One Summer in Santorini. Sandy Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ tourists, striding purposefully towards immigration where I discovered two things: a massive queue and a slew of ridiculously handsome Greek men in uniforms. Apparently, the Greek government had hired a flock of Adonises – or is it Adoni? – to staff the immigration booths. This discovery made the first one much less annoying, and I waited patiently in line while appreciating some of Greece’s natural wonders. When it was my turn, I handed over my passport and endured the handsome man’s scrutiny as he weighed up the Sarah in my photograph – slicked-back hair, no makeup and glasses – with the Sarah in front of him.

      As I met his gaze, I was glad I’d kept the London taxi driver waiting a few minutes so I could tame my wayward curls into some semblance of a style and put on some blush and mascara. It’s not like I thought the immigration guy and I were going to run away together, but at least I didn’t look like a complete hag. My heart jumped a little at the sound of the Greek entry stamp being added to my passport. Then it jumped again when the Adonis smiled and welcomed me to his country. Moments in and I was back in love with Greece.

      After being so warmly welcomed, I headed off to find the gate for my next flight. Right as I started wondering if it would be quicker to swim to Santorini, I finally found it at the far end of the airport and on the other side of a security check. As I was collecting my things from the tray on the conveyor belt, a giant man who smelled like he’d been steeped in nicotine hacked a wet cough down the back of my neck. Really? I turned and gave him a hard stare, but he was oblivious.

      My stuff gathered, I looked around for somewhere in the small transit lounge to wait for the connecting flight. Spying an empty seat in a far corner, I made a beeline to stake my claim, but I was too late. A different middle-aged British couple sat their duty-free bags down on what should have been my seat, then stood next to it complaining about the long walk to the gate.

      Clearly, this couple was as clueless as Douglas and Sharon, so I found the nearest empty patch of floor and plonked myself down. I was beyond exhausted, and I still had a couple of hours to kill. I spent the first eight minutes calculating what time it was in Sydney, how many hours it was since I’d left there, and how much sleep I’d had. I came up with such a depressingly low number, I promised myself never to think of it again. I could sleep as soon as I got to my hotel in Santorini.

      Instead, I opted to read. I’d preloaded my Kindle with such a broad variety of reading materials, I could match any reading mood I found myself in. And right then, my mood dictated a gloomy crime drama where lots of people got stabbed. I reached inside my handbag to retrieve the Kindle. Unlike the borrowed monstrosity that held all my clothes – and was hopefully being moved from plane to plane at that very moment – the handbag had been a splurge right before I left for my trip, along with my Prada sunglasses.

      It was a compact leather backpack – stylish enough to be my handbag, and practical enough to be my daypack. It really was a thing of beauty. And, importantly, a handbag wouldn’t cheat on me with a slut from yoga class.

      Three and a half hours later – why did I think a Greek island-hopper would depart on time? – I was seated in a very small plane next to a very large man who was turning greener than Kermit the Frog before my eyes.

      ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said. Texan, I thought, identifying his origin right away – I’m talented like that. ‘I don’t usually fly on such small planes. I’m afraid I may need to get up to use the restroom.’ Even in the throes of air sickness, he was using his manners. Texans are so polite.

      ‘Of course!’ I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood up in the tiny aisle. ‘How about I sit near the window – in case you need to get up again?’

      He nodded and rushed up the aisle to the only bathroom on board. Poor man – at least it was a short flight. As I strapped myself into the window seat, I heard a chorus of ‘Ooohs’ from the other passengers. I looked out my window as the plane banked and there it was, Santorini, a crescent of rusty land in a sea of deep blue. It was stunning.

      ‘Sorry ’bout that, ma’am,’ I heard over my shoulder as the Texan sat down.

      ‘Look,’ I said, leaning back so he could see past me.

      ‘That’s mighty pretty.’

      I nodded in reply.

      As we approached the tiny airport, I could barely wrap my mind around how beautiful the island was. The rugged red land contrasted with the brilliant blue of the sky and the stark white and creamy pastels of the buildings. It was so striking, it took my breath away. By the time we landed, I was practically hyperventilating.

      Santorini’s airport terminal was kind of kitschy, looking more like a Las Vegas hotel from the 70s than an airport. We disembarked via a rickety metal staircase and as we walked across the tarmac, a warm breeze tickled my face. Divine.

      Inside the terminal, I noticed that everyone moved at a more leisurely pace than they did in the constant chaos of Sydney, as though someone had slowed a video playback ever so slightly. I liked it.

      My bag arrived on the baggage carousel after only a short wait, but it seemed to have gained weight in transit. I hefted it from the carousel and said goodbye to the nice Texan. Stepping back into the sunshine, I crossed the road, almost dragging my backpack, and stood in line for a taxi. And I didn’t mind – the waiting, that is. The island was already having a calming effect on me. While I waited, I breathed in deep breaths of Santorini’s clean, briny air. It was the exact opposite of Athens’ air – or London’s, for that matter.

      Before I knew it, the taxi pulled up, the taxi driver got out and took my bag, stashing it in the boot, and I gave him the name of my hotel as I climbed into the back seat – all very normal. But then, two strangers climbed into the taxi, one in the front seat and one next to me.

      ‘What’s happening?’ I asked as several bags were shoved towards me. I soon found myself squashed against my door, while two voices apologised.

      ‘Apparently we have to share. I’m so sorry,’ said a young woman from the front seat. What? I’ve been in taxis in so many places in the world I’ve lost count; I’ve never had to share one. The driver got in.

      ‘Excuse me. I would rather not share my taxi – no offence,’ I added to the young couple. They didn’t seem offended. They probably didn’t want to share either.

      ‘If you want a private taxi you need to arrange it,’ said the taxi driver. What the fuck was he talking about?

      ‘Where in the world is a taxi not private?’ I asked incredulously. ‘What are you even talking about?’

      ‘Look this is Santorini. We have thirty-six taxis on the whole island.’ He seemed undaunted by the rising tension in the car. Then we took off.

      I fumed from the back seat and mumbled under my breath, ‘Welcome to fucking Santorini.’ Really, it wasn’t that bad. The young couple were nice enough – she was English, and he was a Kiwi – and we chatted through the awkward tension. We also seemed to be collectively trying to ignore that the drive itself was a harrowing exploration of Santorini’s narrow, winding roads, which our driver tackled by driving very fast with one hand riding the horn.

      We pulled up at my hotel, and I offered thanks to Zeus that I’d arrived in one piece. I begrudgingly paid the driver what was obviously the same fare I would have paid if I was travelling by myself in a private taxi, and climbed out of the car. He retrieved my bag from the boot, dropped it on the ground, and before I knew it, he was speeding off to the couple’s hotel, likely to gouge them for another thirty euros. A cloud СКАЧАТЬ