The Optimistic Traveller

My husband picked me up at the airport in Santorini in a tiny Mini Cooper. While “tiny mini” may sound redundant, in this case — trust me — I need the extra word to convey the image of a large-built man, roughly the size (and grace) of an American black bear, standing beside or getting into a “cute” British car meant to hug roads and hold petite, stylish, precise people. 

Mike is the filet without the mignon. In Greece, where I’d been with him before, the sea of brown men with dark hair (the envy of any boxed dye) confuses me. I can’t pick him out. This happens in Central and South America, the Middle East, southern Italy, southern Asia, and Shakira concerts. The men are literally all dressed exactly the same — saggy cargo shorts and a very old super soft XL tee — and look like they check in at the same weighing station, visit the same unimaginative barber. Of course, upon closer inspection, my husband is discernable, with his kind downturned face, pretty eyes that seem as though he got that eyeliner tattoo that was popular a while back (maybe he did?) and the best arms that any man ever was blessed to wave about in a wild frenzy, which he of course never does, as much as I’m enjoying the vision of it, and as much as it would be helpful in keeping up with him.

But we can’t all be as demonstrative as wind puppets, I suppose. In Greece, in a crowd, he blends. It’s caused some consternation, as I have to add time to virtually any experience, since he walks ahead like his ass is on fire, and I lose him in seconds. As your friendly neighborhood optimistic traveller, I recommend attaching an Airtag to annoying travel partners.

After the usual delay in locating him, due also in part to the fact that I hadn’t yet bought into the notion of limitless international cell phone plans (And on that note, just do it! If you’re going…anywhere. Just spend the money.), we attempted to make it back to the resort in Megalochori. Like the memes on social media, the car, even diminutive as it was, nearly got stuck along wall-lined roads several times. We weren’t even sure we were on real streets and not footpaths or Sasquatch trails; the GPS kept insisting. Mike’s work had paid for a three-level condo-style place in the Vedema Marriot property, with a patio and lounge chairs on the roof and a 360̊   view.  We played Goldilocks in the available beds for the week we were there. The included breakfast, and the nearby shopping and gorgeous flowers everywhere, and the scent of the ocean – well, it was Heaven on Earth.

The first full day together, we went out on a hired boat in a small group. Lunch was served straight from enticing grills on the deck, my giant prawns charred, juicy, cooked to perfection and tasting like Greek food I never knew I liked. October was no longer sunbathing or swimming season, but when have I followed the rules?  I jumped off the yacht at the soonest opportunity, as we parked in a cove, and went plunging into icy depths. For the rest of the day, my body was wracked with cold spasms – no regular shiver, but the teeth chattering, unwarmable shiver you get from not having enough meat on your bones. Being cold in no way diminished the pleasurable experience of the refreshing water, the satisfying meal, and the transformative, unfamiliar land and seascapes.

We explored Santorini for a week and never bored of it, having fabulous cliffside meals in Oia as octopuses offensively dried nearby, all in the name of advance work for Mike’s boss. For the record, I was not tempted to order octopus at any point during the trip. In fact, while visiting the upper part of the town, I spied hand painted octopus sweatshirts and shared a magical moment with the shopkeeper whose wife had made them. It turns out we were both irrevocably changed by My Octopus Teacher, the documentary that will make you feel stupidly human, shadowed by the brilliance of our cephalopod friends.  Eating them never made sense or tasted good anyway – it was all Greek to me as to what the appeal was.

Sorry.

The textiles, and thus the clothing and handbags, were innovative and unusual, yet not overly expensive. An artisan shoemaker/tanner was a few steps from the hotel, and various towns were dotted with stores, each one more beautiful and compelling than the next. Mike’s work (and some of my experience) was in travel logistics, so we got to explore (and shop!) on the clock, as it were. Old vineyards dotted the interior of the island, spilling out onto roads so you could grab a handful of ignored grapes from time to time without upsetting anyone. It was a sharing kind of place. One vine-tender and his excited dogs opened a dusty shop so we could purchase a bottle. We popped into hilltop villages, took an inordinate number of photos in doorways, and were nearly blown off of mountains by forceful winds after being scared shitless driving up them, coming around sharp corners in fear of meeting another vehicle coming down on the narrow road. 

We found secret swimming holes and skinny-dipped.

In Imerovigli, we studied the stacked rocks left as messages by people before us, making our way out to a cliff and a ruined fort that seemed suspended in the air.

I’m not sure why it was that I’d brought dresses in all bright colors and floral patterns that matched with various natural backdrops we continued to come upon, making for endless photo ops. I promise I didn’t plan to wear red and white while in Akrotiri, where the red volcanic earth and stark white buildings sang with my outfit.

The following week we returned to mainland Greece and took an Airbnb in Kranidi, harvesting our own tiny urchins (Mike’s favorite) from the nearby waters. I had spent a few days in Athens years earlier; this nearly deserted (post-season) area was a marvelous contrast.

I was about to become a grilled shrimp dressed in a cucumber salad; I’d eaten so many variations of that meal. The ice cream was right up there with the best in the world in Italy and France.

In Nafplio, as difficult as that is to imagine pronouncing, my outfit of abstract shapes and bright colors matched several walls of graffiti. We imbibed some of the best local red wine I’ve ever had at a small enoteca-type restaurant called Aiolos Tavern, where the young waitress I’d first pegged as rude actually listened to my interest and delivered three types to taste and eventually the best glass, a class-act sommelier in sheep’s clothing. I sunned along the rockside beach at a cliff’s base, having changed to my bathing suit in an abandoned building, glass and weird things on the ground. Stray cats abounded, but they didn’t make me sad. They seemed okay in the Grecian ecosystem, surviving off fish scraps from restaurants and field mice inland.

A day trip to Spetses on a small ferry boat proved to be a cheap and dirty way to see another Greek island with its own separate charm. There was hardly anyone around; it was off-season, as mentioned – but, also, there was an odd magic that left us feeling like we owned the place. Or that we could. I felt sort of Greek there.

A few months after returning from the two-week adventure, I upgraded my old Prius to the miniest Mini I could find. I can barely fit in it, let alone with Mike, but it sure does hug the road.