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.

Chapter 10

www.flickr.com

The more I get on in life the more I realise that life is all about interpretation. Take, for instance, the story about Irene Chrysovalantou.

The year is 303 A.D. and the Emperor Diocletian prohibits everybody and anybody from possessing the Scriptures - as in bible scriptures - in what I can only assume was an attempt to halt the spread of Christianity. Despite this, a woman and devout Christian by the name of Irene Chrysovalantou was found in possession of said scriptures. This crime, along with refusing to deny the Christian faith, put her in a spot of bother with the local authorities.

As punishment, the local governor had her sent to a bordello. A house of prostitution, if you will. Not satisified with that, the governor insists that she spends her time there naked and has her chained up so that every young dumb and full of ... trouble ... lad and every scab ridden sailor could take advantage of her with a minimum of fuss.

But a funny thing happened. Not a soul laid a hand on our Irene, despite the ease of access and government encouragement to do so. Rather miffed, the governor had her put to death either by being burned to death or shooting an arrow through her throat or both, depending on who is telling the story.

Now, from where I sit at my kitchen table, there are three possible reasons as to why nobody touched Irene during her time of incarceration. One, is that the good lord rewarded her years of devout Christian faith by protecting her from the intentions of the local lads. The second was that those who knew Irene as a good sort - as in a good woman, not one to sleep with - protected her from the intentions of the local lads. The third possibility is that Irene was a thoroughly unattractive woman. The christian orthodox church chose to settle on option number one and made her a saint.

Saint Irene is the namesake of the Greek island of Santorini.

But Santorini was not the original name this island. The original name was Thira. I have no idea as to the significance of the name Thira and struggle to find references to it in the New World Encyclopedia, otherwise known as the World Wide Web.

I mention all of this for two reasons. The first is that the Greek government is in the process of officially reverting Santorini to its original name of Thira. For me, I feel a little saddened by this as all of my memories here are gathered under the name of Santorini and I will have one less story to tell at dinner parties - the story of Saint Irene. The second is that today - in the scheme of telling my Greek Island hopping story - was day-trip-on-a-boat day and on that day we were going to Santorini's live volcano, Io and Thirassia - or little Thira.

First thing in the morning we headed down to The Old Port, as opposed to The New Port where we had first arrived, via a cable car. In sharp contrast to The New Port, which is busy, crowded, noisy, smelly and generally not a great place to be, The Old Port has its charm. It is small,unfussed and perhaps even a little picturesque. We were running a little late so we hopped on the boat quickly and were on our way to see the volcano.

Of course, when you think of volcanoes you think of hot, running lava, steam shooting up from the earth, and maybe the odd geiser. At least, that is what I think of. There is none of that going on at the Volcano of Santorini (or, Thira, if you must). Here is the odd plume of steam - if you look closely enough - coming from cracks in the ground. There is volcanic rock everywhere. And, you know, I am as excited by rock as much as the next man. As long as that next man is not a geologist. It is baron, almost martian. The odd place smells like sulfur, but then again so does the bathroom after Mel has a decent session on the toilet. But I paid my €1 admission fee to the volcano and got to tick that box, so that was that.

The boat then headed off to one of the hot pools in the area. They are hot because of the volcanic activity in the area. As we approached the hot pool, we could identify them by the discolouration of the water. About 25 metres from shore the boat turned around so that the stern faced the hot pool and dropped anchor. In a flash Mel had stripped down to her bikini and looked at me to do the same. Not that I was wearing a bikini, but you get the idea. And this is where I need to digress.

I remember being a six year old boy in Grade One at St Albans East Primary School going to swimming lessons and rather enjoying the learning of the skill of swimming. I might have enjoyed it, but my Physical Education teachers did not because I had a habit of swallowing what must have been litres of the chlorinated, people infused water. There are, of course, many jokes to be had about my inability to keep my mouth shut, even at that early age, but I would ask that you keep your mind on the story at hand.

The effect of swallowing so much pool water was that it would cause me to vomit. On the bus on the way back to school. Hence, my P.E. teachers' reticence to take me on swimming lessons. This reticence eventually turned into omitting me from swimming lessons altogether and the legacy of this remains: I can't swim. Well, at least not in any meaningful way. I could probably keep my head above water for a minute, maybe a minute-and-a-half. I can swim, maybe, 25 metres. Maybe. And, by my reckoning, it was about 25-30 metres from the stern of the boat to the hot pool by the shore.

Clearly, I am not shy about telling the story behind my inability to swim. As an extension of this, you should assume that I had told Mel about it. I can add that I have probably done so on several occasions. Yet, there we were on a glass bottomed boat (oh ... did I mention our boat had a glass bottom?) in the middle of the Mediterranean with a hot pool 25-30 metres away that we are supposed to swim to and Mel is looking up at me like a Golden Retriever looks up at its owner just after the owner picks up the dog's lead in preparation for taking it on a walk through the park. Suffice it to say that I had to send Mel off on her was on her own and I played the role of bag-man.

Oddly, this was not to be the last time that Mel - to my bemusement- was of the thought that I had, over the 5 years we have known each other, somehow overstated my lack of swimming ability. But for now, back to the glass bottomed boat.

With Mel safely back on board and with me safely handing her bag back to her we made our way to Thirassia. Mel and I chose the front of the boat as our vantage point and I must say that I enjoyed myself thoroughly. It was not a perfect day, climatically speaking, but it was a good one - perhaps 25-27 degrees Celsius - and there was only the odd cloud in the sky. The spray made by the boat surging through the water would occasionally treat the bow dwellers to a cool and refreshing spray. The water was clear. The view up from the Caldera of the sheer faces of the islands was, if not quite breathtaking, certainly inspiring. Which made me all the more angry to see a man to the starboard side of the boat flicking his cigarette butt into the majestic Mediterranean.

I have referred previously to the Greeks' love of smoking. I have also previously mentioned my genuine belief that as travelers to a foreign land that we can not expect the locals to hold the same beliefs as we do. If the Greeks want to smoke, let them smoke. If they want large billboards up in their cities encouraging more people to smoke, let them have large billboards. If they want to sell cigarettes to young people ... and I understand if you feel this point is arguable, it certainly makes me a little uncomfortable ... then who are we to say otherwise? And if these people want to smoke in a restaurant - an enclosed,indoor restaurant - well then, as visitors to a foreign land, we just have to suck it up (pun not intended). But it is beyond me how any self respecting human being can look the natural beauty mother nature has to offer right in the eye and then throw litter into it. This is probably the mentality that turned Piraeus into the cesspool that it is today and I think the Greek government should legislate in this area to protect its environment. In other words, I think this knob who doesn't know any better than to throw his cigarette butt into the jewel that is the Mediterranean should be fined to such an extent and with such regularity that he soon learns that such an action is not acceptable.

It is with some surprise then that I say that the waters around Thirassia, and most of the Greek Islands we went to visit, are really quite clear. And there are fish that come right up the shore in search of food. Nature, it seems, can be quite robust.

Our guide book said that only fisherman and sailors frequented Thirassia and that tourism did not have a great impact here, so I was not expecting much. I was pleasantly surprised. The port is OK in that it is fairly clean and not too busy. Some of the people from our boat tour had decided their experience of Thirassia would be to wade in the shallow, clear waters and I get that: this would be very relaxing and we did not have the time on Thirassia to do much else. Mel and I, though, thought that we might take a quick look at the main village of Horio, which like Fira on Santorini, is at the top of a sheer cliff face. Unlike at Fira, Mel and I thought that we would walk there, up the zig-zagging path that was much like the zig-zagging road the bus from the Old Port of Santorini took to get us to Fira. This path, though, was a pedestrian only affair. Pedestrian and donkeys, as it turned out.

Just as on Santorni, one option of getting up to the town from the port is ride a donkey. The things is that I am not big on riding animals - they have a mind of their own and I would prefer not to be on one if they should suddenly think that they don't particularly like having someone on their back while they are climbing a bunch of steps. So I convinced Mel that the ten minutes we were told it would take to walk up to the town would not only be an adventure, it would also be an opportunity to burn off a small portion of the many meals we ate during the day (holidays being holidays). Now, I am not saying that the walk from the port to the town from the port is any more than ten minute but I can certainly say that it FEELS like it significantly more, especially when a group of smiling, happy fellow tourists atop a pack of donkeys pass you as you sweat, puff, pant and occasionally swear. My tip here is to spend the €4 and to be just a little brave - if donkey riding is not your thing - and get yourself on top of one of these trusty steeds. Should the steed you are upon decide to start break-dancing half way up, just remember that my policy is that of all care, no responsibility.

Mindful of our time restrictions, we only took a brief look around Horio. It is a sleepy place and our walk was only disturbed by a restaurant at the top of our climb who was hawking for business. Tourism here is, no my at least, non-existent. Saying this, I could see myself staying here if I could find a reasonable room at a reasonable rate and a place to eat. I am not certain if such things exists, but I hope that they do. To an extent, it occured to me that the relaxed nature of Horio should be what visiting the Islands is all about. Thankfully, on our trip, we would find such a place. But that would be getting ahead of ourselves.

We returned to the port and had a bite to eat at one of the several cafes there. Mel had a swordfish souvalaki, which she quite enjoyed. The lamb version, which I had, was rather less satisfying. Nevermind; by that time, we had a boat to catch.

Second last stop on the itinerary was to stop over a reef which, of course, plays to the strength of the glass-bottomed boat. This was rather underwhelming as aside from the odd small fish I did see one rather large eel. The most excitement for me occurred when an older lady nuzzled her head between Mel and me to get a look. Personal space for this woman clearly was not an issue, though I took a little pleasure trying to stand closer to Mel, creating a tight grip around this womans neck. I am surprised she got it out when she chose to.

The boat then passed my Io and we had the option of getting out there and making our own way back to Fira. Given our visit to Io that day before, we opted to stay on the boat, which then returned us to the Old Port. And at the Old Port something that surprised me and that was to surprise myself.

Despite my angst about riding animals I decided to join Mel on the adventure of a lunch time that is riding the donkeys back up to the town. Now, there are two ways that I could interpret the donkey ride. One is that the donkeys are damn smart and well trained because with a minimum of fuss and a disturbing lack of interest and intervention from their handlers as they navigated their way up the steps. Sure, they squashed the odd pedestrian against the walls of the path along the way, but that is part of the charm. Sure, when one group of donkeys needs to get passed another group of donkeys heading in the other direction there is a crush and thrust that I can only describe as a rugby-like donkey scrum, but this is part of the adventure.

The other way of interpreting this donkey ride is that I am one hell of a donkey-rider. I am sticking with the latter.

Either way this was just about the best €7 (for both of us) that I spent on the trip. I did, however, have a pang of guilt when I saw one of the donkey operators at our destination treat my trusty steed a little more roughly than I thought he (or she ... I am not an expert and I did not look, to be honest) should have been treated with. It made me think that perhaps the life of a pack donkey was not all it should be.

All in all this had been a good day and we returned to the hotel to prepare for the evening. You will recall that we had to move rooms on each of the two nights we stayed at the Cori Rigas and while that could be viewed as inconvenient, it did give us a chance to have a look at what else the Cori Rigas had to offer on the back of the wonderful room we stayed in the night before. Again, the room was fabulous. It was quite small - certainly smaller than you might think for the price - but the bed at the far end of the room had a window right beside it, from which all you could see was the caldera. It was just like sleeping on a platform that hovered over the mouth of the ancient volcano. I loved it.

That night we ate at Pirea and while the food was only OK the service was good and prompt, the latter we found to be rare in these parts. Over dinner we discussed the only real goal I had for this trip and that was to find an island that I had not been before and was off the well worn path tread by other travelers. This island would be quiet and peaceful and beautiful. It would also have a few eating a drinking options and the people would be friendly, not overly conscious about making a buck a tourist-driven-buck and relaxed. It turned out that we found such an island, but first we had to get there.

Chapter 9

www.flickr.com

This day had begun in a decidedly average fashion. And, in this case, I use the word average as a euphemism for rather below average. Facing eviction from our room at the Athina I was faced with the challenge of getting us some new digs for the night. The reason it was I alone and not Mel was that I was the one who had turned down the Scirocco the day before. I had my reasons, but Mel would have been happy there. After all, it had a pool. But today was a new day and I really could not be bothered running around looking for accommodation again so I thought I would go, cap in hand, back to the Scirocco. It was about 10:30am. Again I was greeted by Arthur the Albanian, but this time his tone was slightly different. "No ... we do not have any rooms! Why didn't you come back last night?". No need to rub it in, Arthur. So I headed closer into town and I tried a few more spots. No luck. It was getting late - after lunch - and I was worried more boats would be docking bringing more tourists and more people requiring accomodation so I had to hurry. In desperation, I back tracked to a point about 50 metres behind the Athina and found the Cori Rigas Apartments. Speaking to the Proprietor, Mr Rigas, who manned a table in the restaurant area. We could have a room for two nights as long as we were happy changing rooms each night. Not perfect, I thought, but it will do. I ask if I can see the rooms. "No ... all full ..." came the reply. Hmmph. Regardless hunter (as in hunter/gatherer) fashion, I took much pride in telling Mel that I had sourced or accommodation for the next two nights, despite the fact that I could not get in to see them. We left our bags with him, in the restaurant area. I wanted to leave him a deposit to be certain of retaining our room. Mr Rigas would not have it. He seemed like a nice man but I wanted to be sure of our accommodation. "You have better things to do with your time than arrange accommodation with me!" he said in a understated yet reassuring tone. At the same time, two Australians were checking out. When they spoke to Mr Rigas, they referred to him as Mr Rigas. I do not know why I found this reassuring. We then spoke, as countrymen are prone to do. Great place, they tell me. Mr Rigas is a good man, they tell me. Lived up to the feedback they had heard, they said. I certainly hoped so. My fears were to prove unfounded, but I was not to know that as we set off for Io on an inherently unstable quad bike. That, I believe, is where we were in the story.

Or rather, we were leaving Io. Mel again took the reigns of The Hog - the 50cc quad bike - and we headed to the black beach of Perissa. To get there, we had to go back down the backroads to Thira and on to Perissa. Traffic was getting a little busier so it was not quite as uneventful a ride as was the one to Io. But I am here to tell the tale so I can say that the trip did not end how I had feared on many occasions along the way that it might.

On arrival we found the soundscape to be dominated by a wedding reception taking place in one of the bars. It was really loud. Inescapable. We strolled down a path that ran alongside the beach which was full of sunbeds. On a black beach, of course, sunbeds are a necessity. Lying down on a volcanic beach's black sand does not go well with ones designer togs. Or any other togs for that matter. There was a very large woman on the beach who had no togs on at all, which was rather unfortunate. On the other side of the road was the obligatory blue-domed white church and the entire stretch was peppered with eateries. And that, as far as Mel and I at Perissa was concerned, was that. Time to get the wheels turning again for the return trip to Thira. This time, I would take the helm.

Traffic had increased on the roads yet again from the previous occasion and it was starting to make me nervous. What's more, the wind had picked up to almost a gale. The flimsy helmets we wore on our heads - much like baseball helmets, but thinner and lighter and, in the case of my helmet, with an exposed bolt sticking into my head - were blowing off. Mel thought I took a couple of corners too fast and thought I should have slowed down to account for the wind. Should have ... could have ... suffice to say that we arrived in Thira, returned the bike and headed to the Cora Rigas Apartments for our first look at our accommodation for the night. We met up with Mr Rigas in the now familiar restaurant area and he took us down to our room.

Score! It was a long room that extended into the ground itself, underneath a donkey track. There were two distinct sections - a reception room at the front and a bedroom that is accessed through a pair of double doors that was quaint, authentic and romantic all at once. The furniture is not as old as the 250-year-old room itself, but it is suitably un-new. Our balcony overlooks the caldera nicely. Mr Rigas explained the workings of things in such a manner as to be totally charming. Mel did not get her pool at this place, but the look on her face told that she was as taken with this place as I was.

Happenstance is a funny thing. If I had initially accepted the Scirocco things might have been easier and Mel would have had her pool. But I would have been underwhelmed and this would have weighed down the entire leg of the trip. We might have gotten lucky, but isn't that what island hopping is all about?

Chapter 8

www.flickr.com

I buy, therefore I am. I am certain that this would sound better if it were in Latin and it is not like I didn't do a fair old Google to find out what the phrase might be in Latin. Never mind. What it means is that if I feel I want to do something or be something then I will purchase the paraphernalia associated with said thing. If I want to feel like I am a better keyboard player than I am, I will buy a keyboard. If I want to be a guitarist I will buy a guitar, and then an affects unit, and then and amp before I even think about a lesson. Then there is Mel's favourite example. Before I got my motorcycle licence and before I even knew I wanted to ever ride a motorbike I bought a helmet, a jacket, some jeans with Kevlar inserts and some very serious boots. I bought the gear so, in my mind, I was already 80% the motorcyclist. Thankfully, I purchased a scooter (much loved) about a year after that so most of the gear came in handy. With the glaring exception of the boots which would have looked out of place on a 600cc tourer let alone a 150cc scooter traveling around Melbourne's CBD.

Of course, the purchase of motorcycle safety gear goes hand in hand with my risk averseness, or rather my awareness of things that can go wrong. I remember being around the age of eight or ten and reading a sealed section of a Wheels car magazine in Australia. It covered road safety and the sealed section was required as it had photographs of what could happen when the roads weren't so safe. I recall one photo vividly showing one perfectly formed - if bloody - leg and the other leg which was the source of the blood. A motorcyclist had come off and the bone of leg that hit the ground had been sheered out of the leg so that the leg's skin and bone was attached to the cyclist's hip, but below that they were separate. I would rather do what I can to avoid that.

Which brings me full circle as to why I got my motorcycle licence in the first place. On my previous occasion the Greek Islands I couldn't help but think that getting around the Islands on a scooter would be both exciting and convenient. Of course, my awareness of what could go wrong meant that I was hesitant to hire a scooter. I had no experience on a motored-bike other than the BMX I attached a lawn mower motor to (long story: another time) and, remember, I did not have the associated gear so I could not have been ready for it. It is all about the gear. When I returned to Melbourne I fairly promptly booked in for lessons at Honda's HART centre at Tullamarine and in due course got my licence.

Before Mel, who also has a motorcycle licence, and I had left for this particular trip to the Islands we discussed whether we would be riding scooters at our destination. Given my safety concerns and the limited packing room available in our commendably small bags we decided that we would not.

On arrival, the allure of the scooter-hire was immediate and powerful. Mel, particularly, felt a strong pull. But Mel is that sort of girl. She went skydiving and laughed all the way down. She abseiled down a 15 story building in the City of London and complained it was boring. She is the opposite of me in this area - she has a complete unawareness of what can go wrong. Either that or she has a strong ability to ignore it.

Admittedly, I too was interested in this forbidden fruit and as soon as I gave Mel a whiff of that interest she had me inside a rental garage and had her credit card and licence out. Based on a previous positive experience in Hawaii, she opted for a quad bike.

Quad bikes are an odd thing. Logic says that four wheels on the ground must be more stable than two. However, logic also says that a quad bike does not lean and is quite tall in comparison to the width and length of the footprint its four wheels make. That is a long winded way of saying that quad bikes are inherently unstable. This inherent instability, along with a complete lack of safety gear, was at the forefront of my mind as Mel drove us via the backroads to the beautiful city of Io, to the south of Santorini. Yet even in my highly stressed state - and I can say that even when I am not so highly stressed that I am relatively highly stressed - I could not ignore the wonderful scenery along the way.

How we came to take the backroads to Io is a story worth telling. Early on in the journey, Mel and I stopped at a petrol station still well within Thira. Old school style, a pump attendant came out, took the cap off the petrol tank, peered inside and told us we would only need €3 to fill the tank instead of the €5 we had asked him to put in. Nice of him, really. Then we asked him the way to Io. At first, he pointed us down the main road, which was well signed as being the route to Io. Then, just as we were about to leave he gave us the local tip for a better route to Io, via the coast. His English was not great, but a wave here and a 'Ella ... ella ... ' there put us in the right direction. I really appreciated his effort and left him a tip. And I can tell you it was not the kind of tip that I gave to the dodgy mini-cab driver that took us to Gatwick. Back to the most unstable road trip.

The trip to Io was, surprisingly, without incident. Sure, Mel turned off the wrong way once and we ended up doing the kind of all-terraining that quad bikes are designed to do. But traffic was light and the roads - perhaps due in part to acceptance into the EU - were quite good and we arrived in Io in one piece (if you have ever seen the move that Tom Arnold makes in True Lies, where he takes cover from machine gun fire behind a pole and then check to see all of his bodily parts are still attached you will get some idea of how I was feeling when we arrived at Io).

Io looks great. Its buildings are beautiful and authentic in the Greek style. But it is not as old a city as first appears. In the 1950's, Io was ravaged by an earthquake. This is not surprising, of course, as Santorini is built on a volcano. Io was rebuilt, thankfully, in the traditional style leaving us with the beautiful village we were seeing on this day. If you have received a postcard depicting a blue-roofed, white church on a Greek Island then the chances are that the photo was taken in Io. It is difficult to take a picture in Io that does not look like a postcard. This is not an exaggeration. It is often said that the sunsets in Io better even those in Thira, though I have not experienced this first hand. It is on my to-do list.

Mel and I spent the day taking photographs - or postcards, if you will - and ambling about. We made a few enquiries about accommodation and were pleasantly surprised by how much cheaper it was compared to similar accommodation in Thira. Certainly, if I am on Santorini again I will opt for accommodation in Io.

After I used up my second 1/2 hour of internet access at a surprisingly located EasyInternet spot we headed up to a roof-top cafe for lunch. This was my only unpleasant experience of the day. We ordered four things from the menu, but several more items arrived at our table that we were ultimately charged for. I could have made a fuss, but I could not see how I would prevail. Besides, it was quite pleasant looking out into the caldera from this new (for me) vantage point and I did not want to ruin it by getting into an argument with the locals. Still, beware of this tactic should you find yourself in the area.

All photo'd out, it was time to get on the quad bike - aka, The Hog - and to get those wheels a'turnin'. We were headed for the black beach of Perissa.

Chapter 7

www.flickr.com

September is shoulder season in the Greek Islands and with that in mind I thought two good things would happen. The first is that we would be able to obtain accommodation rather easily. I had done this island hopping previously and I never had any problems, other than on the party island of Ios (of which I will speak later). The second is that we would be able to get this accommodation at a reasonable rate. More than reasonable, in fact. Again, referring to my previous sojourn I fondly remember that the Greek Islands represented tremendous value as a holiday destination. This was confirmed by our cheap finds on Paros.

But this was Santorini and, importantly, this was Santorini post Euro. Everything was more expensive and if this was shoulder season I would have hated to be among the throng at its peak. We took ages to find a place, not helped by Mel's aforementioned desire to stay at a place with a pool. We were quoted up to €283, albeit for the stunning Porto Fira (really, I liked it a lot but €283 is big bikkies). Coming in at €110 was place called the Scirocco where the nice (yet somehow spooky) guy that greeted us there suggested that we were much better off buying our own supplies at the supermarket when I asked what the provisions for breakfast might be. I think he missed the point a bit. We took a look at the rooms at the Scirocco and I have to say that I was not impressed. They were clean and tidy enough, but they were not what I had expected we might settle on. On my previous visit, I stayed in a wonderful hotel near the town, dug into the cliff face of the caldera. I could not settle for the Scirocco.

What we did settle on was the Athina hotel, at €180 per night. Certainly not cheap, but this it would seem was the going rate. And Mel got her pool. Besides, the girl at reception told us that we could only have the room for one night. I could look for a cheaper place in the morning.

Finally settled, we looked out over the front of our room. The sun sets on the far side of the caldera, behind Thirasena. The caldera itself is subject to a wonderful blue haze as the sky darkens from the top down as a result of the Earth eclipsing the sun. The Dutch cruise liner we passed on the Naxos earlier that day starts to light up against the background. It has positioned itself to take in the views both of the sunset and the now glowing city of Thira, which clings to the caldera face. The clouds in the sky have two faces, dim grey on top and a vibrant red underneath.

Yes, it felt like we were on holiday. It felt like we were somewhere special.

When the sun had faded to nothing our minds turned to food and drink. For me, this meant that I was on the second leg of The Mousaka Challenge. It was no contest. The second leg of The Moussaka Challenge took place at Strogili in Thira and I can say that Appoloz on Paros left it for dead. The second leg of The Moussaka Challenge was a dry beast compared to the creamy Appoloz offering.

The service at Strogili was also rather tardy. A fellow diner - and fellow Australian, as it turned out - lost her patience, put her fingers between her lips and let out an immense whistle. Thankfully, it she did not whistle a tune or else I would have really lost it. Having obtained the attention of the wait staff, she then loudly - but politely - pointed out that she had been waiting to pay the bill for some time and it would be nice is someone took her money. Some Australians might have experienced what former Australian Prime Minister Paul Keating described as a cultural cringe, but I thought that her approach had a certain charm about it. If I could let out such a whistle, I would have done so then. But my policy on whistling curtails my wont to practice it.

I really like Thira. There is a bustle to it that borders on party-town (which I usually loathe). I believe that there are more bars in Thira than on the whole of the party island of Ios, which is saying something. But there is a greater variety of clientèle in Thira. There are honeymooners and old age pentioners on their retirement trips intermingling with travelers and hen's nights. Besides, the life I had before I met Mel contained memories of two very successful nights I had with the ladies I met in Thira. More successful than I can suitably recount on this blog. Suffice to say that even Mel perks up a little when I recount them to her.

But this evening was not going to be quite like that one. Mel and I went back to our room to gear up for our first full day on this wonderful island.

And on that day, I would do two things I promised myself I would never, ever do.

Chapter 6

www.flickr.com

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.