Chapter 5

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For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, Mel became infatuated with swimming pools during our time in the Islands. On every island we ended up going to we spent at least one night at a hotel with a pool. Often, hotels with pool facilities cost far more than their non-pool equipped competitors. This would not have been so hard to swallow if my otherwise long-suffering-other half were to make full use of such premium facilities. In hindsight, I can safely say that I would be surprised if Mel spent more than a combined 45 minutes in all of the pools we had access to. Not by the pool or looking at the pool, but in the pool. In the water. If I had known that in advance, I might have put my foot down and opted for more reasonably priced accommodation. As it was, my aim was to please.

With this aim to please and motivated by the pool-equipped-at-bargain priced Hotel Atlantis we had found the day before at Naoussa, Mel and I leapt out of our beds and packed in preparation for our move to Naoussa. It made no real sense to do so – we were leaving Paros the day after, the port was easy walking distance from the Hotel Stella and there was nothing really wrong with our room. Nevertheless, pack we did and move we did (How very Yoda of me).

One benefit of moving to Naoussa was that there were a couple of beaches that were just a hop, skip ad a boat ride away. The hot tip we had in regard to the beach we should frequent was Monastiri. Now, I would like to tell you that Monastiri was a fantastic beach. I would like to tell you that the water at Monastiri was clear and warm. I would like to tell you that the beach at Monastiri was crowded enough to allow for a modicum of people watching and sparse enough to allow for the occupation of a patch of sand large enough to avoid that feeling of beach-claustrophobia, should there be such an affliction. Hell, I would be reasonably pleased if I could tell you that Monastiri had a crap beach, that was cramped and where the water was inundated with seaweed. The fact of the matter is that I have no opinion at all. This, of course, must be the case because we never went to Monastiri. Never saw the beach. Never got to put my towel on the banana lounge for hire. Never got to shake the sand out of my towel and onto the couple unfortunate enough to have chosen a patch of sand beside Mel and I, nor were we unfortunate enough to have made the mistake of choosing a patch of sand beside a similarly towel-shaking couple.

You see, for all the talk in the various Greek Islands guide books of the wonderful beaches at Paros there is one thing about Paros that, I believe, is underemphasised and somewhat mitigates the attraction of said beaches. In fact, Paros is plentiful in the one of the four natural enemies of the beach: wind (rain, sharks and donkey urine being the other three. ‘Donkey urine?’ you ask. Patience, dear reader. All will be revealed …). Paros is windy. More importantly, Paros in Autumn can really be quite windy, and without the offset of ridiculously sunny weather – which is de rigour in summer. But most importantly, if you are thinking I am making a big deal about the wind and its effect on having fun in the sun by the beach then I should make clear now that my partner in Greek Island-crime on this particular occasion has an aversion to wind and beaches that borders on fervency.

The upshot of this is that Mel got to pick her hotel with a pool – the Hotel Atlantis – and for the only time on our trip, as it turns out, we got good use out of it. Mel got to sun herself for the first time on our trip and I got to read my current Bill Bryson book. Oh, and we both took the occasional dip. This may not sound like much, and I hate to reiterate, but this is about as imposing as we were to get on any pool we had the fortune to frequent (or is that cost a fortune to frequent?).

But back to Bill Bryson: I love Bill. Well, I love the way Bill writes. Witty, intelligent, interesting and not just a little puncey. But I never finish his books. Short History of the World, Troublesome Words (which is a reference and not really a book, I imagine), Made in America … it is not like I don’t like them, but I run out of puff. I am not certain whether it is me who runs out of steam or Bill who becomes increasingly incessant about things in which I have no interest as the book winds its way to its conclusion. Nevertheless, the copy of Down Under I brought with me represented my fourth attempt at finishing a book written by Mr Bryson. I wanted to know whether he viewed Australia through a similar looking glass as I did and if I could not finish one of his books on the Greek Islands, where being lazy and reading books was my modus operendi, then I would give up on his books once and for all.

It might sound like we had an uneventful day, but I can sum up most of the day in three sentences: We woke up at 10am that morning, were out of the Hotel Stella by 10:45 am to catch the 11am bus to take us to the Atlantis and dropped off our bags in one of the ‘garden rooms’ there; By noon we had lunch and by 1pm we found out that getting to a Paros beach by boat was not an option due to the wind; We made it back to the hotel to hang out around the pool. That’s it. But after the effort of getting to the islands, I was eager to do a lot of nothing.

I punctuated my time by the pool by looking up from my book and laughing from time to time – thanks, Bill – while Mel listened to her iPod. Time was ticking by, but before it came time to start thinking about the 4pm snooze, Mel and I took a walk into and around the town. We took some great photos around the coastline, which was far less developed than I would have expected of any coastline. Nevertheless, buildings were going up. I love the simplicity of the Greek house – they put up a square, concrete frame, they then fill up the gaps with brick and paint the whole lot white. Viola – authentic Greek accommodation.

All of this walking around made us very tired, so it was time for a snooze and post snooze dinner. Dinner was about the least satisfying of our entire trip. We grabbed a spot in a restaurant by the water. As friendly as our waiter was, it did not make up for what was, from the start, an ordinary experience. About now, I should mention that the Greeks love cats. Cats were everywhere in Greece, much to my chagrin and Mel’s delight. They are all strays, yet they are all looked after by the locals. They are in the streets, by the wharves, in people’s homes. And in the restaurants. In fact, they were in the restaurant in which we were eating. Two cats were fighting throughout the restaurant. At first it was little funny. Then it was, like, enough already. I hoped that those who worked there might throw a little cold water on them – that ought to have done the trick. But nobody threw any water, because cats in Greece really do get their own way.

Anyway, back to our friendly waiter, whose approach to serving could best be described as just a bit leisurely. Just a bit. In a fateful moment of indecision, we took up the waiter on his offer to order for us. We didn’t qualify this at all, so I ended up with fish dip.

Now, fish dip for me is one of those foods that I don’t understand how people enjoy it. Fish balls are another. Tuna from a tin is another. The common theme, of course, is that I do not like fish. Unfortunately, the fish dip looked much like hommus and I took a great big swig. I didn’t do it twice.

Then there was the after-meal shot. I accept that most nationalities have some form of moonshine as part of their backwater cuisine, but for me to have one with dinner would be to suggest that I were eating in a backwater. Hmmm …

All’s the while I am staring at a balding – and I mean really balding - lady at the table next to me. My understanding is that women – as a group, worldwide – are increasingly balding. But in Greece more women seem to be going more bald, more often. We saw them everywhere. The upside of this is that they never seemed to wear scarves, so clearly it was not a source of embarrassment within their community. But, again, back to our friendly waiter.

As I get older I am increasingly aware that people are, well, people. This maxim leads to a number of profound observations, including one that a waiter who is as annoying in his tardiness as he is in his fish dip food selection may be the father of a particularly delightful young boy. In particular, I found much delight in the young boy who was the son of our fish dip selecting waiter of tardy disposition not only because he was playing with his dino-mechanical shooting toy thingamajig with the kind of gusto that only a young boy can muster, but he was the only local in the entire restaurant to display any disdain to the still-fighting cats by shooting them with said dino-toy. You have got to love kids.

The night came to an end with a inoffensive bill of €20 between us – including drinks – which almost made up for the otherwise lack lustre meal experience. Almost.

That was just about it for Mel and me in Naoussa. But before leaving, I had a unique opportunity to test my will power. Or, more specifically, Mel’s complete lack of will power.

Two days in and Mel is struggling with the whole pooh-paper-in-the-waste-bin. Sure, she complied. But she couldn't help but whine about it. On a seemingly unrelated topic, I spend more time at home on the internet than I really should. I know it. Certainly, Mel knows it. But with a bit of email here and a bit of Amazon, Google and The (Melbourne) Age there … minutes can turn to hours. And sometimes some more hours.

Bringing these two disparate personal flaws together was really quite easy. Mel was certain that I could not stay away from the internet during the entire trip. I was certain that Mel would whinge about the pooh-paper issue incessantly. Hence, a wager was placed that I would not access the internet – not once – while on holiday. Unless, of course, Mel uttered a single word about her displeasure regarding the Greek Island restrictions relating to toilet paper and toilets. Such an indiscretion would afford me ½ and hour’s internet time.

12 hours. That is all it took for me to get my ½ hour internet access.

Enough distraction. It is time for the main event – Santorini.

Chapter 4

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Prior to just about every holiday I take I tell myself that I'll be certain to partake in a modicum of concerted and deliberate physical activity while I am away. A run, a workout at gym ... not overly strenuous but with a certainly regularity is my intention. To that end, I will pack some gym kit – runners, gym shorts, t-shirts I am happy to write-off to sweat. However, with the glaring exception of a road trip I once took with a gym-going friend to Sydney from Melbourne around seven years ago my ability to maintain the motivation to do so while I am on holidays is in no way equal to my ambition.

Aware of this, I surprised even myself the following morning when I went on the run-cum-walk that I told myself I would have and met up with Mel in the chora for breakfast at 11 A.M. We both ordered fry-ups, which I realise would have more than offset the benefits of the run-come-walk I just had, when it dawned upon me that we had only booked our room at the Hotel Stella for one night in the hope of finding something a little more up-market. There was nothing inherently wrong with the Stella - I certainly appreciated the single-only beds, as they kept me safe distance from the kind of snoring Mel is inclined to produce, the volume levels of which belie her small stature – but the room could certainly be described as having only the basics. But the potential effort required in finding better accommodation more than offset the possibility of finding such accommodation – which is my way of saying that we both felt like having a lazy day – so I had about 15 minutes to let the hotel know that we wished to stay an extra night or two. I tried to ring them on my mobile, but the phone number I had was the local-only variety and I did not know what international and national prefixes I had to use to make it work. Meal already ordered, I bolted back to the Stella. I was conveniently decked out in my running gear so it seemed a natural thing to do. Pathetically, running for 10 minutes back to the hotel completely exhausted me. Gasping for air, the ladies at reception thankfully picked up on my intentions for an extra nights stay between breaths. I promptly turned around to make the 10 minute return run. Completely out of breath, I returned to the table where Mel was sitting having just been served.

It felt like one of those moments when you run to catch the Tube in London and the door closes just behind you. You look round the carriage hoping that someone has witnessed your uncanny ability to make that particular train journey happen. Occasionally, someone does and nods in your direction in appreciation of your effort. More often, London being London, nobody shows any sign of noticing anything and you smile to yourself and look rather stupid. I like to refer to these moments as Urban Indiana Jones moments. I rather like them. You might reason from this that adrenaline is not a big part of my daily life. You'd be right.

Returning to the room after breakfast for a shower and a change of clothes posed two problems, both toilet related. First, Mel was starting to freak out at the Greek policy of not flushing toilet paper down the toilet and, rather, storing it in a foot-operated bin beside the toilet. The second and not entirely unrelated problem is that I had left quite a reasonable quality deposit in said toilet that was refusing its onwards passage into the greater Greek Island sewage system despite many attempts. Ultimately, I found that a combination of nudging this particular nugget toward the toilets s-bend with the provided toilet brush whilst simultaneously flushing produced the desired result. There's a travel tip you won't find in the other guides!

While we are in the bathroom I have to comment on the Greek Islands showers. Much like many London showers, the shower head is not affixed high up on the shower wall but, rather, is hand held. I hate this. I cannot shake the thought of having another person washing their bits and pieces with one hand and then using that hand to hold the shower head. Then I come along and hold that shower head with my hand and wash my bits. Assuming the it is not in the cleaner's remit to specifically decontaminate the shower head handle on a daily basis, the link between my bits and all other previous occupiers of said bathroom's bits is a little close for my liking. But then again, I am just a bit sensitive about these things.

All clean and presentable, we headed for the general area of the port to catch the bus to take us to Naoussa. Or original plans for Paros were to stay at Naoussa instead of Parikia but 9 p.m. arrival the night before had pretty much put paid to that. All of the travel books and most web opinion had rated Naoussa quite highly – certainly they had painted a more pleasant picture than that portrayed of Parikia – so we were quite eager to take a look at it. In general, the vox pop was right; Naoussa really is quite nice. While I still think that Parikia has the nicer chora, Naoussa has far more appealing views into the sea. Mel tells me she likes the feel of Naoussa and if being lazy is your thing I would have to agree as it has slightly sleepy character. We priced out some accommodation in the area - a couple of places we fancied were Anna's at €25 a night and The Atlantis Hotel, with a pool, at €30 – and these compared very favourably with clean but otherwise spartan Hotel Stella at the aforementioned €25 a night. We were very tempted to stay in Naoussa that night and use the Stella as glorified baggage storage. However, more logical heads prevailed over lunch (which was a lovely grilled veggie and cheese crepe each ... though the Naoussa flies were proving persistent to the point of aggravation to Mel) and we took the bus back home to the Stella. The return bus trip seemed much quicker than the bus trip out and it seemed like no time until we were back at the hotel for the traditional 4pm snooze.

I say 'traditional 4pm snooze' for this is my wont on lazy, summer holidays. I like to get up before ten in the morning, walk about and see the sites and, if time and schedules permit, return for a kip at around four in the afternoon. Waking up at around six means that after showering one is ready for heading out around seven for a look around and pre-dinner beverages. That makes for a meal at around half-eight or nine and post beverages at about ten. Many reading this may feel that I am wasting the best part of the day by having a 4pm snooze, but I am fortunate in so far that Mel shares this wont. To each their own, I say.

On this occasion, however, I slept until about half-seven when Mel's expressions of delight regarding the current sunset she was seeing from our room window woke me. Having been to the Greek Islands before I mentioned that eye-catching sunsets were something she would become used to.

Before getting onto the topic of sunsets, I feel compelled to point out that I am not like the character portrayed by Brendan Fraser in Bedazzled that cries at the beauty of the sunset and I am not like the part played by Wes Bentley in American Beauty that feels that there is so much beauty around him in every day things that he is almost driven to cry all of the time. I believe I am rather more pragmatic than that. Stoic, even. Nevertheless, I also feel compelled to say that even if you never really noticed sunsets before, in your every day life, I would be surprised if you didn't notice them – and notice them with some measure of affection – during any summertime vacation you may choose to spend in the Greek Islands.

So when Mel expressed her disappointment that some low lying cloud was interrupting her view of the moment that the sun touches horizon I was quick to assure her that she would have many more opportunities to such an event.

Sunset gazing done we headed out to find a place to eat. The previous night's dining was so enjoyable that I did not think that we would top it. In retrospect, I think we might have. After a little less effort walking around the chora than the night before we settled on Apolloz, in part because there was a photo of the proprietor standing alongside Sean Connery, presumably taken after he had enjoyed a night of fine dining at Apolloz. As a man I think it is fair to say that most men would follow their instincts to dine where the quintessential James Bond dined. It is all about the innate desire to be more like James Bond. The gadgets. The women. The danger. The death. Ok ... not the death ... but most guys reading this will understand what I am on about.

Our dinner at Apolloz marked the beginning of the Moussaka Challenge. This challenge was to involve my consumption of moussaka at each island we would visit and the rating of said regional moussaka. The moussaka at Apolloz may not have been traditional but it was very enjoyable. It had a gravy-and-soft feel to it that I was not to find at any the other islands we were to visit and I am happy to spoil the ending by stating that I did not find a better example on this holiday.

And thus, having had our first full day in the Greek Islands we headed back to the Stella – and our snore minimising single beds – for the evening.