Sick on Santorini (cont'd)

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I knew, though, that two activities was seriously pushing my luck, so after the bus dropped me back in Fira, I simply picked up some groceries for lunch and dinner, and returned to my hotel for a shower and a nap I only vaguely felt I needed but knew I should definitely take.

And that would pretty much sum up Santorini. I finished editorial queries last night for the Tuscany book — or at least all those that I could answer off-hand; I've also made a five-page document consisting of as-yet-unresolved queries from throughout the book that I plan to put to bed via phone once I'm in Venice (where I arrive tomorrow at 6:50 p.m. — I just love no-frills airlines!).

I ate dinner last night on the windy terrace of the Miranda restaurant, served my Santorini Casserole (rice, spicy meatballs, tomatoes and tomato sauce, and a few other things) by a Frenchman named Patrick who has worked summers in Santorini for eight years now after tiring of Paris' rat race. When I realized that I did not have my wallet with me (I had headed up to dinner immediately after a nap, and had only pulled on long pants with empty pockets and had not, for once, taken my shoulder bag with me), he looked pained to have to ask me to leave something in hock whilst I returned to my hotel to fetch my money. I gave him my watch, commenting on how sad it was to live in a world without trust.

When I returned and Patrick had disappeared to get my change, the owner of the place and I discussed what people will do on vacation that they'd never do at home (like skipping out on the bill). He is a self-proclaimed idealist who runs the island's most poplar Internet cafe (in a room off the dining terrace), goes against the throbbing-beat trend of the island by playing only jazz in his establishment (I got Nina Simone during dinner), and is a proud member of the Santorini society for strays.

He sells jewelry at the bar the proceeds of which go toward veterinary care for the island's legendary legions of homeless cats and dogs. He also implores visitors to adopt any animal they become attached to during their stay, offering to pay personally for all the shots, certificates, even the boat- and airfare to get the animal to the adopter's home country (just last week, he financed a French couple's return home with a Santorini kitten).

He then offered me a drink, by way of making up for having to be so suspicious, and I said "no thanks."

"Ah, but you see, it is mandatory. Patrick! Give him a drink." Patrick, who had by now discovered that I knew a little French, was delighting in the chance to speak his native tongue and we held a brief conversation — well, he held it and I listened — on what the poor, deluded Greeks mistake for liqueur. He brought me a cognac. It was actually quite excellent, and it just may have been that, and not the ouzo, that in the end effected the famous Grappa Cure on my cold and left me blinking myself awake this morning feeling almost, if not quite, back in the land of the hale and the hearty.

Copyright © 1999 by Reid Bramblett. All rights reserved.