Day 24
Note: This entry and the following are not chronological. They are reflections on two different topics that struck me when staying on Santorini.
On recognising real tourists in Santorini
Real tourists of Santorini stay in one of the luxury accomodations located facing the caldera.
They come by plane. Ferries are much too slow, and since planes can land on Santorini there's no good reason to touch a sticky handrail and have sticky salt in the hair.
They have cabin luggages on wheels, that other humans will carry for them up the steps to their accomodation. No more 60 litres backpacks. Anyway, it's hard to backpack on Santorini. The "Guide du Routard" has become a catalogue for fringe-mainstream accommodations and restaurants. You would have to sort everything out by yourself on the spot. Who would want to do that today?
They drive a quad, a small rental car, a buggy, a moped – or they are driven in a led-striped air-conditioned leather-upholstered cocoon with a star on the bonnet.
When driving a quad, a buggy or a mopped, they wear helmets and they keep the engine on when going downhill. Locals do neither.
Almost invariably the guy is at the wheel and his girlfriend takes selfies or a video of him taming the beast with a view on the sea.
On the quads, the girlfriends try to hide from the wind behind a usually fat bearded boyfriend. They don't drive fast, but it requires muscles to hold the additional weight of a helmet when the wind catches.
On the buggies, girlfriends make a face like: Why have we chosen this noisy uncomfortable vehicle when we could have taken an air-conditioned small car for cheaper?
If there's no guy at the wheel, it's a couple of girls, or one very rare exception.
We were the only van on the ferry on our way to Santorini, passing through 5 or 6 other islands on the way. We were the only van on our way back. On the last night we stayed on a car park not far from the port, and there was a camper-van parked there, discretely. A single guy, from UK. We were on different timeframes in the same place. We greeted each other without a word when I carried the loo in a dark corner to do my thing.
My best nights on Santorini were when we tucked ourselves at the end of a small port – the place of local fishermen and local motorboat owners who whisk tourists around the island for 900 euros. We did conceal the van in the shade of a disused fishing ship. The locals were concealing themselves from the nuisance of the real tourists in the shade of a disused building that used to be the port management office in another era.
The calm of the place was seldom disturbed, mainly by tourists coming to make a selfie of themselves in front of the sea – that they'll probably describe to their friends as a beautiful beach, although no good swimmer in their right mind would try and swim there.
Once, I saw a seaworthy young man preparing a boat for almost one hour. The thing was all shiny of white polyester and chromes, with a clean black canopy, and comfy seats. When the boat was ready, a luxury black people mover – described earlier – deposited a couple in their sixties. They were both dressed as the rich people in the Columbo TV series. The woman carried a little bag that looked like the outcome of her most recent shopping on a select part of the crest of the island, just like in the 70s TV series (absolutely not like in Pretty Woman). She went first on the boat, with a hint of disgust on her face. The man moved like a someone who had had an accident with a broomstick that remained stuck between his ass and his neck. One by one the driver hoisted out three large shiny suitcases and transferred them to the young guy on the boat. The wheels never touched the sweat and the salt on the concrete of the humble port. A large wallet came came out of one of the man's pockets. Large bank notes flickered in the wind. A few went into the driver's hands. Again, the whole thing looked like a typical scene in a TV series of the 70s. At that point broomstick guy went on board and installed himself to pilot the motorboat. He gave orders to the young guy whom I saw stiffening in the distance. Then he got the boat out of the port. While the wind was a strong gusty breeze, he proceeded slowly, on a course parallel to the waves. I didn't need to see the movements of the canopy above the breakers to know that the boat was rolling like mad. Madam must have fed the fish with everything up to her last dinner. Then I saw the boat speeding across the waves, at the right speed to keep the boat level. A safe hand was back on the commands.