SANTORINI ISLANDS, GREECE

                             I didn't expect it quite like this. The place is one large volcanic dish. Islands formed by volcanic vomitus. Underwater volcano with  island detritus. For one, this place is hot. It has a flaming,welcome mat. I couldn't care less, though.Even if it ate up a lot of my precious dough.    

                              We got there, by boat. Tugged by a huge, comfortable, float. With a lot of noisy mothers. A lot more smoking fathers. Babies competitively screaming.Children boisterously running. Everybody speaking Greek. Something we didn't speak.    

                              Came noon, we got there. Supposedly, we'll be fetched, but our ride was nowhere. And it's hot -  like a dragon's lair.No one said it is going to be fair. At last, the rickety van arrived. Collectively, we smiled and we all sighed.  It zig-zagged its way up the mountain trail. All sweaty and dusty and our patience frail. At last, we got to the caldera's top. "It's beautiful," said all, with nary a but.    

                             The hotel was, aptly, named Poseidon. The concierge was Russian, the owner, an adventurous don. Dark rooms they had. Quite rustic and not that bad. Moussaka, we ate. Calamari by the plate. Cool, sweaty, bottled draft. To sate the weary, obtuse and daft.                     

                             Next to Oira, we went by car. Same group of islands, a little yonder afar. Driver dropped us by a paved promenade. Walked a distance and drank some lemonade. Baklava, we ate , then watched the sun slowly dissipate. A little wonder no one hates this place. Glorious sunsets and everything else in place. Blue and white domed houses by the mountainside. Typically very Greek, inside and outside.    

                              By morning next , to Fira we went. Fire, it is said, was what the place meant.  It sat by the caldera, beautifully cantilevered. We all stared silently, our eyes all tethered. Beautifully serene. Serenely beautiful. It also had a stony marbled promenade. Merchants and wares went on competitive charade.Greek gold and silver and some exotic favors. Trinkets, fruits and ice cream in different flavors. We sat, we shopped.  We walked, we talked. Then headed back to Hotel Poseidon. Yes, the one owned, by the prominent Greek don. 

                             












                             Finally, we went to some isolated  beach. Cold, cold waters;  stony not 


sandy beach. Some old church by the dusty roadside. Domed blue and whitehouses again 


dotted the mountainside. Didn't try to jump and swim. No one's on the water for want or 


whim. Ate some red delicious fish. By the seaside, on a bluff, with a vegetable dish. 


Strangely exotic. Palatably rustic.     

                               

                             Lastly, we went to another ancient church. Isolated on a narrow valley, on a lonely, misty perch. Just a craggy, stony road. Dried grass and a pond with verrucous little toads.Where people sang old Latin hymns, divining to an antique icon the color of tin. Somnolently serene. Very peaceful within. Unstressed and lonely.  Unharried yet lovely.  Then, we went to dine, this time, with some local wine. Aromatic bouquet. Reminiscent of the flowers of May. Redolent food. Devastatingly good.  

  

                               Sad to leave this place. So protean, an aesthete space. I guess, I will, again, come back, in time. A thought worth another rhyme. Sometime, another time. Thinking of goat cheese and of sea breeze. And of air thick with scent of orange blossoms. And of relics and treasures from the ocean's bosom.  

  

                               I'll bring mere prescience and a nostalgic kiss.     

                               And I won't expect it again to be, quite the least.

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