Chapter 6

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You can never get up to early to catch an important ferry ride, I always say. With that in mind, we turned down the Atlantis Hotel proprietor’s offer to provide us with breakfast (at a profit, I am sure … but our host is in business to make money so who am I to take offense?) and made straight for Parikia. Sure, we were early. But that would give us a chance to eat, for breakfast, the quintessential breakfast of Paros – crepes.

No, I did not mean to type Paris instead of Paros. I don’t know whether I expected souvalakis, hommus, and feta to be the sole offering at every restaurant I frequented, but I was disappointed with the amount of non-Greek food on offer in Paros. This artificial need for Greek authenticity did not last, as my wont for Mexican food at a later stage will illustrate. But the preeminence of crepes, pasta and pizza irked me. For me, a holiday and holiday food are inextricably linked: mee goreng in Indonesia, burgers in the US, fruit in the tropics, pretzels in Germany, roast lunch in the UK and beer in Belgium.

So I sit down to eat what turns out to be a massive cheese, capsicum (peppers, for you Poms), tomato and mushroom crepe.

As a person who speaks English natively, it is easy to be smug about how other nationals butcher our language. Never mind that I kept saying 'Good Morning' in Greek - phonetically, Kali Mera - well after 6pm because it was the only greeting I could remember. Never mind that I did not know what 'Thank you' was in Greek (phonically, 'Efcharisto' is the answer, should you be wondering).

Nevertheless, I have no problem that I chuckled for a good few days every time I looked up at a menu board to see that there were two types of crepe usually on offer: sweet and salty. To me, sweet crepes made a lot of sense - I mean who doesn't love Nutella, or sugar, or syrup on a crepe. But who wants a salty crepe? Who wants a crepe with a great wad of salt on it? It wasn't until I realised that, to the Greeks, that salty crepes actually referred to savory crepes that things made more sense. Enter the chuckles ...

Anyway, it was a bloody good crepe and it filled in the time waiting for the Blue Star ship 'Naxos' to arrive which would take us to Santorini. We would have hung around this particular cafe for longer, but a group of adolescents - who really were very nice and even a little charming - were conversing at what seemed to be at the top of their lungs. This was not unusual in Greece. In fact Mel, who is not one to make broad and sweeping statements about anything, felt obliged to express to me that she felt the Greeks were a nation of yellers. As in screamers. Certainly, we often heard (again, phonetically) 'Ella, Ella ...' (translated; 'Come, come ...') being shouted throughout the streets with volumes defying the friendly nature in which they were offered. Not that I am one to throw stones. I am often told that my voice is foghorn-like itself. At breakfast in a cafe, though, it made for difficult conversation. And then came the smoke.

Do the Greeks love a smoke. I hadn't seen cigarette advertising on a billboard for about twenty years, most of which was spent in Australia where such advertising has long been illegal. In Greece they were everywhere. And they seemed to be working because many, many Greeks smoked. Many young Greeks. Just like the young Greeks at the table beside ours.

I was genuinely surprised at the amount of smoke that six pre-adults could produce. Especially given the amount and volume of talking going on amongst their group. It might have raised the attention of the local fire department, but I imagine they were all on a smoke break (cue snare drum roll and cymbal).

I'll say this just once: when you are in someone else's country you have to respect what they do. Just because we don't smoke around food in Australia, or in the UK generally, we can't expect Greeks to hold that value. If you want people who have that value then stay home. Nevertheless, all that smoke and all that yelling did not encourage us to stay at this particular cafe. We headed to the port to catch our boat to Santorini.

And that was not the most pleasant experience either. The boat was well over 15 minutes late all those waiting were gathered around the nearby roundabout in the middle of a substantial amount of traffic. When the boat did come we were hurried into the stern of the boat where the transported cars were kept so that the Naxos (remember, that was the name of this boat) could make up some time. If that was not enough, some guy in very close proximity of my left ear started whistling Popcorn. Popcorn, of all things! When the stern closed the boat itself started beeping out a tune ... something classical, but that is all I remember. Then the whistling guy starts whistling that tune!

I don't understand why people are so comfortable about whistling in public. And I am not talking about wolf whistling or whistling for affect, as in "(Descending tone whistle) ... that's a stiff price, Bob". I am talking about whistling a tune. Loudly. And, if the perpetrator is over 50, with vibrato. If I were to start singing ... say, a showtune ... let's pick Cabaret - loudly and with suitable vibrato, which is none as I am well shy of 50 - then I would attract a measure of attention. None of it positive. Most of it along the lines of 'Loony', 'Shutup', and 'Annoying'. Yet people are more than happy to inflict their whistles upon the general public and, more importantly, me. And if I was to say 'Shutup, you loony ... you are annoying me ...' well that would make me a bad person in the eyes of society. Or so I believe. Let me know what you think. In the mean time, I have a story about a boat to return to.

Once Mel and I were out of the stern of the Naxos, we headed up onto the deck to find our seat. We did not reserve any special seating, or at least not knowingly. When we found our seats,though, we found them to be in a separate area of the ship, much like a business lounge. Clearly, the person who sold us the ticket was happy to charge us a pretty penny for this seat. Certainly, no price options were mentioned when we bought them. Nevertheless, we were in a nice part of the ship and I was not too fussed that we might have paid a premium for our seats.

The second strike against the person who sold us the tickets happened when Mel and I also found that our seats were apart. Six rows apart. On opposite sides of the aisle. Of themselves these mistakes were an inconvenience. But for me - who is aware of what might go wrong - occupying the unoccupied seat beside Mel presented its own problem. Or, at least, problems in my mind: Would someone come to claim their seat? Would things get nasty? Would I not be able to get the seat allocated to me - six rows back - and have to stand on the deck ... alone? Silly thoughts of a silly and petty man, you might think. But wouldn't you know it, my worst fears were realised. Though, fortunately, they were realised upon someone else.

I was in the middle of watching a Greek movie of dubious quality. The male actors all had long hair, Fabio style. They did not seem to be great actors, though of course the subtleties might have been lost on me due to my lack of understanding of the Greek language. Still, I feel there are only so many times so many actors can place their hands to their foreheads and throw said foreheads back in anguish, uttering what seemed to be - to my untrained ears - the Greek equivalent of 'Mama Mia!'. They all wore dark suits and sunglasses. They were gangsters, as it turned out. Anyway, it was around this point in the movie when the gangsters blew a hole in the wall of a safe to steal what seemed to me a floppy cucumber (I don't get it either) when the cucumber hit the fan a few rows ahead. Two women - I thought they were French but Mel thought they might be Greek - confronted a couple. 'Come on! Move! We have tickets! Move! Come on!'. I have always thought of the French (and the Greeks) for being a rather charming lot so I can safely say that these two sows were not what I believed to be indicative of either nationality. When they sat down, they continued to inflict the vociferations upon the rest of the cabin. At least the people who originally had their seats were quiet. These two disgusted me.

Anyway, I got down to reading just a little more Bill Bryson and before I knew it we we in the mouth of the caldera of Satorini. Mel was eager to stay in her seat - I don't think she was feeling the best - but I encouraged her to come up top with me. I had seen this site before and knew that should be disappointed if she missed out. Sure enough, we arrived up top just as the Naxos navigated the narrow entry into the caldera. With the volcanic formations, cliff-side residences and clear water, Mel was soon smiling.

Santorini is really a wonderful place, but before we could experience that we had to trudge through yet another hell-ish port. The new port at Santorini reminded me of Pireaus, which is not a good thing. Hordes of people selling accommodation, smelly motorbikes, loads of cars ... and not a clue about what to do or where to go, despite that I had been there previously. What Mel and I did know is that we needed to catch the public bus to Thira, the main Santorini on the caldera. Certainly, the port was full of buses, but all of them seemed to be chartered by tour operators. We walked all the way to the end of the rather large bus depot and then half way back we spotted a very modern green bus with the word 'Thira' emblazoned across the top of the windscreen. We threw our luggage into the storage areas by the bus's side and hopped on the bus. The port is accessed by a very thin and windy road and, as on my previous visit, I am amazed by the dexterity of the bus driver in navigating it.

About 45 minutes on and we arrive at Thira with only one more obstacle to overcome. Over enthused accommodation hawkers surround the bus and get uncomfortably close - physically close - as we gather our luggage by the side of the bus. Like a swarm of blow flies they offer what they feel are words that cannot be denied; 'Cheap, cheap ...'. One woman in particular I found ruthless and she approached me on several occasions, in spite of me using as harsh words as I am comfortable using. No promises of cheap accommodation are going to win my business on this night. On this night, I will sleep by the caldera. The majestic caldera. All that was needed was some suitable accommodation.

Who was to know how difficult it prove to find suitable accommodation.

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.

Chapter 3

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There are around 1,400 islands that make up the Greek Islands and these are visited by millions of people every year. Though Mel and I had not yet decided upon our itinerary, Santorini was our only fixed destination. If you have seen a postcard showing the Greek Islands then the odds are that the photograph you had seen was taken in one of the two main towns in Santorini that straddle the Caldera. I had spoken about Santorini to Mel often, warmly espousing the views, the equal of which I had not yet seen. I am also fond of Paros. It has good beaches, a decent place or three to enjoy a beverage and a well presented and picturesque Chora (major town, in Greek Islands speak). Besides, Paros is the hub of the Cyclidic Islands and is inexpensive to boot. Still, I encouraged Mel to get her own opinion as to where we should head by pointing her towards the book Greek Island Hopping (herein most referred to as 'The Guide'), which was to become our confidant, teacher, bible and friend over the next two weeks. It is not a perfect book and is not without error. But it was a useful companion and tool.

Arriving at the new Athens airport – its newness owing to the recent hosting of the Olympic Games, I imagine – was a non-event. It is clean, efficient and not much else. Far from an insult, I mean this as a compliment. An airport, much like an Australian Rules Football umpire, is doing its job best when you don’t really notice it is there. From here, we would need to hop the X96 bus to hell on earth – Pireaus. More on that in a moment.

I knew that the X96 bus was to be our chariot into hell’s own fire after asking the lovely girl at the information counter at the airport. This conversation started in the same fashion so many of my conversations would go in Greece. I would use what little Greek I had picked up living in the outer western suburbs of Melbourne to get the ball rolling and then I would have to throw up my hands after I had exhausted my extensive vocabulary of … oh … ten words.

‘Tikanis’, I would start.

‘Galla’ would come the reply. I knew this meant ‘Good’.

A further reply would then come, ‘Qhdjkdl dhjdl dhdjd hjdl dlaqywtdeuidos lxz …’ or, at least, that is what I made of it. I would then throw up my hands implore the locals for the kind of understanding travellers can never take for granted but always do. I must add that the Greeks I came across, almost to person, were more than happy to oblige with whatever English they had at their disposal. The lady at the airport, I must also add, had more than enough English up her sleeve to address my trivial concerns.

As an aside, I cannot blame the Greeks for thinking that I was Greek after uttering my the very few Greek words I had at my disposal. For one thing, my very few words are pronounced impeccably. There is a sound that the Greeks make in their words that is somewhere between a G and C (or K) that I think I have nailed. Secondly, I imagine my physical features are not unlike that of a Greek man, though I am not Greek. My sister commented as such upon our return during the compulsory viewing of the 300-odd happy snaps that Mel and I had taken on the trip.

The X96 bus takes about an hour to get into Pireaus and was really quite full. A couple of fellow travelers to the rear and locals pretty much elsewhere. Soon after leaving the airport we passed a great big blue building. ‘Ah … already I feel like I am really in Greece’, I thought. ‘They really do love their blue buildings. How nice and how authentic and, moreover, how surprising to see such a magnificent blue building so close to the airport’. It was just about then that I realised that this grand, blue store was, in fact, an Ikea store.

Driving around the outskirts of Athens I could not help but feel slight pangs of guilt. On my previous trip to the Greek Islands I helped a couple of Greek guys, who were brothers, have a great night out at bar called Murphy’s on Paros – continuing the world-wide trend of totally inappropriately located Irish bars - by spontaneously befriending some English girls, some Irish girls and a gaggle of American girls. We all hung out together, dancing with inordinate vigor to Bon Jovi’s ‘It’s My Life’ despite the fact that it had already been played five times that night. We had a whale of a time. Meanwhile the swarm of Italian men who had descended upon the Greek Islands during the peak season and found themselves at this particular bar had to be content dancing with other men. Their friends, I imagine. But men nonetheless. On my last day in Paros I saw my new Greek buddies at the ferry dock and one wrote down their address in Athens. He told me that if I was ever in Athens and did not look them up that it would be an offence to both them and their entire family. The truth of the matter is that I lost their contact details almost immediately and really had no way of getting in contact with them. Still, I could not shake the feeling that my time in Athens represented nothing more that flipping the bird to the parents of two really good guys.

Anyway, with overwhelming feelings of guilt and a new found appreciation for the kind post modern minimalist neo-Greek cubist architecture that is an Ikea building, it felt like no time till we were in Pireaus. The last time I was in Pireaus I felt like it was quite the cesspool. Since then I can say that nothing seems to have improved. It is a dirty, smelly, surly semi-industrial city-come-suburb and we had to kill a couple of hours there before our boat was due to arrive. Countless people of dubious character approached us with equally dubious merchandise to sell. Watches, sunglasses, pirate CDs, binoculars, mobile phone cases and last, but certainly not least, a 10 pack of tissues were mercilessly flogged to us. It did not matter that we were sitting in a restaurant. These people would just waltz on in, insistently showing their wares to Mel and I as we sat at a table eating.

And, oh, in what fine establishments did we eat! One particular place springs to mind. It had a four page menu full of wonderful selections to choose from, but only four of these dishes were on offer. And there was a wide selection beers listed on this menu, but when it came down to it I could choose any beer I wanted as long as it was an Amstel. Eventually, we found a place to eat that was inviting enough. There is a café located at the docks, right up towards where the ships leave from. Sure, we were still pedalled goods of questionable quality and origin, but it was a relaxing way to spend an hour-and-a-half waiting for the fast boat to Paros.

Taking the fast boat is not a cheap option at €40 a piece. Working in the UK, I could take some solace from the fact that there are €1.6 to each GBP. Nevertheless, it didn't take much imagine to see that this rather necessary element of island hopping was going to prove quite expensive. But if you have ever island hopped before and taken the slow boat you know that half way through the trip you will, invariably, lament that you did not dig that bit deeper into your wallet to find the money for the fast boat. If I remember correctly from my previous time at the Greek Islands, the slow boat from Pireaus to Paros , takes about five hours and the fast boat about half of that.

Not that this seemed to be the case on this particular journey from Pireaus to Paros. The speed of the fast boats depends, in part, on reasonably calm waters and I think it is fair to say that the waters on this particular day were not reasonably calm. I do not usually get ill on boats, but on this occasion I did get a little bit of a headache and my appetite was not at its usually voracious level – though this might have been due to the dodgy ricotta pie I purchased on board. Mel tells me that she saw one guy vomiting with much gusto into the tried and true receptical that is the sick-bag. If this were the only upshot of all of this vertical boat activity then that would be that. Unfortunately, though, it also meant that our supposed fast boat took four hours to get to Paros – not much of a time saving given the premium price of the ticket. Worse still, we arrived at Paros at 9 p.m.. Surely all the decent accommodation would be gone by then.

The truth of the matter is that we did not really look so hard for decent accommodation and were happy to settle just for accommodation. Period. And on this rather woolly night in Parikia, the port town of Paros, accommodation was found in the form of the Hotel Stella. The people who ran it seemed nice enough. The room they showed us was clean and, importantly, I was starving so I was eager to put my bags down and clock into a nice restaurant. Besides, at E25 a night – or about £8 each – it was an opportunity to recover some of the expense of the fast boat.

With bags safely allayed, we set off to find a bite. Unusually, Mel was even hungrier that I was. Perhaps that dodgy ricotta pie I bought on the ferry was still having an affect on me. She kept suggesting places to eat and I kept knocking them back, hopeful of finding a place a little more memorable in which to dine. My vision was rewarded when we came upon the Levantis restaurant. It was a semi-open-roofed affair with a friendly waitress. The terracotta coloured walls and loose-pebble flooring lending a romantic atmosphere to the evening. My grilled cous cous was more than passable and Mel's beetroot salad seemed to hit the spot. Dessert was a white chocolate and sour cherry sensation for Mel and a so-so cheese platter for me. The only downside of this evening was that Levantsis would set our expectations for restaurant quality artificially high. It turned out that Paros provided by far the largest number of better quality places to eat than any of the islands we were to visit. In fact, what we could not have known at that point was that the Greek Islands, in the main, are not home to many quality places to eat at all. My advice is this: satiate any foodie desires you might have in Paros before you head off to any of the other islands and then forget your foodie desires completely. This will help to avoid disappointment.

Parikia is roundly indicted – unfairly in my view – by most travel guides. I agree that the views over the water are not the best compared to many other islands, but I feel it has a great mix of things to do and – as I have already mentioned - one of the nicest choras of the islands. The streets are narrow, the buildings are impossibly white, there is a reasonable opportunity to shop and everything was neat and tidy. Certainly, during our search for a place to eat, Mel was impressed.

Fully fed and roughly acclimated with our environs, it was time to retire. It was about midnight and our journey had started at 3:00 A.M. Whoever said that getting there was half the fun must never have, I imagine, gone anywhere notably fun.