finally find the beautiful black-sand beach Google promised. No sooner do we sit down on one of the dozens of dark blue, wooden-slatted beach chairs that an attendant materializes and promptly informs us they cost 10 Euros to use both. Cough up some of the last of our coins, sit there and recover from our walk for half an hour, dip our feet in the water and move along. Black sand sticks between my toes underneath my socks & Nike’s as we walk behind the beach across dusty parking lots to kill a bit more time before our flight. Apps and beers at a little coastal diner. Fried Calamari and European pilsners on draught.

Like an apparition the elusive Tropias we’d been hunting since we arrived on the island pops onto our Pokemon maps. Anne races across café driveways frantically connecting to the very edge of Wifi to reach far enough into the wilderness and… success!!! We can now leave the Mediterranean peacefully.

Hop a flight back to Athen’s, watch evening American football at a sports bar, scanning Red Zone for the games we care about. We retire to our rooftop bar above the hotel, one last round looking out over the Acropolis. Join our friend’s early Sunday Funday via snapchat in the states as ours’ comes to a close. The flight home is nothing romantic so I’ll stop here, until we meet again. As they say in Greek- “yiasou”- hello, goodbye and cheers.