Sandy Barker - One Summer in Santorini

After two aborted attempts to get the international operator to put through a collect call to my bank, I finally spoke to a person who could cancel the card and send me a replacement – to London, where I wouldn’t be until most of my travelling was over. At least that was something, I supposed. I did have my back-up credit card, the one with the ridiculously exorbitant fees for taking out cash and spending in foreign currencies, but at least I wasn’t completely stranded.

I hung up the phone and stretched out on my bed. Exhaustion had devolved into full-blown fatigue. I flicked off the lamp, but my mind was on high alert. I wanted to sleep, but instead I lay there for a long time wondering what else could go wrong. The travel curse had struck again.

*

I woke with a start, not knowing where I was, and smacked the crap out of my travel alarm to shut it up. I looked around the room and recognition seeped into my fuzzy mind – I was in Santorini. I smiled. Then I remembered I had been robbed the night before. The smile vanished.

It had been a restless night. Falling asleep had taken forever. And then there was the nightmare. I was lying in my bed in Sydney in the middle of the night and backpackers were robbing my flat while I pretended to be asleep. No prizes for guessing why I dreamed that.

Dread washed over me as I recalled the moment I’d emptied my bag onto my bed the night before. ‘Oh, Sarah!’ I admonished myself, again out loud. ‘Put your big-girl knickers on and get over it. Everything is going to be fine!’

Surprisingly, giving myself a good talking-to was actually effective. Ignoring the fact that I was now talking to myself on a regular basis, I threw back the covers, showered in my smelly bathroom, and got dressed in a flowery blue and white skirt and a white cotton top with spaghetti straps. I had a big day ahead of me and some bad luck to turn around, and I wanted to look good. And, the better I looked, the better I felt. What is it they say? Fake it ’til you make it?

I tried to make some sense of the mass of curls on my head, but they refused to behave. Sometimes my curls want their own way, and sometimes I have to let them have it. I opted for what I hoped was a sexy-messy ponytail, then looked in the mirror and told myself everything was going to be fine. I’d spend the morning sightseeing, have something to eat, and then meet up with the people from the sailing trip in the afternoon.

An hour later, I was deep in the heart of Fira’s labyrinth of walkways, exploring. Okay truth be told, I was shopping. Not that I’m one of those women who lives to shop or anything, but there was something comforting about buying myself a new wallet. I also found a beautiful beaded bracelet for Cat. Wanting to see a bit more of Fira than the insides of shops, I stowed my purchases in my handbag and escaped the rabbit warren of stores.

There is a walkway running along the ridge of Fira like a spine, and I followed it south. A whitewashed campanile e cupola soon stood out high above the tops of other buildings, and I headed towards it. In a few minutes, I was standing in front of an enormous church. Its imposing façade comprised a dozen archways either side of a long, covered walkway.

From my days as a tour manager, I knew not to enter a church in Greece with bare arms, as it’s considered disrespectful. I didn’t have anything with me, so I had to settle for admiring it from the outside. It was impressive, 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.