Apparently I have a thing for volcanic islands. After Indonesia, an entire volcanic archipelago, I am in Santorini. Those of you who have been here will laugh at this, but I had read references to "the caldera" and "hiking the caldera" in guidebooks, so I had visions of driving to the volcano and maybe hiking around it a little. I didn't realize until I got to the top of the island and looked down: Woah. This whole island, and the smaller ones out in the bay, ARE the rim of the volcano. The caldera? The entire bay. This is a giant, giant thing- looking at a map, it's vaguely noticeable that these islands form kind of a circle. Standing here and looking down on it, though, the situation is really clear. These precipitous jagged hills I'm staring at are so obviously the rim of a volcano, and I'm looking 1000 feet down into it's crater. When this thing blew, 3,000 years ago, it shattered the rim and the Aegean Sea came flooding in. There are a couple of burned little islands at the center of this bay- still smoking. Technically these might be the cinder cone? Or, at the very least, the volcano's way of gradually rebuilding itself from the inside out? The volcanic sea floor here is unstable; over centuries, ephemeral islands have risen and sunk out there. And submerged near the core is supposed to be- wait for it, my friends- ATLANTIS. I think that is super freakin' cool. The last time one of these islets emerged, and slowly submerged again a couple of hundred years ago, they actually found evidence of Roman buildings on it. Again. Woah.
I have spent the day with my rental car, driving Santorini from end to end. It's not very far, maybe 15 miles, but with enough twists and turns and side roads and villages to keep you busy for a day or so. Santorini, unfortunately, is closed. And I mean, whole villages right now are ghost towns this time of year, except for the occasional construction site where guys are futzing about with wheelbarrows. Ia, at the north end of the island, is where I think 95% of Greece's postcards and tourist images originate. I invented a new game in Ia called, "Try to Take a Bad Picture." Seriously, I dare you, try it. Can't be done.
Architeture detour, those of you whose eyes glaze over at this kind of thing, feel free to skim. The architecture, aside from the caldera view, is why you come here. The steep side of the island has all these zig-zag stone walkways you'd typically negotiate with the help of a donkey- and seriously, I saw 3 today, and there are no tourists here, so it's real. The thick walls make sense against the summer heat, or the winter chill; the close-knit fabric and the high walls had something to do with defense against pirates, historically, among other things. It all seems pretty dicey in light of the seismic situation, though. Stone ceilings and walls are not what you'd want in the event of a tremor. A percentage of the island's buildings are still in ruins from the last major event, in 1956. Lots of people moved in lieu of rebuilding, and it's surprising that, given the value of this real estate, you can still pick your way through rubble in spots, 50 years later. The buildings are woven so closely together with lanes threaded through in all directions that it's difficult to tell what is public walkway, and what is someone's front porch. And, a detail I just love, there seems to have been a consensus early on about what colors everyone would use, everywhere. The whitewashing, I suppose, was a purely practical decision, especially to reflect the summer sun. What makes it splendid, though, is the blue. Mostly it's cobalt, on doors and gates and domes; a few have gone wild and used cerulean, or baby blue, or a splash of turquoise. Against the unbelievably blue water, and the bluer sky, it is stunning. There are a few freckles of green, on stray fence posts. Anything that's not white, in terms of the walls, is ochre; washed in shades from butter to almost canary yellow. Everything is a little sunbleached. Glorious.
And, glorious, but empty. Wandering Ia this afternoon, there was one shop open, a handful of construction workers, and two other tourists. Everything is padlocked, and the padlocks are bubble wrapped, then strapped with duct tape for good measure. Same with the street lights. Windows are papered over. This place is lonely and windswept, in a way I haven't seen since I visited the Bronte house on the moors of Yorkshire, years ago. And people, that was the setting that inspired Wuthering Heights, and there were still street festivals and people everywhere. This: quiet. I drove back to the main village, Fira, and found a cafe which housed about 4 people- quite the crowd. I had a sandwich out on the balcony, and the wind blew the tomatoes off my sandwich before I closed it and weighted it down. This is, unquestionably, a tough time of year here. The guy who rented me the car today told me that people here work 14 hours a day all summer, and sleep all day during the winter. "People? There are people here??" I wanted to ask. And there are a few. And they are all giving me funny looks. I feel like I have shown up very early, or very late, for a party. But when I did that last year at a dessert party my dear friends John and Andie threw, showing up an hour early by mistake, they were fabulous- they offered me dinner and let me play with their adorable baby and help arrange the cheese tray. Here: awkward.
So, to end on a happy note: I got here on the ferry last night, too late to go very far on foot before the daylight ran out, but far too early to call it a night at like 5 pm. I was feeling blue for the first time since I left home, mainly because I was not in Istanbul, and fresh off an 8 hour ferry ride, and it was the first time in weeks I'd gone for more than an hour or two without a conversation, and I had a scratchy throat and a cold. (I am not actually complaining about any of this- my cold and I, after all, are in Santorini. But it sets the scene.) I was finding nothing other than the stray convenience store open, and dreading the long dark walk back to my guest house, when- as it seems to happen these days- a cozy little corner cafe lit up out of nowhere. There were little blue chairs on the patio, and real live people inside, and a huge chalk sign written in English that proclaimed: CHICKEN SOUP. Oh, thank you thank you. Giant bowl of homemade soup with fresh herbs on top, mounds of chicken, and a good handfull of rice.
I keep looking for evidence, lately, that things will turn out as they should, and that the world is inherently safe and good and kind. This is mainly because I have to go home and job hunt during a recession, which is kind of terrifying, and it was a leap of faith to take this time to travel, not knowing how long I'll be unemployed when I get back. There are a couple of sayings rattling around in my mind these days. The first is something like, "Luck is where preparation meets opportunity," and I am trying to trust that we've all done the preparation part, and the hard work to get us where we need to go. The other saying is, "Leap, and the net will appear." I don't know about nets, really, or jobs; but I do know that chicken soup will, when you have a cold, or streets full of lamps, when you're lost in the dark, and beautiful things, at just the right moment, and fabulous friends, too. Things have been appearing lately, unbidden, exactly when I need them- anyone else finding little bits of serendipity everywhere?
