• Italy
• Greece
  • June 25, 26, 27: Corfu
  • Saturday June 28: Athens
  • Sunday June 29: Athens, Naxos
  • Monday June 30: Naxos
  • Tuesday July 1: Naxos
  • Wednesday July 2: Naxos, Ios
  • Thursday July 3: Ios
  • Friday July 4: Ios
  • Saturday July 5: Ios
  • Sunday July 6: Ios, Santorini
  • Monday July 7: Santorini
  • Tuesday July 8: Santorini
  • Wednesday July 9: Santorini, Paros
  • Wednesday July 10: Samos
• Turkey

At dawn we prepared to disembark at Corfu. As we pulled into port there were hundreds of backpackers standing penned up like cattle, eagerly awaiting the lowering of the ferry's ramp. A shuffle through the nonexistant Customs office (motto: Please don't bring anything naughty into our country because we can't be bothered to show up) brought us to the Pink Palace bus, where we were given a canned pep talk by a boisterous Aussie, and we were soon on our way to the infamous Pink Palace.

Those of you who have read my previous journal know that I had a pretty good time the last time I was at the Pink Palace. That was because it was my first time, and I was so awed by the perfectly-engineered party environment that I didn't question it. Please bear that in mind as you read the next bit.

Major Lesson: Don't expect that any place you return to because of fond memories will live up to your high expectations.

From the moment we arrived at the Pink Palace, I could see that nothing had changed at the Pink Palace in three years. I don't mean that in a nostalgic, rose-colored way - I mean nothing changed.

The pep talk entering the premises was the same. The theme nights (cross-dress night, toga night, etc.) were the same. George, the owner, still did the same table dance (to the same music) and still smashed plates over the heads of the people who showed up for the Ouzo circle (hell, it was probably the same Ouzo). There were still inter-regional drinking contests. Everyone still came to breakfast as late as was humanly possible. And of course, everything was still engineered to make you keep staying that one extra night.

We enjoyed ourselves, but we grew cynical as we slowly realized that we had been marched through an assembly-line party zone since the moment we stepped off the ferry. The Pink Palace is in a stasis bubble plopped down in an out-of-the-way corner of Greece. It is as if a few acres of Daytona Beach were carved out of Florida's side and transported here to Greece. It is like some virtual, neverending Spring Break. I wonder if the staff doesn't tire of having to constantly keep up the act of "life of the party." I sensed a weariness there. In fact, I learned that it is a common event that a longterm guest becomes a staffer. Usually, the guest runs out of money and applies for work at the Palace to try and get the money up to get out of Greece, but invariably drink the money away over the course of the summer. Several are working sans work visas, and have to run under cover occasionally as Greek Immigration helicopters have been known to buzz the property.

The Pink Palace is a perfect example of the difference between a "party destination" and a backpacker hangout. Backpacker hangouts are typically in harder-to-reach areas, and tend to serve just as much alcohol as the party places, but with a different twist. Backpackers pass through places like the Pink Palace, because they have heard of it, but they rarely stay more than a day or two. There is no one here to shoot the shit with. Party people are all interested in getting a quick lay and a tan. The problem is that the Pink Palace is entirely too accessible, which puts most of the backpackers off. The Pink Palace is not something to brag about.

Sally and I stayed three full days, two nights, and that was just the right amount of time to get the feel of the place, and not so much time that we got too tired of the constant frat party. We rented a scooter one day (for which the Palace charged a hefty $32) and took off round the island. We conquered the high tower of Corfu Town's Old Fortress (on foot) and I got my glasses fixed, as I had squashed them earlier in the week.

During our stay at the Palace, we met a few kindred souls among the fraternity types, including a couple of Aussie girls. Kept to ourselves otherwise, as this was a scene for vanity-conscious Ken and Barbie types.

On Friday night, we boarded the Athens Direct Bus from Corfu to Athens. We were accompanied by a Pink Palace escort, a thin, redheaded Australian who seemed to delight in flouting the conventions of overnight bus-trip etiquette. For instance, after our first ferry ride ended at 11PM and the bus was on dry land, he decided that it was Music Time, and turned a Greek radio station full-on over the PA system. He also decided that it would be a good time to turn the air conditioning off. Ah well, managed to sleep sporadically nevertheless.

We arrived in Athens at 5:30 Saturday morning, and took the Metro into the Plaka area (in the shadow of the Acropolis). We made our way through empty early-morning streets to the Student and Travellers' Inn, where we groggily checked in and napped till noon. Stupid me forgot the convention which says that if you check in before checkout time (11AM) you pay for two nights instead of one. Just so we could sink into merciful sleep. Doh!

Refreshed, we headed out, grabbed a couple of Gyros from a local stand-up greasy spoon, and climbed up to the Acropolis. It was insanely hot, and there is no shade anywhere in the vicinity of the stone-capped hill. 115 degrees and counting makes you question the worth of movement, but the Acropolis was worth it. We did manage to restrain our appreciation to a half-hour or so, and made our way past the opportunistic drink-sellers to the hostel, where I wimped out and napped a little more. Took Sally downstairs to meet the owner (a cousin of George, owner of the Pink Palace), and to arrange some ferry passes for our trip out to the islands of the Cyclades. I managed to get into a heated but friendly discussion with him about the whole Greece vs. Turkey thing - I have yet to find a single Greek person who is not bitterly opposed to the Turks.

We had supper in the touristy part of the Plaka (OK, the entire part is touristy, but this was REALLY touristy). Later, we enjoyed beers in the hostel's courtyard with several other backpacker types. This was more my type of crowd; one guy had just come up through Africa, and we traded tall tales about third-world countries. Between all of us we had a virtual library of Lonely Planet guides, and I had some wistful thoughts of new adventures to come. Fell asleep relatively early in order to make our 8AM ferry.

We had to bust ass to make it to the ferry on time and we staked out a place in the shade, ever the savvy traveling duo. As the six-hour journey drew on though, I became bold, and decided to sunbathe "just for a while". Of course, it took all of a half hour in the Aegean sun for me to start baking to a crisp. Some welcome relief came in the form of some seaspray coming up over the side of the ship. I am always impressed that a little rough sea can make water come over the side of a five-story-high ship. Sally and I went forward to investigate and check out the waves. Just like the last time I tried this, we happened to be there when the very first huge wave swept up the side of the ship, hung suspended over us, and then dumped a real shitload of water on our fully-clothed bodies.

Soon we met up with a native of Naxos who was returning home on vacation from Athens and whose family ran the Pension Sofi.

I don't mind touts if they are upfront about it and they can save me a little trouble. I hate the guys who sidle up and give you lines about "just wanting to practice my English" or some shit like that.

She was able to get us a break on the price (down to $12/person), and once we got into port and to the place she was more than helpful, suggesting all sorts of places for this and that.

Our first order was to secure a scooter, which we did. When we took the bike to the gas station to fill up the tank, though, we got a nasty surprise. After pulling away from the station we got about 100 yards down the road before the bike sputtered and died. We tried in vain to restart it, even giving it the old kick, but it was stubbornly refusing to behave. I ended up walking it all the way back to the rental place. Turns out that the Cyclon gas station had sold us "water-enhanced" gasoline, and this upset both myself and the rental guy greatly. He was gracious, though, and set us up on a new bike.

On our way out to the next gas station we shouted out a loud curse at the attendants sitting idly around the Cyclon station. Then 100 yards down the road, we saw another stopped scooter, who had the same bad luck of shopping with Cyclon. I gave this guy (a Quebecois) a ride back to the bike place, and it turns out that in just this short time, three or four more bikes had befallen the same fate. The rental guy turned beet red, starting swearing in Greek, and called the police. Sally and I set off exploring again.

I can't blame the guy for being mad. I don't understand how people think they can get away with obvious scams like these. Didn't they realize that when a person's bike breaks down 100 yards down the road from where they just filled up, a connection would be made? Sloppy, really damn sloppy.

We had a nice supper and a drink at the Rock Bar before turning in.

Today we set out for the North of the island. Naxos town is on the Southwest coast of the island, and we followed a coast road up the Northwest coast and over onto the Northeast side, where we saw a huge, prehistoric icon statue in a hillside. We headed down into the farmland of the Northwest coast, and got utterly lost. I reasoned that, well, there had to be a coastal road on the East side of the island to (there wasn't), so we floundered for about two hours on various arid, rocky, not even close to being paved roads (and a few fields), until we finally managed to get back to a paved road that we followed back to charted territory. We managed to burn ourselves to a crisp out there, in our shorts and t-shirts. After all that, we almost ran out of gas, and were on empty for longer than I thought possible. Thank god the way was downhill to the next gas station.

(No idea from the journal what happened Monday night/Tuesday morning)

Tuesday night we set out to finally see the nightlife of Naxos, such as it is. The elemental problem is that Naxos’ tourist population consists mainly of families and Scandinavian teenagers, heaps of them. I have nothing against Scandinavians, but groups of them have a well-earned rep of being cold to non-Scandies, just as Americans have a well-earned rep of being ignorant and loudmouthed. Not everyone, but enough instances to remark on a trend. Anyway, as a backbacker I am unused to being snubbed while attempting to start a conversation, but on this matter the Scandies frustrate me.

Sally and I took our time eating supper and got in an argument about judging other people by their looks. It all stemmed from a Swedish bartender across the way who was simply stunning. I mean, she stirred an inner instinct (which I repressed) to hoot and howl in the manner of a Tex Avery wolf cartoon. Later on in the night we happened to sit in her establishment and nurse some beers, and Sally gave me dirty looks for flirting with the bartender. Geez, Sally’s my sister, she’s supposed to egg me on!

We moved on to the Rock Bar, and soon enough a gaggle of Swedes plopped down next to us. To my surprise, I was able to chat up one girl from the group, but the rest would have nothing to do with me, as I was unable to match their knowledge of dance-song lyrics. They moved on, and we soon called it a night.

Wednesday morning we checked out of the Pension Sofi. I can't emphasize enough how hospitable these people were to us. Constantly inviting us in for a cool glass of orange juice, showing us around, the sort of thing that leaves a good taste in your mouth.

We left our bags down by the port in a "luggage storage" facility which, naturally, ended up being some old lady's back stairway. Putting down some valid concerns about the security of this arrangement, we decided to go try and find some decent breakfast.

Actually, our emphasis was not so much on the quality of the food; no, we were looking for a place with a suitably unmotivated waitstaff which would allow us to kill a couple hours until the ferry arrived, and leave us be. Well, you couldn't ask for a better candidate than a quayside Greek cafe, after all. The place we settled on was right on the money, and we were even tempted to ditch the ferry and see if we could manage to sit in the cafe for 24 hours straight, just to see if at any point it would occur to the staff to eject us. I am still wondering to this day.

Time came to catch the ferry to Ios. Onboard we met a nice English girl whose job it is to ride back and forth on the ferries to and from Ios all day touting a pension. What a job. Soon enough we were pulling up to Ios Port, from which one had to catch a bus up the hill a few miles to Ios Village, the center of the night scene and, by all accounts, something to behold. Sally and I were apprehensive, as we didn't want to find another artificially created "party zone" in the vein of the Pink Palace.

We arrived on Ios to find that our pre-arranged lodging, Francesco's, was not only not picking us up from the ferry as they had promised, but also had no room for us, and that our reservations were pretty well useless, even though we had only just called that morning. We caught the bus up to the village to to find some new digs. I felt a need to go and harangue the owners of Francesco's for a while, and they eventually relented and pointed us to Maria's, a pension up the hill, where we found a quite agreeable private room for an even more agreeable price. Far enough off the beaten path to be quiet, but close enough to still be in the marble-footpath Greek hill town section of Ios Village.

We made our way back to the main road of the village, past pensions, bars, shops full of touristic cack, and the obligitatory gyros stands. Still and all, a pleasant walk to make from Maria's Rooms, which is good as we were to make that walk many, many times in the coming days. The village was strangely quiet, but we would know the reason why soon enough....

Down in the village we did some grocery shopping and sat out on the front steps with a chatty crew made up of Alistair, a wild-haired surfer from New Zealand, and two Scots, Tony and Scot, who were all "up for it", meaning they were well prepared to have a good time while on Ios, but they were refreshingly free of the kind of party hyperbole one tends to hear in these kinds of places. We all made a date to meet in the town square at 9PM and see what was Ios was all about.

True to our word, at a bit after 9 Sally and I wandered into the "main square" (a tiny courtyard with three-story buildings looming in from all four corners) and together with the guys we took possession of a picnic table outside one of the six or seven bars than lined the ground floors of the square. How they managed to fit all these bars into one place is a mystery to me, but there was definitely a demand for them, as we were beginning to see. The place was already starting to fill up at the early hour of 9PM, which in a Mediterranean country is right about when people finally realize they should start getting dressed for supper. Our host at our table was a lovely, redheaded Irish girl, whose name was Gaelic for "little rose", and for whom I developed an instant liking, which I'm sure she was quite aware of as the night's drinking progressed.

Before long the main square became intensely, almost oppressively crowded, as everyone always said to each other "maybe I'll see you in the square tonight", so you ended up making these little sojourns to the square every forty five minutes or so from whereever you had decided to do your preliminary drinking, and you would get in this sort of congo line that would go from one corner of the square to the other, weaving through the tables and the lucky few (including us) who had scored a table with seats early on in the night, as well as the "table groupies", the people who had broken off the congo line because they had, against all odds, spotted a friend in the throngs of people milling about. This would have been fine and good if there weren't twenty thousand people out every night, all doing the same thing.

I think we actually got to the point where we had three people sitting on our table whom we did not know, and the Irish waitress was tiring of all of us hitting on her in succession (sometimes en mass) and it seemed like a good time to move on. We went down the road to the Scorpion club, a disco, where I wisely avoided the dance floor and other such upright activities. Made our way home before the sun was up, that's as much as can be said with any certainty.

Thursday was a total loss for me, at least the daylight part. I was bedridden, not with a full-out hangover, but enough of one to make me think twice about leaving my bed, while at the same time providing enough hope for recovery that I made a couple of timid attempts to stroll around town. Sally had bravely done the old finger-down-the-throat bit the night before, so she was up and off to the beach at about 1:30PM. I managed to get a gyros down by about 7PM, and that settled me, against all expectations. We were to meet up again with our companions from the night before.

Indeed we did meet up with the Booze Crew, who were going strong, despite our protests of moderation following last night's excesses. The guys were having none of that though, and I brushed the little angel of Guilt off of my shoulder and watched with glee as he plummeted down onto the beer-soaked stone of the courtyard, before I launched into a volley of round buying designed to satiate the Scots so they wouldn't notice when Sally and I stopped drinking later. We sat at our same table in the square, but "Little Rose" was nowhere to be seen, and we concluded that she had probably run screaming at the sight of us. We moved on at half past twelve and made our way to the Sweet Irish Dream disco on the main road, where we secured a booth in the corner, complete with steel-reinforced concrete table built expressly to be danced upon. We had a great time watching the "Ios clock" in action: at precisely 1:45AM, and for no apparent reason, the Sweet Irish Dream was suddenly and amazingly crowded, attracting over five hundred new patrons in a space of 15 minutes. The bouncers cleared all the chairs out of the place and it transformed completely from Bar to Disco mode. The booth sitters ascended to their tables and danced with abandon. Swedes of all varieties appeared and shed clothes as if they were annoyances. When Sally and I finally decided to leave we had to spend 15 minutes just getting across the floor to the exit.

I suppose I should take some time out here to explain the social scene in Ios. Maintain no illusions, reader, that we were dancing alongside the indigenous Greeks. Oh, they are around, but in small numbers, something like 10% of the summertime population. The largest single demographic is the 18-24 year old Scandinavians (mostly Swedes), weighing in at about 50% of the traveler population, and mostly there on two-week jaunts from their homes. Then you have about 20% more made up of various German-speakers. After that you have the English speakers, mostly made up of Australians, followed by Brits, and then a sprinkling of Canadians and Americans. Most of the English-speakers are on the backpacker trails down from mainland Europe, and accordingly they wear whatever smells the least offensive. The Swedes, on the other hand, being there for only a week or two, arrive with wardrobes full of the latest club fashions. And they are all beautiful, even the ugly ones. All the English speaking males scoff at the Swedish girls, but we all, and I mean all, make the occasional ill-advised stab at chatting them up, which more often than not results in a blank stare or a brush-off. The natural conclusion, at least from my conversations with other rejectees, was that there is a high incidence of lesbianism in Sweden. I had my doubts, but I had to admit it left some nice imagery in the mind. What was I saying?

So there you have it. The Swedes and the English-speakers all mingle in certain designated places like discos and beaches, but there is a definite segregation at work outside these neutral zones. The Swedish display an unfortunate tendency to travel in packs and be loud, pushy, and aloof to all non-Scandies. I think the Swedes might have just supplanted the Americans for most obnoxious nationality in these parts.

Bear that in mind when reading the next bit.

We awoke at the crack of noon, Friday, July 4th, and after a quick haircut we boarded the bus to take us down to Milopotas Beach, the daytime equivalent of the village town square. We arrived to find a total madhouse.

The Setting: Milopotas Beach is about a half-mile long, in a beautiful half-moon bluewater bay surrounded by barren, steep hills and cliffs. At the near end of the beach to town is a largeish cafe/beach bar. At the far end, a half-mile away but always in sight, is Far Out Camping, more about which I will say soon. Both of these establishments have hordes of sunbathers out front, but the sunbathers taper off as you move toward the center of the crescent.

Sally and I got off at the near end, evaluated the beach bar complex there, and decided to hike along the beach to Far Out, where we had been told there was to be a killer July 4th party. Make no mistake, the scene at the near end was chaos. Large bands of half-naked Swedes in warpaint singing our national anthem and having drinking contests. Men in gorilla suits on donkey-back dispensing liquor-soaked watermelons. Revelers blowing whistles and foghorns for no apparent reason. It was, thankfully, too early in the day for things to get really ugly. But we pushed on.

Once we got onto the beach proper, we saw that it was full to the brim with, well, gorgeous people. I've been around the world and seen more than my fair share of nude beaches, but this took the cake. Milopotas beach definitely benefited from its youthful demographic. We stumbled through the sand, tripping over our jaws all the way, towards Far Out Camping. We didn't believe it was possible, but the scene at Far Out made the other beach bar look as empty as a Holiday Inn piano bar at four in the afternoon. The beach out front was stunning from a flesh perspective, but the eyes were drawn up the beach, across the sandy beach road, and onto Far Out proper.

Far Out Camping, to the virgin eyes, is impossible to take in all at once. There are too many amazing things competing for the attention. Walking in from the beach road you have a gigantic chlorinated swimming pool on the left, surrounded by golden sunbathers and the attendant meat market junkies. On your right is a smaller pool, which serves as the outlet for the twin 50-meter water slides that wend their way over the bar and the terrace and really make you look twice to confirm that yes, they are real water slides, the kind with tubes and all that. Beyond the slides are basketball and volleyball courts. The unifying factor that links this all together is a supermarket-sized covered patio with a full beach bar and cafe.

That's on a normal day.

Today was July 4th. There were now several thousand twenty-somethings crammed in around the pools, on the courts, on the patio, all being rowdy, all horny. Spring Break atmosphere, except with an international clientele of of naked, beautiful women and men ogling each other trying as hard as possible to get into each others' pants, or, failing that, at least to pull each others' pants down to their ankles. People were throwing each other into the pools, and when that got boring, natural progression led them to start chucking the patio furniture in too. Over at the water slides I participated in a competition to see who could catch the most air and make the biggest splash coming out of the chute.

During our cavorting we bumped into Destri from the Pink Palace, who told us she was holing up on Ios for a few days. We all gaped as the revelers got drunker and drunker. The most unabashed ran around with camcorders and loudly demanded that their subjects "show us all ya got".

This was all a bit odd, as there were actually very few Americans about. Most of the Fourth of July gaiety was coming from the Swedes. Despite having giant Swedish flags painted on their cheeks, these guys were the ones loudly singing along to "Miss American Pie".

About 6PM we headed back up to the village. Killed some time, watched a bit "of "JFK" at one of the village bars, then headed back to the pad to have a pre-night nap so that we could stay up for the parties that were reputedly starting at 4AM.

We set out at about midnight and I became a bit distraught as we wandered to and fro in the village and did not enounter anyone we knew in thousands upon thousands of ragers. Finally, at about 1AM, we stumbled upon Destri and a couple of her friends in the main square, which was packed tighter than I though possible, everyone decked out in togas or hotpants or some combination thereof. Sally and I had painted USA symbols all over ourselves before coming out, and were amazed that despite this a great many people asked us where we were from.

We all moved on to the Lemon Club, deep in the heart of the village, which turned out to be a Swedish dance hot spot. Danced for almost an hour to soul-less Scandi-house music before we gave up and decided to look for a place with more recognizable music. By 3AM we were back in line to get into the Sweet Irish Dream, which was already charging a high-than normal cover to enter. Destri and I decided to sit out front for a while and rest up since we were both tired from a day chockful of laziness. Actually, I was beginning to feel the effects of multiple hard water landings from earlier in the day at the Far Out waterslides. We were both trying to pull through and make it to the monster party which was supposed to kick off at the Scorpion club down the road at 4AM. Destri was not up to it, though, and soon enough she nodded off and fell asleep on my shoulder. Sally showed up and we all agreed that the night had gone on long enough and that it was time to go home. We took Destri home and then walked the 10 meters to our own room, where, just before collapsing, we agreed that it would be pathologically insane to attempt to make an 11AM ferry the next day.

Saturday we slept until 12:30, when Destri came calling, inquiring if we had breakfast plans. We had omelettes while we looked out over the ocean, and we took our time eating. We finished breakfast at 2PM, ambitious by Ios standards, and collected some laundry to bring to the service down the road. It had been, by my count, three weeks since the last time we had washed clothes. I think we could have sold some of the bacteria strains for a tidy sum to the Defense Dept., but we were more concerned that we be able to walk through town without everyone keeping at least five feet away at all times.

Like moths to the flame, Saturday afternoon found us drawn back to Far Out Camping, which was less mobbed but still a bit wild. I perfected my air-catching technique, but I think I bruised my spine on one particularly loud splash landing that took the breath out of me. Also, genius that I am, I did not apply any suncreme and baked the hell out of my chest. Still and all we had a great time and we actually managed to swim in the real ocean once. I'll be telling my children about that :). There were some amazingly proficient windsurfers who took advantage of the strong winds to scream in towards the beach and dismount only as their board hit dry land, bounding off the front of the board and likely into the arms of some Swedish Pamela Anderson lookalike.

We returned to the village, picked up our laundry, and had a nice chicken ala creme dinner with Destri before having the customary pre-rage nap. Destri collected us at 11PM, and we had a beer at the Francesco's bar before heading down to the Dubliner pub to meet up with Destri's friends, one a friendly, attractive Australian girl, and the other a neurotic woman from Massachusetts. We were soon joined by two smooth-talking Miami Beach natives, who obviously reckoned themselves "players", and we quickly grew to ignore their every word. Sally and I decided to try Hooch, an alcoholic beverage tasting like orange Fanta. The theory, I suppose, is that since you don't feel like you're really drinking, you'll drink more (we like to refer to this as the Corona Theory).

1AM came and, once again, we headed across the road to Sweet Irish Dream. Sense a pattern? We paid the cover, claimed our free drinks, and soon had our own table staked out. Destri and I got up to dance, and we shared the table with as many as four other people. I was usually dancing with only the balls of my feet still on the table, and therefore I was intensely glad that I had not had too much to drink. Sally tried to come to the aid of some poor sap who was passed out at our booth. Around 3:30 Destri and I decided to go get some cold water and some fresh air, and it felt so good outside we called it a night. I took her home, then went up to my room and found Sally dead asleep.

The morning arrived far faster than I could ever have wished. Sally and I were in no shape to rouse ourselves. I literally could not move. Between the waterslide trauma, the sunburn, and the hard dancing, my muscles all told me to fuck off, one by one, as I tried to use them. Finally we managed to pack our things and, with the aid of a timely dose of chocolate milk, we summoned the energy to drag our stuff down to the bus stop. We were on our way to Far Out Camping again, this time to loiter until our three thirty ferry to Santorini. At Far Out the bus began to pull away as Sally and I were pulling our bags from the rear compartment, which caused the cargo door to come slamming down on my head, which simultaneously evoked that state of rage one achieves when accidentally hitting one's thumb with a hammer, combined with the supreme aggravation of a careless driver cutting you off, both of which feelings came together to cause me to scream obscenities for over half a minute solid at the bus as it pulled away. Of course, I ended up looking like a jackass, standing out in the middle of an empty road yelling at nothing, but what could I do?

We secured chairs in the shade by the big pool at Far Out. It seemed, if this were possible, that there were more beautiful people out today than at either of our other two visits. It was Sunday morning, but there wasn't a church in sight, thank heaven. It was good. Destri showed up and we said our goodbyes. Turns out her Aussie friend never made it home the night before, and we all expressed our hope that the night had gone well for her.

At 3PM we caught the bus for the port. The ferry took off at four and we were pulling into Santorini by five. Got past the throngs of pension touts at the port, and somehow we managed to find Stelio, whose place on the south end of Santorini had come highly recommended to us by a Pink Palacer we had run into that morning. Got into Stelio's place, which was really well-appointed, and had a bit of a sit-out, then went and rented a scooter before settling in for the night. Stelio's place is really pleasant, a nice family runs it, and best of all we were in Perissa, all the way on the other side of the island from the tourist mecca of Fira.

Monday was a sort of aimless bike ride all over the island.

Tuesday we awoke and took the scooter out to Akrotiri, which was finally open (we had tried to get in on Monday). Once again, Akrotiri was well worth the $2.50 admission price. Akrotiri is a covered agricultural site, an excavated two-story village protected by a huge hangar-like structure. One can get such a sense of history here, looking in and imagining the mundane daily activities which must have taken place in this room or that. It's a real privilege to be able to poke around something that's been standing for so long now.

On the way back to Perissa we did a bit of grocery shopping in a large supermarket, oddly located at least five miles away from the nearest settlement. Well, I suppose that's why it was a supermarket and not a convenience store. Tuesday night we cooked in the kitchen at Stelio's. Sally made instant soup and I whipped up some fusilli alfredo, although the sauce I used was called in Greek "cheesana". We turned in early for our 8AM ferry.

Wednesday we had to get up at 5:45AM to catch a bus to the port. Up and out we went, and after some confusion about the location of the bus stop, the bus hove into view and we climbed in with much relief.

At the port we re-encountered an extremely annoying woman whom Destri had introduced to us in Ios. Apparently, for we did not ask, she was catching the same ferry up to Paros that day. We did not ask because we did not feel any urgent need to call attention to our presence, and in fact we took pains to avoid eye contact with her altogether. We had no intention of her latching on to us for the duration of the journey to Paros, and god forbid, on to Turkey as well. We somewhat suspected that the feeling was mutual, which caused us some relief.

After a hasty breakfast we boarded our ferry and picked a nice place in the shade. I did not feel like crisping myself again; I needed all my strength to fight off the inevitable Turkish belly bugs. An hour in, the ferry put in at Ios to take on some the Ios-Paros traffic, and Sally and I recognized a good number of the backpackers that climbed onboard.

Around midday we arrived at Paros and I realized that the port, unlike Brindisi, was exactly the shithole I remembered it to be from three years ago, when I had made the exact same journey from Santorini through Paros to Turkey on a cool October day. This time, it was a warm summer's day, in the peak of the tourist season, and Paros port was an absolute zoo of milling backpackers, touts, and innocent bystanders. We dropped our luggage off, ate some Gyros, and in the midst of buying our tickets for Samos (departure point for Turkey) we ran into Alisdair the New Zealander and Tony the Scot from way back in Ios. Turns out Alisdair was taking our same ferry that night to Samos. In their company was a friend of theirs named Rob, a South African. We asked where John was and were sold that he had started his waitstaffing job in Paros again the day before and had already scored with some backpacker girl. He apparently had let the other two in no uncertain terms know that they were not welcome in the room for the duration of the afternoon.

We all walked down the beach, killing time, and were sitting on a stone fence chatting when who should walk up but Destri. Like us, she was just loitering until her ferry was due. We talked while Rob and Alisdair got ear piercings from an Italian on the street for around $4 a pop. We happened to hear Al mention that he knew of a pub with satellite TV and we ambled off into the port town in search of this mystical joint. Seems like we walked forever before finding the Aroma Club (I wish I could make these names up). We plunked down and sat through the end of a horrid Dolph Lundgren straight-to-video and then a bit of E! News Daily before the main attraction, Naked Gun 33 1/3. It wasn't Citizen Kane, but to my film-starved brain it was heaven.

After a couple games of pool, we all headed over to Al, Tony, and John's room, where Sally and I surprised the hell out of John. After a while more we grabbed some cheapie hamburgers from a place around the corner and Sally and I took off to portside to arrange some money matters. I was a bit anxious over an impending cash shortage, as we only had $150 in traveler's checks left and no concrete way to get any money beyond that. Turns out, no problem, we found a nice travel agency where we were able to get our Samos-Turkey ferry tickets plus about $110 in drachmas off my AmEx card.

While getting this done we ran into - guess who - Destri again. We all went down to the bar where John worked, to give him a little grief. After a while Alisdair ambled up and sat down with us. Time came and we said our goodbyes to all and sundry, and Sally, Alisdair and I went up to port to catch our 10:30PM ferry. Which got pushed back to 11PM. Which was late anyway and didn't take off till near quarter to twelve. We took our places on the top deck for what promised to be a fitful, shivery sleep. Al was well prepared with his low-temperature sleeping bag and air mattress, Sally and I employed our standard "put on every item of clothing we own and pray" method. Several times a small dog faced its own imminent death from a crowd of angry backpackers, myself included, who could not comprehend just what the fuck it felt the need to bark about every thirty minutes on the hour. Its endless explosions of yippings induced a scary state of anti-canine psychosis, but fortunately for the animal its owner decided to move aft before things got ugly.

Dawn came at last, and we waited and waited for the ship to pull into port at Samos. According to the original, no hopelessly optimistic schedule, we were to pull in a full hour before the Samos to Kusadasi ferry was to leave. In between we were supposed to redeem our vouchers for our tickets, turn in our passports, and pay our $20 Greek port tax before being allowed to board the next ferry.

Of course, our ferry was an hour behind schedule, meaning that in all likelihood we would pull in and pass the Turkey ferry on its way out of the harbor. We were all getting cross in the anticipation of a full day's waiting in Samos port, reputed to be one of the most lifeless places in the known universe. I remembered that the waiting lounge at Samos had a pool table, so we began to plan a grand, multi-hour pool tournament that we hoped would cool our blood.

When we pulled up, sure enough one quay down was the tiny Kusadasi ferry, bobbing in the swells, and there was a great surge of optimism that maybe, just maybe, they were going to wait for us. We were all told to RUN to the travel agency, where sure enough we secured our tickets, paid our port tax, and turned in our passports in a matter of seconds. Soon we were all on board, and no sooner had the last person boarded than the ferry pulled away from the quay and made turns for Turkey.