Chapter 12
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Vardia Bay, of the Greek Island of Folagandros was decidedly non-descript. It was even a little baron. As at Noussa, the water was very clear and little fish came right up to the landline (if anybody can tell me what these little fish are, please do). But thankfully, in comparison to the hustle, bustle, smell and throng of the ports we found in Paros and Santorini, there was very little commercial activity going on. Certainly, it ws not the hell on earth of Pireaus. There was one girl handing out car rental brochures, though even she was unobtrusive and not imposing.
A bus sat at the port waiting for its new lot of passengers, which included Mel and me. The bus driver was a friendly guy, which was unusual for a Greek Island, in our experience. He was about 50 or 55. He seemed nice.
And then it happened. Something that had not happened on any other island. We had taken buses on Paros and on Santorini and they had never done on their buses what then had happened on this bus. As we stepped onto the bus, the bus driver smiled and then ... then he took our money in exchange for tickets!
'What is the big deal?', I hear you asking. Well, as anybody who has ever been to the Greek Islands before will tell you, you don't pay the driver as you get on. Oh no, that would be too simple. Instead, the driver waits until everybody gets onto the bus - and can I tell you that in the case of the bus that runs from the New Port of Santorini up to Thira this will invariably be one crowded bus - and then he will start driving. Only then, the drivers faithful companion - the fare collector, if you will - walks through the bus and amongst all of the people collecting fares as the bus rocks to and fro and lurches from side to side.
They'll have none of that on Folegandros. It is much too ordered for that. Much too calm.
The drive to the Chora revealed an arid, almost desolate countryside. I wish there were more to report. I certain wished it at the time. I asked myself 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'
We arrive at the Chora during what must have been the siesta part of the day. At least, that is what I was hoping. Almost nobody was around. It was all very quiet. There was one conversation between two locals that was taking place. But that must have been 45 metres away. We never would have heard it in a 'normal' town because it would have been drowned out by the din. There was no din here. In fact, I felt compelled to speak quietly for fear of disturbing the peace. 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'
As soon as I got off the bus I was on a mission to find accommodation. Given my problems with accommodation in Santorini, I was eager to get that sorted out as soon as possible. On Folegandros, however, this was dead easy. Mel pointed at a room about 20 metres from the bus depot - if a small, dirt roundabout where the one bus on the island stops can be called a depot - overlooking a sheer drop into the ocean and before she could say 'It might be nice to stay there ...' I made a b-line for the reception of the hotel in which the room was located and had the proprietor and host,Cornelia, showing us to a very nice room that would cost €75 a night. Wouldn't you know it, the hotel - the Anemomilos Apartments - had a pool. A nice pool at that. With all the boxes ticked, we told Cornelia that we would take a room for two nights. The only problem was that our rooms were not cleaned yet from the residents of the night before. Along the lines of making lemonade from lemons, we headed into the Chora for a look-see.
The Chora did not look out over the sea as Santorini does, so it was not so picturesque. It was not well maintained in the manner of Parakia on Paros had been, so it did not have that charm either. In fact, the word non-descript came to mind again. Maybe it would have helped if everything was open, which it was not. Maybe it would have helped if the woman who served us in the supermarket - one of the few things that was open - had been a little friendlier. Maybe it would have helped if she was friendly at all. Maybe it would have helped if there were some people around. 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'
With nothing much else to do, we headed back to the hotel room. Still, they had not been cleaned from the night before. Again, along the lines of making lemonade, we took to a seating area the hotel had beside the pool and ordered a couple of drinks. This, actually, turned out to be a nice place to be. As we sat waiting for our drinks we stared out over the sea. Through the haze we could only just make out a couple of other islands but to this day I do not know which islands they were. The proprietors' son then came out with the drinks. He was decidedly non-Greek looking. Sure he had dark skin, but he had green eyes which I thought was less common. His hair was also lighter than I had expected. But his drinks were good and that, on this day, was what mattered.
By now our rooms were clean and we could move in. Cornelia had been nice enough to arrange to have our bags taken to our rooms while we had been waiting. All that was left to do now was get acquainted with our rooms - which were pretty good, I have to say - and make for the bed for the afternoon snooze.
We woke up rather hungry. I was also at a bit of a loose end. Really, we had done nothing all day. I was not certain whether we had just wasted a day of our holidays. I looked out from our balcony onto the Chora. There were many people heading into town dressed in their best. Clearly, there was something happening in the town tonight. We showered up and headed back into the Chora for something to eat. By night, the Chora looked much better than it had during the day. The town was well lit, but with soft lighting so that it looked warm and inviting. Even a little romantic.
But romance does not feed a hungry stomach. Well, not for long. When choosing a place to eat, my preferences take back seat to Mel's. With good reason: when it comes to deciding on where to eat I might have two criteria at any given point in time and Mel will have fourteen. It is much easier for me to let Mel choose a restaurant that accounts for her fourteen criteria and then fit my two around her than to choose a restaurant myself and hope that her fourteen criteria might be met.
Why, then, Mel chose the Melissa restaurant - other than the obvious fact that it was her namesake - is beyond me. It was kind of empty (and, for the record, for me an empty restaurant might mean the restaurant is not that good - occupancy is one of my criteria). It was not the best looking around either. Nor was it particularly well positioned nor did it have a nice view (location being my second criteria). What it did have was a waiter with a slouch, a mono-brow and a singularly unfashionable red t-shirt. It was at that point that I needed to give myself a reality check. We were on a small, quiet, little known island where men's fashion and the aesthetic appeal of two separate eye brows are not only low on the agenda but are, perhaps by definition, foreign. And we were the foreigners. So with that thought, I gave myself a brief mental slap about the face and decided that it was time to order. To my delight, moussaka was on the menu so I was up for the third round of the Moussaka Challenge. It was pretty good - nowhere near as good as that in Paros but significantly better than I had tasted on Santorini. Mel's calamari was also pretty good, she told me, though perhaps lacking in salad. Moreover, Red T-shirt was friendly and obliging which, of course, gave me cause to give myself a second mental slap about the face.
After dinner we headed to what might be the only bar in the Chora. It had a certain charm. It was small. Tiny, almost. The girl behind the bar was friendly and attractive. There was an older couple at the other end of the bar. Mel and I ordered our drinks and made for a quiet corner of the bar. Soon enough, though, there was no quiet corner of the bar. It turned out that the people we saw from our hotel room balcony heading into town were doing so in search of a wedding. Well by then, it seemed, the wedding was over and the slightly younger guests from the wedding were looking to continue the night's drinking. Now the bar was heaving and Mel and I were drinking whilst trying to keep our elbows close into our bodies, which is never fun. The Greek music was blaring from the admittedly quality audio system and, Greeks being Greeks, the crowd was dancing. I do not know why, but this was all lost on me this particular evening. I did not want to be around it. I might have even been sulking. With that, we headed home.
For our first day in Folegandros, that was fairly well that. I couldn't help but feel slightly underwhelmed. There didn't seem to be that much to do and I was not certain that I had any interest in that kind of holiday. So as I went to sleep there was only one thought on my mind. 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'.
How wrong I was.
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