One Summer in Santorini Read online

  ‘That’s like a scene from a movie.’

  I nodded and swallowed. ‘Well, I did practise it a few times before I went over there. I knew he would deny it. In the emails, they were always saying how dumb I was for not knowing what was going on.’

  ‘Oh, Sez.’

  I started to tear up. When I glanced up at Cat, she was looking at me as though I was a wounded puppy. I looked away and blinked the tears from my eyes. I wasn’t shedding any more tears for fucking Neil.

  ‘He’s a stupid bastard!’ she declared.

  ‘Yes, he is. But I haven’t told you the best part. After I broke up with him, I kept logging into his email so I could watch the aftermath.’ Cat peeped with glee. ‘Boy did it get ugly. He accused her of telling me, and she denied it. He asked if she had chlamydia, and she was outraged. He called her names, she called him names back, and eventually, she told him to fuck right off. So, in the end, he lost both of us.’

  ‘And you were with him for what, a year?’

  ‘Nearly – a few weeks shy. God, a year of my life, Cat. At least I didn’t have to buy him an anniversary present.’ I spat out a bitter laugh. Cat was quiet, and sadness took over. ‘I can’t believe I stayed as long as I did.’ The words came out as a whisper, and the tears threatened to return.

  ‘You thought he loved you.’ I nodded. ‘But, fuck him. His loss!’

  I love my sister. She doesn’t mince her words. ‘You know, I booked this trip the day after I broke up with him. It was my ‘escape real life’ plan.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you booked this trip – no matter why you did it. It’s going to be amazing.’ She paused. ‘And, Sez, you deserve way better than that fuckhead. You know that, right?’

  I did know that, yes. I knew I deserved more than to be cheated on by every man I’d ever called my boyfriend, starting with my high school sweetheart and ending with Neil the fuckhead.

  ‘Anyway, I just want to be on my own for a while. I’m not sure how long ‘a while’ is, but for right now, I think it’s best.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked surprised, which after everything I’d told her, surprised me.

  ‘I’m happily single.’ I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or me.

  ‘In that case, I’m sorry about what I said before – about you meeting someone on the trip.’

  ‘It’s cool. I know you’re just looking out for me.’

  ‘And your lady parts.’

  ‘Well, that’s disturbing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t need my sister worrying about my ‘lady parts’. I may have sworn off men, but they’re just fine – thank you very much.’

  ‘So, you’ve totally sworn off men?’

  ‘Well, not forever, but until …’ Until what, Sarah?

  ‘Until what?’ Even Cat wanted to know.

  The thing was, I didn’t know myself what I was waiting for. I only knew I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone. Actually, the thought of meeting someone new was utterly unappealing – exhausting even. I couldn’t imagine throwing all my energy into getting to know someone new. I had no idea when I’d be ready for that – or if I ever would.

  A wave of fatigue hit me, sucking up my last ounce of energy. ‘Hey, would you hate me if I went and lay down for a bit? I can barely keep my eyes open.’ I could see Cat mentally noting that I’d dodged her question.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, letting me off the hook for the second time in as many minutes. ‘I changed the sheets in Alex’s room, so you’re all set. What time’s your flight in the morning?’

  ‘Pft. Stupid o’clock. Six, I think.’

  ‘Well, I’m a hundred per cent sure I’ll still be asleep when you take off, so it’s highly unlikely I’ll be up when you have to leave for the airport. Want me to book you a taxi to Heathrow?’

  ‘Sure. If I leave here at four, will that give me enough time?’

  ‘Should do. I’ll book it. Fuck, I’m so glad it’s not me.’

  ‘You know, I’m only going to lie down for an hour or so. I still want to meet Jane and have dinner with you guys.’

  She looked at me with a knowing smile. ‘Sure, Sez.’

  The next thing I remembered was the hideous bleat of my travel alarm intruding on my coma-like sleep at 3:30am. I’d set it – just in case – when I went for my nap the evening before. I lay there for a moment and tried to figure out how long I had slept, but it didn’t matter. I felt even worse than when I’d woken up on the plane the morning before. I needed a hot shower and a bucket of tea, and I only had thirty – make that twenty-nine – minutes until my taxi arrived. Crap.

  The minutes flew by, but I only made the taxi driver wait for five minutes, which I thought was pretty good considering how disoriented and horrendous I felt. We made it to Heathrow in record time – sometimes London does sleep and it’s at 4:15am.

  The sun was lightening the sky as I handed over a small fortune to the driver. Then it was just me and my backpack and the behemoth of Heathrow’s Terminal Five. The nerves were back. I don’t know why on earth people refer to them as butterflies. They felt more like baby elephants to me.

  Chapter Two

  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 th
ere 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.