Perissa, Santorini

Having just stuffed my face with moussaka pie from the bakery behind my room, I have no choice but to drape, prone on my bed, and write – if for no other reason than to ignore the indigestion pains. Dishes are so big and the ingredients so nourishing, that it is quite possible to get away with eating one main meal per day and then swearing you will never eat again, only to back up for a metre long gyros twelve hours later.

Apart from a deep love for Pericles and all things ancient, food and sunshine are two of my big Greek loves. Santorini, home of the white washed buildings clinging precariously to sheer-drop cliff faces, combines the two, plus a healthy dose of weirdness that comes from tourist industry culture clashes and misunderstandings. You know, bars called New York, overlooking a volcanic black beach and serving gyros with hamburger meat (that, for future reference, I suspect is not hamburger meat at all).

The pace of life here is quietly seductive. It’s unhurried and unapologetic. No one is appalled if something doesn’t arrive the next day, post sometimes turns up on the other side of the island and when I asked Nicos (one of four I now hang out with) what time he had to be up for work the next day, he shrugged and said ‘maybe 9.’ If the water runs out mid shower, you call the water man who will come to your place and refill your tank. Santorini doesn’t have its own water supply, it relies on water coming in from Athens. Not that showers have to be long, just enough to rinse sand and sunscreen off.

Of course, in the summer months, the tourist industry thrives in Santorini, and the island is home to backpackers (who support the hospitality industry through the Summer) the Greek people who travel to the islands to work the season, and Romanians, Albanians and any other neighbouring country. That being said, at this time of year (just before the busy part of the season, which is July and August) throughout the day the only customers are friends of the barman/restaurant owner, who sit around smoking and drinking frappes, gossiping like old wives apparently do – the old wives, for the record, are the ones doing most of the work behind the scenes, and watching over a brood of brown as berry children.

Tourists roll their burnt bodies off the beach at about 5 and head home to nap and the local men inch themselves off their chairs to refresh their frappes and await the dinner onslaught. People finish eating at about 9 and then, depending on the age bracket, filter into the appropriate bars. The English are usually bright red and shifting uncomfortably in the heat (or wearing garish sarongs) the Irish settle in for the long haul, the Northern Europeans are bronzed, stylish and appear not to sweat because they’re irritatingly perfect, and Australians and Americans abound. Just abound. And talk a lot. They usually, despite the Aussies slagging the Americans off non-stop, find each other and drink/sleep together to form one ghastly ball of humanity.

Season romances abound, and a lot of people who were here last year working in the souvenir boutiques, bars and restaurants have, at some stage, embarked upon a torrid love affair with someone from a neighbouring café and returned to work this season with high hopes of picking up where they left off.

I have found myself in a circle of friends that are largely Albanian, largely called Nicos and largely possessed of little English. They have all adopted Greek names, because Greeks hate Albanians and Albanians hate Greeks (despite a large population of Albanians jumping the border to escape to a better, if illegal, quality of life in Greece) and so an Albanian name would mean instant cold shoulders and cries of ‘Albanians are all rapers and pillagers.’  Due to a rather substantial language barrier existing between me and my new friends, I have become adept at both miming and speaking like Tarzan. We all lie in a row by Nicos’ (genuinely Greek, however dreams of living the rest of his days as a Rastafarian in Jamaica, perpetually stoned and listening to Bob Marley) pool, me the giant white elephant in a row of lithe, sun burnished bodies. Albanian men seem to be incredibly short and rangy and fond of doing backflips off walls, as if to showcase their whippet physiques. Alison and I, the lone females of the posse, and pale anglos to boot, radiate whiteness quietly.

In fact, the only thing shimmering more than my winter skin the other day, was the gold chain of a Bulgarian teenager, as he reclined to have his photo taken by his friend, presumably for Myspace. Ever wondered what poor souls actually take the profile photos of people posed, legs splayed, chains artfully arranged on chests? Devoted pals, who then hand the camera over and recline to have their own photo taken, matching gold chain glinting.

Ah internet social networks – uniting the world.