One Summer in Santorini. Sandy Barker

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СКАЧАТЬ but given that I was in Greece, I was bound to see another hundred churches before I left the country. Time to move on.

      Even more spectacular than Fira’s architecture was the view of the caldera. I walked over and cautiously perched on a low, whitewashed stone wall. As I peered out over the town, I marvelled at how it clung fearlessly to the cliff face. It was an exquisite sight.

      The town below was dotted with several bright blue pools, each surrounded by beach umbrellas. White-clad waiters were attending to holiday makers on sun-loungers, delivering cocktails. Rich people, I thought.

      At the bottom of the cliff, I could make out the old port. From there, a stream of donkeys ferried people back up to the top of the zigzag staircase. For a moment, I considered a donkey ride, but then I looked down at my outfit and decided against it.

      ‘Where are you from?’ I heard from behind me.

      I turned and saw an extremely handsome man in his late forties, sitting on a bench about five metres away. He was wearing beige linen pants and a white linen collared shirt, open to the third button, and he was smoking a slim cigar. His whole look, including his salt and pepper hair and deep tan, was a throwback to a more elegant era. He regarded me while he drew from the cigar, smiling, and for some reason, I felt compelled to answer him. Maybe it was because of his eyes, which crinkled at the corners as he smiled. I like crinkling eyes.

      ‘Australia – Sydney.’

      ‘Of Greek ancestry?’ I couldn’t place his accent, and I could always place an accent, but I guessed it was somewhere in Western Europe. His head tilted slightly and I felt a twinge in my stomach – the good kind – as he watched me.

      ‘No.’ It wasn’t the first time I had been asked that. Greek, Spanish, Italian, Maltese, Lebanese. I took it as a compliment whenever someone asked. I couldn’t imagine anyone asking about my family background to insult me, but rather to pinpoint the origin of my looks. And even though I’m not, I look Mediterranean.

      He smiled and the crinkles intensified. So did the twinge.

      ‘Sorry,’ he said, seeming to laugh at himself, ‘I don’t mean to intrude on your day.’

      Intrude away, handsome man. I shrugged as though I was used to good-looking strangers engaging me in conversation. ‘It’s an exquisite view,’ he added, gazing past me.

      ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it,’ I replied.

      ‘So, not of Greek descent? Do you mind me asking what your heritage is? You’ve piqued my curiosity.’

      ‘Actually, my dad’s English and I look like him. He says he’s proof that the Romans were in England for hundreds of years.’

      He smiled at that. ‘Well, you’re very beautiful,’ he said matter-of-factly.

      I tossed my ponytail and allowed a smile to dance across my lips. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, not flinching under his fixed stare. I silently congratulated myself on such advanced flirting skills.

      ‘Have lunch with me.’ It was a statement, not a question. Smooth.

      ‘Maybe,’ I said, as though I was actually considering it.

      ‘I know a very nice place around the corner. Excellent seafood. Ellis, it’s called. We’ll eat, have some wine. And you’ll tell me what brings you to Santorini.’

      My mind had a quick-fire discussion with itself. Stay? Go? Skip lunch altogether and spend the afternoon making love with this beautiful stranger? I was flattered – of course I was – I’m a human woman with a pulse and he was gorgeous. Reason won out, however. It would be time to meet my tour group soon. Or maybe I was hiding behind reason, my confidence merely bravado.

      I started to walk away, but called over my shoulder, ‘Perhaps.’ I wanted to leave it open in case I got around the corner and changed my mind. He was super sexy.

      ‘Two o’clock. See you there.’

      And then I did something incredibly cool. I faced him and as I walked slowly backwards, I blew him a kiss. Then I turned and walked away. How awesome was that? I’d never done anything like that – well, not for a long time, not since my touring days, but that was a whole different Sarah. It was fun to bust out the sassy girl who once got up to no good. I hoped he had watched me go. There was a little pep in my step as I continued my meandering exploration of the town.

      When two o’clock came, I was not having a leisurely seafood lunch with a silver fox dressed in linen – and I wasn’t off somewhere making love with him either. Instead, I was back at Fira’s not-so-charming bus depot. This time, however, I had my backpack as well as my handbag, and no instructions written in Greek. All I knew was that I needed to get to Vlychada Marina within the next couple of hours to meet my sailing group.

      After a false start – I got on the wrong bus and only realised when I heard all the tourists around me talking about Red Beach – I sat on what I hoped was the right bus, awaiting a departure that would be sometime in the next forty-five minutes. Apparently, in Fira, bus timetables are merely a loose approximation of a schedule, a suggestion. ‘Greek time’, it was called.

      While I waited, I thought back over my day. It had already made up for the previous night’s theft. After my encounter with the silver fox, I had walked down the wide zigzag stairs to the old port. It was a tricky exercise, because of the donkeys. When they’re not taking people to the top of the island, they are lined up along the stairs, with their asses out. I don’t trust any equine creatures I don’t know, especially when I have to navigate around their behinds. Fortunately, I made it to the bottom without getting kicked in the ass by an ass with its ass out.

      The old port was bustling with activity, and I spent some time watching people arriving on little wave-jumpers from the cruise ships. Right before 1:00pm, I took the funicular to the top of the island and set off for my little taverna. I had a quick lunch, then collected my backpack from the hotel and lugged it to the bus depot.

      My attention was drawn back to the bus when a skinny older man wearing a tweed cap climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I heard a cry of ‘Wait!’ and as the bus started pulling away, on jumped the tall, cute American in the baseball cap – out of breath and looking just as frazzled as he’d been the day before.

       Chapter Three

      As the bus lurched along the dusty, winding roads of Santorini, I watched the cute American with considerable interest from behind my Prada sunglasses. He seemed anxious, as though he might be on the wrong bus or something.

      For all I knew, I was on the wrong bus. I realised my usual MO would be to panic all the way to Vlychada – or wherever we were going – but there was something about handling the stolen wallet ordeal that put the whole ‘wrong bus’ thing into a more realistic perspective. And if the bus didn’t go to the marina, I’d ride it back to Fira and start again.

      I focused my attention back on the American, who was even better-looking up close than he’d seemed from across the square the day before. He was also far younger than he’d initially seemed – like, maybe twenty-two. Twenty-two was way too young for anyone I would get involved with, or even have a fleeting holiday СКАЧАТЬ