It might not be so bad to be a stray dog or cat somewhere in Greece. People pretty much tolerate them lounging around. I am sure that some of the restaurant owners in Adamas feed the cats who seem to have the run of the town most of the time; they beg at the feet of diners or chase each other under the tables. The diners never seem to complain and the restaurateurs don’t seem to discipline. Early in the morning I saw the same cats sitting on tabletops in some of the open air tavernas. This became information I tried very hard to forget again at dinnertime.And the dogs certainly sleep peacefully on the streets, they don’t seem to mind the people at all. In Santorini today I saw a sordid and brief lovemaking session between a small tannish bitch and a somewhat bigger mutt in front of the doors of a bank.
Being a stray cat or dog certainly beats being a donkey hard at work in Fira. Dozens of them are forced to climb up and down the caldera path packing people and baggage from the port at the bottom to the town at the top. From my bedroom window I hear the bells begin early in the morning followed soon after by the sight of eight mules following each other on the long slog down the steep hill and then back up again. One mule master sits atop a swayed back in the middle of the pack with his long switch bidding them on.
On Milos, the calm waters and blond beach of peaceful Paleochori banished all travel stress from my consciousness and I reclined topless with a dozen or so other bathers and dipped myself into the translucent waters that revive and cleanse.
In comparison, the black stone of Kamari Beach on Santorini is cluttered with tourists chattering away. Non-Greeks troll the beaches with their laminated cards advertising Henna tattoos and massages. Is it really possible to squeeze out a living selling massages for 15 Euro on the beaches of Santorini?
The sound of the rough surf charging to the shore sends me dreaming away for a few hours; but, soul searching evades me on Santorini.
Arrival in Santorini was a confusing adventure. For reasons I will never understand, the only ferries from Milos to Santorini arrive at three thirty in the morning. They drop tired and inexperienced travelers at the port way at the bottom of the caldera with few clues on how to get to the town of Fira all the way on the top.
Along with hundreds of other travelers I choke on diesel exhaust fumes in the giant hull waiting for the ship to dock quickly and unload us before it carries on to Crete. Cars, trucks and busses all idle in the cavern with throngs of people waiting for the giant steel door to lower loudly and release us into mysterious territory.
My Australian friends from back on Milos are journeying on to Crete. They bid me farewell at the ferry’s lowest passenger deck and remind me to be careful and watch out for myself. I think I might be able to find my way into Fira and stay awake until reasonable morning when I will go find Maria and her rooms-to-let. In my anxiety about the move from one island to the next I decided to book ahead this time.
The ferry liberates us out into black night and hundreds of people pile out looking like the UFO docking scene in the film, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." Confused, beat and with cars clipping my heels I decide to abandon my plan of finding refuge in an all night café somewhere in the center of who knows where. Better idea to listen for English speaking tourists trying to book late night rooms with local domatia owners and go with them into the uncertain terrain. Find a safe place to rest for the night, if only for a couple of hours.
Seven of us pile into his dilapidated van that chugs its way up the switch back road from the port to the top and Fira. I was crazy to think I could have done this alone in the middle of the night. Hundreds of cars, busses and foot soldiers are all filing up to the same place. Sandwiched between a wide eyed woman and the grimy window, I can still make out the majesty of Santorini through the uncertainty and the dust on the glass. Bright lights sparkle along the top of the caldera and the moon is almost close enough to touch.
We arrive at the domatia with too many people and two few rooms. A phone call and an argument in Greek ensue and now I am going to some other place with a charming backpacking couple who has not slept in two days.
It is four a.m. and all is not well. The room has no windows except for the top of the door which I have locked and locked again and locked a third time. I keep reminding myself about the people next door who would hear me if I needed them but the whole thing seems a little suspicious compounded by the unsettling odor in the bathroom. The funk of the room has won over and I am staying awake until daybreak, hiding out in my sleep sack wearing the same clothes I’ve been in all day.
At first dawn I am set to run away. The domatia owner tells me he will give me a better room if I stay another night. I decline. He offers me a coffee and a ride into Fira. I accept.
I am dragging my bag up a long path of steps. It is eight in 
the morning in between the Greek Orthodox Cathedral and The Hotel Atlantis and I am quite certain Theodoros is only being polite when he asks me IF I know where I am going, for clearly I do not. But, I do find Maria’s phone number in my book and Theodoros calls her for additional directions. He says Maria is waiting for me further down the road and gives me his card.
"Come later and we will have coffee," he says,
"If it is the afternoon we will have wine."
The Arhontiko Apartments are an oasis tucked into the side of the caldera overlooking the Sea of Crete, Nea Kameni and Palia Kameni Islands. I have scrubbed the ferry ride and distress off of my body and I climb the ladder to the loft bedroom that has the first double bed I have seen since leaving New York.
I will sleep well tonight, I think, after the sunset and a glass of wine. It is eight in the morning. Outside the mules are passing by my window on their first trek of the day up the caldera path.
