The Internet Café “Diverso Café” is on the upper level above a popular coffee shop, its thick walls and tiled floor delightfully cool in the morning heat. It is amazingly modern with about six computers all with broadband access, so we spend time reading and sending emails and letters to those at home. The view from the little balcony overlooking the street is wonderful. Fronds of purple bougainvillea trail down past the window as I gaze at the bronze travellers, dressed in a colourful array of shorts and T-shirts plus the regulation ‘sunnies’ going hither and thither on scooters like so many bees in a hive, dodging tiny sardine can cars. The most outstanding feature of this Internet Café though is its Loo. As in most European restaurants and coffee shops the toilet isn’t exclusively for men or for women. It has no outer door and the doors of the two inner cubicles are opaque glass. I give thanks that the interior lighting is very dull amber in case a man chooses to enter whilst I am there. The Europeans are so much more pragmatic about such things.
Eventually it’s time to think about lunch and we go in search of a typically Greek restaurant. In Australia we have Greek Restaurants such as Zorba’s, Zucca, Zak’s, Eros Ouzeri (why do they all have a Z in the name?) but this is our first experience with Greek food in its homeland and we are looking forward to lunch. Climbing the stone pathway we come to an inviting little restaurant with green plastic strips at the door and it looks cool and inviting, but we are told that lunch isn’t served until 2 o’clock and the waiter is busy having a smoke. His look says, “Don’t interrupt me, I’m on a break.” So we don’t.
Further up the hill we see a sign that says “Mama Cyclades Kitchen”. I laugh out loud, pointing out to Brian that this is fate. I am going to write a story about this one for “In Mama’s Kitchen”, and here I am about to meet Mama Cyclades. Brian needs to sit down somewhere cool and have a drink so this suits him admirably. We walk through the door and a voice greets us. “Come in, come in; where you from?”
“Australia,” we reply. “Ah. Australia,” she says, “I been there last year.”
“You have family in Australia?” we say.
“Yes,” she says, “Go for a holiday. Nice place Australia.”
“Yes,” we say. “But Santorini is lovely.”
“Ah. Yes,” she nods, “Where you like to sit? Here inside or out on the balcony under the grapevines?”
“Under the vines,” we reply, and make our way between the tables and chairs, past the resident dog and out onto a small patio that looks down over a car park, the industrial rubbish bin but then across the roof of amazing blue of the local Greek Orthodox Church so blazing white it hurt the eyes to look at it for too long, then further away down the slopes of olive green to the sea in the far distance. And so, to the tinkling of the noon church bells we are seated under the vines.
Everything here is white and we aren’t used to so much of it. White certainly reflects the heat and some of it is reflected on us as we have walked here so a long cold drink is really welcome. Mama sends the waiter to take our order and we are soon presented with a bottle of water and two long really cold drinks of lemon squash. Wonderful! We share the small patio with another couple who are just having their breakfast and soon finish, so we have the place to ourselves for a while.
The menu consists of some fascinating options: Vegetarian Mama (baked potato) Haloymi Saganaki, Stuffed Peppers, Tzatziki and Dolmas, or Kefalotyri Cheese, Panful Inferno (Pork), Kleftiki (lamb) and the appetizer-Shepherd’s Flute. Also on the list are Soutzoukaki Politika (meatballs, red sauce and rice). Is this a commentary on Greek political history we wonder, but are too unsure to ask.
For an hour we sit and relax, unwinding our tense muscles and enjoying the wash of the sea breeze as it blows across our table and chairs, then at one o’clock with the chiming of the church bells there is a changing of the guard. The lunch chef has taken over in the kitchen. Our order has already been taken by the tall, dark eyed waiter and so it’s not long before we receive a plate of thick, crusty bread from which a yeasty aroma escapes as we tear off chunks to eat. The Chef wanders about taking tomatoes and other ingredients from the drink fridge with cats winding around his heels. We tell one another that this is, after all, Europe. Back home this would be a definite No! No!
My appetiser Kefalotyri – fried local cheese served with pepper and lemon is wonderfully salty, tasting of the sea and the land at the same time. So filling! Why did I order a main course I wonder? Brian has baked potato with mushrooms, tomato and cheese. The shared main course is morsels of floured, deep-fried fish and golden chips served with Greek Salad. I’ll bet this fish didn’t come from some fish farm in Asia.
Our waiter asks if we want to order dessert but all we can manage is a coffee with some Halva as we watch the local Greek Orthodox priest stroll passed with his plastic shopping bags in one hand and briefcase in the other.
As we leave, we stop to say good-bye to Mama Cyclades and collect a business card to help us remember our Greek lunch and her hospitality. We shake her brown leathery hand, step over the dog and walk up the hill, following the narrow stone path between tall white walls until we come, once again, to the tourist Mecca of Phira. Unable to resist, I purchase a little fridge magnet showing the blue domed church and sporting a tiny wind chime to remind me of the tinkling of the noon-day bell each time I open or close the fridge door, and a couple of rolls of film to record our departure from this paradisaical island.
Legend has it that Santorini is the lost island of Atlantis.
"Now in this island of Atlantis there was a great and wonderful empire which had rule over the whole island and several others, and over parts of the continent . . . But, there occurred violent earthquakes and floods, and in a single day and night of misfortune. . . the island of Atlantis . . .disappeared in the depths of the sea."
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