Chapter 13

www.flickr.com

There are men and then there are manly men. One of the traits of manly men, as I see it, are that they are largely unflappable. I am so flappable. Take, for instance, my phobia of moths.

Wikipedia defines a phobia as '... a strong, persistent fear of situations, objects, activities, or persons. The main symptom of this disorder is the excessive, unreasonable desire to avoid the feared subject. It is the unreasonable part that stands out for me. Moths can't hurt you. A person can squash a moth with but a fraction of their strength.

I know all of this, yet still I hate moths. They are fluttery and knock into things - including humans. I know this sounds stupid but this is my phobia. Most of us, if we dig deep enough, will have a phobia. Mel has a phobia common to many - snakes. I have a friend who was certain she had no phobias at all, but after digging around over a meal one night we discovered hers: being in deep, open water. She can swim just fine, but the fear of not knowing what was beneath her was the cause of this irrational fear. I have another friend who often teases me for my bug phobia, or Entomophobia, but she is scared of birds. That is to say that she suffers Ornithophobia. So we all have them - heights (Acrophobia), planes (Aerophobia), spiders (Arachnophobia), enclosed spaces (Claustrophobia) ... we each have our poison.

All of this leads me to my point, on the wall of the entrance into the courtyard of our hotel was the biggest, fattest moth I had seen in some years and I was so flapped. Every time I walked passed it I kept my eye on it and I lengthened my gait. Poor Mel, to be going out with such a fool ...

There are several ways that I like to wake up in the morning. One, is to the sound of magpies singing. I don't know why I like this, I just do. Another is to the smell of bacon and eggs being cooked by someone other than me. Another is by the sound of children playing. I can say that one way I do not like to wake up in the morning is to hear a man in the throws of passion. Despite my wont, at 7:15am Mel and I were woken by just such a thing. I can't remember ever hearing such a thing. The lack of self-control was really quite disconcerting. This guy really had a pair of lungs on him, too. Mel and I wanted to get a look at him, but we couldn't isolate the source of the yelling. A shame, that. I would really liked to have tried to have made him a little uncomfortable about it. Lord know he deserved at least that.

Anyway, that morning we walked past my 'friend', the moth, and looked for breakfast. As is norm, Mel picked our eating spot and, again, according to one of my two criteria she had failed because she had picked a spot that was rather less frequented than those I could see around us. As is the norm, I acquiesced rather than entertain her fourteen criteria. As was becoming the norm on Folegandros, our waiter was not presented as well as I have come to expect in my everyday life. He was shoddily dressed and his hair was a mess. His presentation was not helped my his largesse. In short, our waiter looked like a slob. He was forgetful, too. I ordered yoghurt with fruit and nuts and it came without nuts. Our drinks did not come at all, until we pointed this out to him. However, not for the first time on Folegandros, there was sense in overlooking these things because our waiter was a good guy. He liked to chat. He asked where we came from and, to him, Australia was an exotic place he aspired to visit. He had plans to go to the Whitsundays and cruise from island to island and bask in the sun. And after each conversation we had, he would squeeze my shoulder (in a heterosexual manner, I assure you ... not that there is anything wrong with that!) like a long-time friend might do. I liked him. Which made things all the worse when the Ugly Americans turned up.

Every nation has its ugly travelers. Ugly Australian travelers are loud and sometimes drunk. Ugly English travelers are loud and invariably drunk. Ugly Americans think things should be just like they are in America, no matter where they travel to. Take the two Americans who were dining not too far from Mel and me. The male of the two was trying to order eggs over easy. No matter how loudly he said it, or how slowly he said it, he could not understand why the person taking the order - my good friend Slobosaurus Rex - couldn't understand what he wanted.

I knew what eggs over easy meant. So did Mel. But this is more of a result of the overt Americanisation of Australia (and displacement of local culture, I am afraid to admit) that is taking place rather than the ubiquitousness of the term worldwide. Indeed, I have tested this out on many colleagues in the UK and I can tell you that not many Brits at all know what eggs over easy means, either. Nor do they know what sunny side up means.

So at the American's third loud and slow attempt at asking the waiter for eggs over easy, I interjected, 'Excuse me ... he means that he wants you to fry the egg, and then flip it over and quickly cook the other side'. With that, the American's simultaneously said 'Thank YOU!' to me and made the eyes at me like it was a relief that not everybody at this restaurant was a moron. Slobosaurus looked at me and said 'Thank YOU!' and looked at me like it was a relief that not everybody at this restaurant was a moron. Mel and I looked at each other like we knew exactly who the morons were.

Cultural exchanges complete, we finished our breakfasts (which were OK, but nothing to write home about), asked for the bill, waited (and waited) for the bill and then headed off. We saw Red T-shirt from the night before, setting up the Melissa restaurant for the day, and he gave us a wave. I thought that was a nice touch.

One thing I could not get over was hoy many times we saw Orthodox Priests out and about socialising. We had seen them at dinner the night before and again this morning at breakfast. I am not a religious man by any measure, but I imagine that having priests among the people in such a way gave them more credibility and made the religion more accessible. Coming from a Catholic background, I had never seen this before. I cannot ever remember seeing a Catholic priest hanging out with his posse on Chapel Street. In London, I have never seen likewise in SOHO. I think the Catholic church are missing a trick. It is not like the Catholic church does not need a few recruits around about now ...

By now we had formed some opinions about Folegandros and several of these differed from what we read in the Greek Island Hopping book we were packing. The book told us that the island did not have an ATM. Because of this, Mel and I tool plenty of cash to Folegandros - something in the area of €400. Well, I can tell you that Folegandros does have an ATM. The book also stated the island was expensive. To us, the €75 for our room was a steal and the restaurants were affordable too. The book might also have mentioned there was a lack of good, modern hotels on the island. Again, we Mel and I thought the Anemomilos was a fine example. We walked around the town again and found it to be more lively than when we had first arrived. It was not what I would call vibrant, but it had its charm. Shops were open, we could look inside and the people we found in them were generally obliging and friendly. Mel almost bought an snorkelling set, but thought better of it. This turned out to be her biggest mistake of the entire trip. More on that later.

Over breakfast, Mel and I had contemplated a lazy day by the pool at the hotel, but on the way back to the hotel after breakfast decided that we should check the bus timetable and, if the timing was convenient, that we would head down to the beach. Sure enough, the timetable was conducive to such an excursion and we went back to our room to grab our beach essentials - a towel and a book. On the way back to the bus stop we ducked into a cafe-come-milk bar by the bus depot. I did my best to charm up the rather attractive attendant there with me best 'Tikanis ... Kala ...' but I did not get the effect I was looking for. Certainly, she did not respond in Greek. I looked closer. If I did not know any better, I would have guessed that she was not Greek. Eastern European, maybe? With the expansion of the EU, finding an Eastern European in Greece would not be unusual. But Folegandros? What would bring her here? We would eventually find out, but that would not be until the next day.

On this day, though, fifteen minutes after buying some drinks for the beach at the cafe-come-milk bar staffed by the (maybe) non-Greek we were on the bus to Agathi beach.

On the bus, I could not help but reflect. If I had come to Folegandros as a younger, single man I would have been disappointed as there is not a lot to do, in younger, single man terms. But contrasting Folegandros with the busy time we had in Santorini, it all made sense. The people are friendly and not relentlessly selling. There seemed to be more locals here than tourists. On the plus side, this lent a homely feeling to the island. The slight downside is that, on occasion, we felt like we were intruding on their lives. Certainly, we felt that way at the bar, after the wedding, the night before. I was warming slightly to Folegandros, but at that point I could not see myself returning.

Introspective complete, the bus arrived at Agathi. What a nice beach it turned out to be. The sand was OK and the water, again, was crystal clear with those same little fish coming right up to the landline. The water was quite warm. We were sheltered from the wind - Mel's pet hate at the beach. Like a duck to water - pun intended - Mel jumped into the water and looked at me to do the same. My old swimming chestnut raised its head again. The water got very deep, very quickly at Agathi and I was concerned about being able to keep afloat, so my water activities were restricted to a gentle and shallow wade. At this point, the penny had finally dropped and Mel fully accepted that I can't really swim. Unperturbed, she used some nearby rocks as a diving platform. She was having a ball. It was at this point that Mel caught site of some fellow swimmers who had brought along their snorkelling gear and were having a great time. As I said, biggest mistake of the entire trip.

I, on the other hand, was baring witness to a remarkable spectacle. A man who was about 55 who had been doing some snorkelling came out of the water and onto the beach. He then reached for his groin. I thought he was just doing a little 'adjusting', which men need to do from time to time, especially in a beach environment. Then he reached into his swimming trunks, which I thought was a bit much. He might have needed to adjust himself, but a little subtlety might be required in this public, family environment. It was then that we pulled an octopus out from his swimmers. Amazing. He must have come across this one while he was snorkelling, killed it (or at least, I hope he killed it, for both of their sakes) and then stored it down his trunks for the swim back to shore. I do not think I haver been so impressed - and disturbed at the same time - by what another man has done with his swimming trunks. This, I reasoned, is what manly men do.

But he had another surprise in store for me. He started fiddling around his trunks again ... and pulled out another octopus! How could I ever look at myself in the mirror again.

What a great couple of hours at the beach this had turned out to be. And according to the locals, this was not even the nicest beach on the island. Depending on how windy the day was, there were several other options.

That is when my own penny dropped and I started to understand what Folegandros was all about. Nice beaches, easy to get around, not much to worry about ... this was a great place to relax.

We headed back to our hotel on the bus we arrived on. I decided that having been to the beach I really ought to get my hair wet and took a dip in the pool. It was here that I experienced the first rule of Australian international travel: you will almost always come into contact with another Australian. Australians travel. It is what we do. I would like to tell you why, but to be frank I am not certain. Perhaps it has something to do with the geographic isolation of Australia itself. Perhaps we need reminding that we are part of the world at large. Regardless, the first rule of Australian international travel took the form of Betty and Roy from Hawthorn, from my home city of Melbourne. They were cycling tourists who had been cycling their way through Europe before meeting up with some friends on Folegandros. They did not like Santorini. They were watching their pennies and on Santorini, that meant having accommodation right beside a nightclub that stayed open until 4am. I understood that though, of course, did not share their experience. They went on to tell me about all the little towns they rode through in Europe, most of which drew blanks from me. Still, they were both very nice and it was nice to touch base with some countrymen.

If there was one thing that was certain on this night it was that I was going to choose where we were going to eat. My two criteria were going to reign over Mel's fourteen. Not that Mel did not try to enforce her will upon me, lobbying for an admittedly cute and romantic restaurant just outside of the Chora. But at up to €25 for a main meal - close to top notch London prises and about four times what we were seeing at the other restaurants on the island - I put my foot down. Instead, I chose a place that was in the centre of the Chora and elevated, so that we could see into and over the Chora. On the previous night it was full to the brim and on this night it was not much less so. It must be good, I presumed. I presumed correctly. Dinner was great. We opened up with a mixed entrée, I had grilled aubergine for a main while Mel had a chicken dish. Yum. The woman serving us - tall and reasonably fair haired - did not look Greek to us at all. She looked rather more Germanic or Dutch. What would bring a German or Dutch woman to the island of Folegandros to serve to expat Australians? We would eventually find out but that, too, would not be until the next day.

We could see Red T-shirt's restaurant, Melissa. They started of quiet. Then a group of eight came in and things got rolling for them. They were full of patrons in no time. I could not help but think that all was right in the world. Or at least my part.

Contented, we headed to the bar from the night before. Devoid of inebriated post-wedding goers, it was a great place to be. The owner was clearly a gadget freak - Yamaha amp, Bose speakers and a very expensive mixing desk indicated that. There were a wide range of beverages. The girl working the bar - the same from the night before - was very friendly and made whatever we asked, even if she had not made it before. She was keen to learn. To that end, if you should ever find yourself in this bar you should find that ordering a lemon, lime and bitters or a Kahlua and milk is not a problem. They only played Greek music in the bar, but unlike on Santorini it seemed apt and I would not have had anything else. Speaking to the bar-girl, she told us that the wedding last night was not of locals, but of mainland Greeks who often came to Folegandros every year. Or every other year. The day before, I would not have understood that. On this day, however, I understood that just fine.

We headed back home to retire for the evening. Falling to sleep was different than the night before. Last night I could not help but think, 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'. These thoughts were replace by the satisfaction of looking for something - a quiet, restful, enjoyable, out of the way spot that not so many other people have been to - and finding it. I slept rather well that night.

Chapter 12

www.flickr.com

There is an old gypsy curse, may you get what you want. Or something like that. I can't profess to being an expert on all things gypsy. I can't profess to being an expert on anything gypsy. My complete lack of gypsy knowledge aside, I could not help but feel that I had become, at least in a small way, a victim of this curse.

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.

Chapter 11

www.flickr.com

You might have heard of the actor Bill Pullman. Born in Hornell, New York, he made his big-screen debut in 1986 in the comedy Ruthless People, which starred Danny DeVito and Bette Midler. Bill followed that with lead roles in Spaceballs, The Serpent and the Rainbow, The Grudge and, among many others, Sleepless in Seattle. I have done the research and he really does have an extensive body of work. Nevertheless, he is not the first actor you might think of, given any particular situation.

The following day we said goodbye to our gracious hosts after breakfast and we took the taxi that Mr Rigas had arranged to take us down to the Old Port. Sure, it cost €15 - much more than the bus would have cost - but it was a far more civilised way to get there. And given that the Old Port is one of the less civilised places I have had occasion to visit, I viewed the taxi ride as the teaspoon of sugar that made the medicine go down. Part of that sugar was our taxi driver who - rare in my experience with taxi drivers, London Black Cabs aside - was a likeable character. Not only did he arrive on time but he was friendly and knowledgeable, so that when we told him the island we were heading for he replied, 'Ah! The Dimitroula', in reference to the boat we were about to catch. A quick check of our tickets confirmed his knowledge.

I have to say that the name Dhmitroula did not fill me with confidence. Just as Fairstar, in Australia, was the funship I kept thinking that the slogan for such a ship might be 'Dhmitroula, the death ship'. This is silly, I realise.

We had a more than a little time up our sleeves before our slow boat was due so we grabbed something to drink at one of the dubious looking cafes located at the port. If you are watching the pennies, this is a bad move and I would advise against it. It cost us €2.50 for a Sprite and €3.50 for a frapaccino. Ouch. Surprisingly, to me anyway, was that Mel told me that it was a damn good frapaccino. This brings me to a point: the Greeks make a damn good coffee. Not that I drink coffee, but if Mel's feedback can be used as any guide you should find good coffees for the drinking in Greece, even in a dodgy spot like the Old Port of Santorini. Contrast this with the difficulty Mel seems to have in finding a good coffee in so-called cosmopolitan London and it makes you wonder why the hell the Poms are finding it so difficult to learn how to make a coffee. Briefly, I will put in my two cents here: I blame the proliferation of coffee-chains in London (Starbucks and Cafe Nero come to mind) and the surprising lack of Italian and Greek emigrants here (surprising given the proliferation of just about every other nationality here in London) who bring coffee making skills and tastes with them. This is one of the things that makes my home town of Melbourne in Australia so wonderful: The Poms may tease Australians for what they perceive as a lack of culture - an assumption made due to the comparative youth of Australia as a nation. But the abundance of first, second and third generation Australians of foreign origin has brought with it many positives including, or so I am told being a non-coffee drinker, great coffee that is abundant. Which is why, it seems, the chain of Starbucks is not making quite the speedy inroads into the Australian market that it has elsewhere. How do I know this? One, I watch a too much TV and I think I picked up on it on a current affairs show in Australia. Two, we met some Starbucks employees on our travels. But the remainder of that story is one island hop away. So I had better return to this slow boat we were waiting for.

As the Dhmitroula pulled into the port I could not help but notice that it was not a new, shiny boat by any stretch of the imagination. I immediately had my doubts as to whether it was a well maintained boat as the hull was discoloured with what might have been rust, especially where the part of the boat the anchor retreats into when it is not in use (which I trust has a name, but I am no seaman, confirmed by my lack of swimming ability). We board the boat and following the instructions of the crew we make our way to a seating area known as the Pullman Seats, though I cannot be certain whether or not they are named after the not-the-first-actor-you-think-of Bill. These seats are are strictly economy class. At the time of purchase we were not given a more expensive option though at that point in time I kept thinking that if there was a more expensive option avalaible then we should have taken it. I make certain that I am aware that the life jackets are about 15 metres directly ahead of me (note to self: life jackets are called Zozibia in Greek - that might come in handy) and I sit down in my allotted seat which, again, was some distance from where Mel's allotted seat was.

What was it with the people that book the tickets in the Greek Islands? Not that the girl who booked our ticket wasn't a nice girl. Indeed, this particular girl was the classic example of how charming Greek women are when it all comes together. She was charming, confident - almost bordering on bossy - and with slightly sleepy eyes that show that she is going to do things her way and at her pace. Though she had more facial piercings than I am comfortable with, she was helpful, patient and, yes, attractive. At least Mel thought so ...

Anyway, mindful of the incredibly rude woman we had previously seen in full flight on the Naxos and not wanting to create such a scene we sat alone and far apart in the Pullman section of the Dhmitroula waiting for it to fill up. It never did and just after we pulled out from port I went to join Mel.

I probably need to explain my nervousness about being on a boat that looks far from the state of the art. The simple truth is that Greek Island ferries not only can sink, but they have. Quite recently, in fact. In October of 2000 the Zeus III ran aground just after leaving Naxos for Santorini. It sank in 20 minutes. Despite the lifeboats on board being out of use, all 38 passengers were rescued although an 82 year old American tourist died later due to a heart attack. Three days earlier the Express Artemis ran aground carrying 1,026 passengers. It was refloated and could continue its journey to Piraeus and, thankfully, no injuries were reported. Two days earlier the Express Samina - sister ship to the Artemis - hit an islet as it approached the island of Paros. Water rapidly filled the lower decks and the ship sank within half an hour of the collision. At least 77 people died. The Express Samina would have been taken out of service the following year on reaching the 35-year age limit for Greek ferries. Every time the Dhmitroula shuddered - and though I do not know why, but it did shudder quite regularly - I looked at the sign marked Zozibia and thought about the Express Samina.

Fortunately, my thoughts were distracted by a couple, also in the Pullman Seating area, one of whom had the loudest most annoying mobile phone ring tone. As it turned out, it was a Greek dance tune, but it could just have easily been Girls Aloud - it was just plain annoying. And the owner must have been popular, given how often it rang. At the risk of sounding just a little staid, what happened to phones that just rang instead of sang?

Then the boat shuddered again. Dhmitroula, the death ship.

Fortunately, the other couple in the Pullman section came to my rescue again. The girl of the couple, not happy enough to have an annoying ring tone, was now playing a song on her phone on speakerphone so that we can all share in the experience. I think it might have been the same song as the ring tone, but I cannot be certain because even this early on in the holiday all Greek music is sounding the same to me. Not happy with this, she starts to whistle. Whistle. Whistle loudly though, it must be said, with no vibrato as she could not have been older than 28 years old. By now, you should know my policy on whistling so you can make up your own mind as to my level of angst at that point. Not happy with her level of public annoyance, she then starts to click her fingers. Sure, she kept great time and I can appreciate that. But I can't say that I was appreciating the talents of this one man band at that point. At that point I am almost begging for enough silence to return to my 'Dhmitroula, the death ship' train of thought. Certainly, the boat tried to help as it shuddered again and again. But the annoyance of this woman ... it was really something.

And her boyfriend did not turn out to be the voice of reason to take her off this course of nonsense. He did not touch her on the arm and in a lowered tone tell her 'Darling, there are other people on this boat and they may not appreciate all of this noise you are making ...'. Rather, he joined in by dancing a jig along with the speakerphone, the whistling and the finger snapping. On top of this, he started playing with his beads.

'Playing with his beads' is not a euphemism for something else rather less sanitary. I saw many Greek men with a set of beads - about 10 beads - on a string about 8 inches long. They would either just shift them about, much like you would beads on an abacus, or flick them around like mini-nunchucks. It is this flicking that drove me a little crazy because they make noise. Not loud, nor rude. But annoying just the less. But as travelers to a foreign land ... well, you know where I am going with this.

It was, then, with great relief that I walked up to the top deck so that I could witness our entry into Vardia Bay. Vardia Bay is the main port of the island of which I knew the least about. It was my off-the-beaten-track island. It was the island most people miss on their brief encounters with the Islands. And that is what made me nervous. Did people avoid this island for a reason? Or was it just small enough, just out of the way enough to have eluded detection on most people's radar?

And with that thought in mind, we stepped of the Dhmitroula and onto the island of Folagandros.