The sun was burning down upon me, making the top of my head feel like it was on fire. There was only a slight breeze from time to time, almost an insult in its infrequency. The slender trees did little to abate the scorch of the Greek sun.
I was standing a stone’s throw away from the legendary city of Akrotiri, on the island of Santorini. This city of ash served as my backdrop as I talked of Byron, Keats, and Shelley. My fellow students sat on a small gathering of boulders and listened as I compared Pygmalion to the Stepford Wives. My professor swatted at flies and nodded encouragingly when I faltered.
Where Athens had been dirty, the people suspicious, the streets chaotic and noisy: Santorini was lanquid, the locals beaming and welcoming us in. The white buildings with touches of blue cast a spell on all of us. Children played near the fountain in the town square, old women chattered on a nearby bench, a scruffy dog sat in the shade. By night, young people crowded the cafes and restaurants. They leaned in around tables in the sweet night air, and talked animatedly.
My most vivid memory is of a young man on a red scooter. It was twilight and I was walking with my group up a cobblestone street. He spoke barely a word of English, but smiled widely as he offered me a perfect red rose. He gestured at the flower saying haltingly, “Please…..for you. You are so beautiful.” Then he sped away, waving as he did.
Everything about my days in Santorini were magical: the black sand beaches, the people, the storybook views, the narrow alleys crowded with vendors. I will always remember the smell of the air, the view from the top deck as the ferry pulled away, white buildings getting smaller and smaller.
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