An Evening in Oia
- By Jason Gibbs
- 16 January, 2014
- No Comments
The town 0f Oia in Santorini is supposed to have the most beautiful sunsets in the world. Truthfully, it’s hard to argue it. The high cliffs allow for a long view out to sea, and the sun sets high between vermilion clouds and an azure sea. The light turning the white buildings red and pink in turn so that the city with it’s blue domes matches the sea.
Super sexy travel pal (SSTP) and myself were enjoying the spectacular tableau from one of Oia’s many rooftop restaurants when the following entertainment took place
In walks a man in khaki pants. Into which he had tucked a blue denim shirt and buttoned it to the top. Around his neck he wore an air of undeserved superiority… and a pink scarf. His legs were crossed not at the ankle but at the knee in a way that, were this the states, would announce to the world his devotion to musical theatre. This being an international vacation spot though I figured he was simply declaring his love of wine, cheese, and the meaninglessness of life. This guy had to be French. I sat there, wondering if I was being racist, or incredibly observant, or both, when he gestured to the waiter. He then said, in perfect english with an even more perfect french accent, “pardon, but it is getting a… little bit chilly, perhaps you could bring us a blanket?”
Greek people do not get tired. They grow fierce beards. They do not get tired, they grow fierce beards, and they do not get cold. I had hurt my back on our first day in Athens, and so, when I sat down to rest it after climbing some stairs on the second day a young Greek man appeared next to me and then asked as condescendingly as possible if I was tired.
“Bad back.” I explained.
“From the stairs?” he asked incredulously.
Greek people aren’t always happy to be waiting on you either. And, although most of them are very warm, they sometimes seem like they’re not incredibly fond of you. LIke maybe they think they should be running the world if only we could go back to fighting with shields like we’re supposed to. But instead, this damn international currency means they’ve got to be nice to the xenos.
Earlier that day while eating at a charming place in Fira, I thanked our waiter in greek, as was my habit. Thank you is one of the few greek words I know and it just seems like good form. Our waiter, though, saw this as an opportunity to embarrass me and began asking me questions in greek knowing full well I didn’t speak it. I then politely explained to him, in english, that I did not speak greek. At which point he began speaking in german. SSTP found this bemusing while I began to contemplate the fact that there seemed to be a severe paucity of police on the island to stop me from harming this man.
So when my french friend asked for a blanket I don’t know what I thought was going to happen next. Part of me expected the waiter to materialize an 8ft spear and run him through, Screaming “Hellas!”, beard pointing fiercely toward a crimson and azure sky.
Instead all he could muster was,
“We might have an extra table cloth.”
“zat would be… acceptable” was the reply.
Having now had all of my worst stereotypes confirmed, I felt free to be as “american” as I wanted. I immediately called our waiter over, told him in no uncertain terms that the ouzo tasted like shit (it does) and demanded that he find me some real maple syrup because I thought it would be good with the bread.
Ok, so part of this story might not be totally true.
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