I was still within sight of the scooter rental shop when I discovered my ATV didn’t have reverse. Greek traffic being what it is, a delivery truck in front of me decided to back up the one-way street to avoid a cluster of mopeds that had tangled with a crowd in the intersection.
“Get off and push!” yelled the guy who rented it to me, Basilis Baritimidis, who also happened to be the coach of the Greek Olympic downhill ski team (which trains in Bulgaria, he explained, when I lifted an eyebrow).
Thanks, Coach.
When I had rented the ATV for 10 days, he had looked shocked. Most tourists stay only a few days in Santorini before hitting their next Greek island. With such a commitment, he said, I might actually get to see the real side of the crescent-shaped sunken volcano where tourists outnumber locals most months of the year.
“Just stay away from Fira,” he warned.
“Efkharisto,” I said, thanking him. Then I revved the engine and made a beeline for Fira.
There, I pressed through the throng of cruise ship day-trippers, down alleys lined with shops selling engagement rings, strappy Grecian sandals, sea sponges, $2 pieces of lava rock and Byzantine-era religious icons for $150.
Up to nine cruise ships offload here in Santorini’s capital city daily, carrying several hundred to several thousand passengers each. Newlyweds and retirees ride a tram or a donkey from the Aegean port in Fira up 566 twisting cliff steps. The camera-toting crowds lent a paparazzi atmosphere, and the donkey droppings gave it that rustic farm smell.
Basilis was right: Fira had about as much cultural authenticity as Cabo.
Driving the ATV south the next day, the bustle of Fira gave way to small villages of cave houses, with laundry lines and vineyards. I pulled into a gallery, where a woman who recreates the 17th century Minoan urns and wall paintings of ancient Akrotiri wanted to tell me about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s recent visit.
“Yeah, but where do you go on your lunch break?” I asked.
She steered me to Dolphins, a fish taverna, where the waves literally crash onto the floor, and fishermen pull up in boats to give their catches to ya ya (grandma) in the kitchen.
In answer to my request for “white fish,” the waiter brought me a fish called Pandora – eyeballs, fins and all. I devoured the body, and slipped the rest to the pug/Pekinese dog with the cartoonish underbite begging at my feet.
I watched fishermen dock their boats, hook their fingers into the gills of fish the size of their legs, and lug them into the kitchen.
A few days later, I met the professor.
Frank Morris taught Greek and Latin classics at the College of Charleston in South Carolina. He spoke fluent Greek with a southern drawl, and it was his 16th trip to Santorini with his students. After 35 years in academia, he was hosting his Big Fat Greek Retirement Bash, and he scribbled the address on a piece of binder paper.
His send-off took the top floor of a restaurant in Pyrgos, (pop: 500) where the owners played traditional Greek songs on the bouzouki while all 30 0f us danced in a circle, our arms around each other. Step, step, kick, reverse. Step, step, kick, reverse.
I forgot how many times we shouted “Opa” that night. It felt as if we had been friends since childhood. When I ran into Morris, his two daughters and son-in-law a few days later at the lighthouse, and again at the secluded Red Beach, Santorini was my hometown, if for just a minute or two.
By the end of my stay, I had neighbors. My favorite was Yiannis Kafiris, who sprinted in running shoes with surprises from the kitchen of Iris, a cliff side restaurant in Imerovigli not found in any guidebooks.
“No, no, let me bring you,” he likes to say, whisking the menu out of your hands.
It took me three visits to realize Yiannis prefers to skip the menu because he was taking orders then racing to the kitchen to cook them. He’s the combo maitre d’, sommelier, waiter, busboy and chef.
Close to closing time in his kitchen one night, he dropped his tourist smile and told me his story: His wife and 4-month-old baby live upstairs, and he was about to buy the restaurant with his father when someone swindled the family.
Yiannis showed me an altar with a burning candle he keeps in the kitchen for his father, now ailing with a broken heart. “Now it’s just me, every day from 8 a.m. to 1 a.m. I just work.”
He offered his guests a shot of ouzo, and we toasted his father. Then Yiannis wiped his tears and checked the grilling octopus.
With just a day left on the island, I boarded a 38-foot Blue Lagoon catamaran for a sunset cruise of the caldera. Three newlywed couples and I snorkeled in hot springs, dined on Captain Jimmy Nichols’ grilled squid and danced on deck to Journey songs Nichols blasted through his onboard stereo.
Everyone on board had just arrived to the island, and when they discovered I was on my 10th day, they wanted recommendations.
“Stay away from Fira,” I said.
“If you want a meal that will stay on your mind for years, go to Iris, in Imerovigli. It’s not listed. Ask for Yiannis. He’ll take care of you.”
E-mail Meredith May at
mmay@sfchronicle.com.
(C) San Francisco Chronicle 2010
