I create for myself a grand Grecian cliché and it's glorious and sun-drenched as I imagined.
I’m scaling a rock that juts out of the cliff and into the open ocean. I've swum around the side to get a foothold, so I can only see the horizon. The surface of the rock is dimpled and the edges cut my hands and bare feet like a defence. I focus everything I have not to slip back into the waves. The top is higher than I thought it'd be.
The beach curves away with its string of striped umbrellas. I can see the hostel. The day is clear blue but the wind makes me unstable. I watch the boys jump off one after another, backflip into the sea. Ella screams when she jumps.
I nearly slip lowering myself onto the edge. The cliff juts out below me. I aim for a place on the surface between the rocks and push off as hard as I can. My shout is involuntary, like it’s gravity shoving the air out the top of me.
Greece is a picture. In some parts it feels like it’s in limbo between the first world Europe I’ve come to know and something grittier. I like Greece -- the rawness and simplicity of the island life -- as soon as we’ve arrived. The country has complex issues at the moment but it bears them with a steadfast good humour and a willingness to go barefoot, and I respect that. When there's not a lot of money being thrown around, everyone stops to watch the waves.
Our hostel on Corfu is relaxed like only somewhere by the beach can be. We’re given breakfast at midday when we check in. Checking in basically involves telling someone what we want for breakfast. For the first time in months we aren't asked to pay in full on arrival. In fact, I don't think about money for the three days we're there. A roughed-up blue binder holds pencil notes of our drinks tabs. Breakfast and dinner are cooked for us, and lunch is forgotten in the hot elastic space of the afternoon. A few people are scattered over the deck in the sun so we eat omelette with peppers, looking down at the beach.
I spent the previous night awake on the ferry deck and I spend all day asleep on the beach, with others from the hostel scattered around me like fleshy coral on the sand. In the afternoon we smear salty clay all over ourselves because we found it in the other cove and because why wouldn't we? We watch the sun set over the water. The sunsets here are the special kind that constitute a nightly event. No one misses watching the sun set.
At night I drink home made wine that’s poured from 20 litre plastic jugs like petrol. The nights are still warm in September so we sit in the huge open common room and play drinking games at the long dinner table. It’s the kind of place where everyone is friends and the nights get away from me. I sleep in until eleven and still get breakfast.
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We go to Athens knowing there’s a few really good ancient things there, and not knowing much more than that. The acropolis is perfect, though in the tradition of my scaffolding curse it was undergoing repairs. The world monuments I have seen with a mask of scaffolding outnumber those I’ve seen without. I’ve come to expect it, really, and Ella has come to terms with adopting my curse for the duration of our trip.
The city puts on a good show. We’re there during the festival and entry to the monuments and museums is free. I eat litres of excellent yoghurt. Our airbnb apartment is down the road from Panourmou, lined with buzzing local bars and pubs that have good happy hour cocktails. We share a few brews with a friend from Corfu and I tell my skin to remember the steamy evening air. I know these are the last warm nights I’ll have for a while.
The economic strife in Greece shows here like an afternoon shadow. It’s easy to forget about, but easy to spot if you’re looking. There are a lot of stray dogs. Walking down the street we’re handed a glossy page advertising the ‘crisis menu’ of a nearby store, where the prices are slashed by a third.
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The economic problems are more visible on the islands. The hills of Santorini are scattered with the skeletons of houses half constructed, more haunting than ruins. The curved archways let the wind through what should by now be someone’s bedroom, someone’s kitchen. It’s hard not to wonder where those people are, and whether the skeletons will be taken by new owners in the future or left to crumble back to the land.
If you’ve seen a picture of the Greek islands, you’ve seen a picture of Santorini. Villages cover the tops of cliffs like fresh snow. The port is busy with the ferry-load of people and we’re swirled into a tourist office to find a place to stay.
In the morning we wait in the white box of a bus stop then pack into the isles of a steamy local bus to get to the main town of Fira. The day is not at all like the blue I’d assumed it just had to be (it’s always sunny in Greece, right?). We’re buffeted along the cliff face under dark clouds. There’s a pre-storm tension in the air.
Oia is the northernmost village of Santorini, and considered the most beautiful. I’d have to agree with whoever said that; the white and blue cement all scattered with brilliant bougainvillea vines is what you’ve seen on your postcards. The town seems to carry it's own sunshine, too; while we’re being mashed on the bus, the clouds disappear and the violent air comes to a standstill. We're stopped on the narrow path as a donkey is loaded with black rubbish bags. The animals big, tired eyes make me cringe, but I like the fact they're the same as the big, tired donkey eyes that have been carting things up and down these paths for generations.
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