Volcano View Villas

The handsome Greek employee at Volcano View Villas; a tanned man with a pageboy haircut, a vigorous moustache and strong arms. Usually seen wearing overalls and lifting heavy things on the hotel grounds. At other times, he may wear a blue shirt and tie and drive the courtesy bus into Thira.

Nick whinged that the sexy Greek driver's face lights up like the eternal flame every time he sees me.

There's a silver cat that thinks she own the hotel. She spent all afternoon curled up on the deck chair on our front porch and the other day, she left a dead bird on our doorstep. Today she jumped into our room through the open window.

Nick and I gossip about the other couples staying at the Volcano View Villas. We spy them at breakfast or lounging by the pool. What's their story we ask each other and then take turns in making up a scenario: are they married or lovers? Happy/unhappy? On their second or third honeymoon?

Every week there is a new token male gay couple. It's uncanny however, how they're all the same. The two men are but a mirror image of one another; wether bleached, bald, brawny, bitchy or brown. If only they realised just how middle-class they look, in spite of all their aloofness and efforts to distinguish themselves from the crowd, they're just as ordinary as everyone else.

Santorini is a destination for couples, everywhere you go, window shopping through the meandering streets of Thira and Oia, sunbathing under a hired umbrella on the volcanic black beach in Kamari, climbing the promontory to visit the ruins of ancient Thira, dining out or just driving across the island, the couples are everywhere; always in twos, side by side, holding hands, sharing a meal and a glass of delicious Santorini white, clutching on to each other on scooters. Couples roam the isle north to south, east to west.

Fortunately, at our hotel there aren’t many couples with children and those few with, have since left. The average age group at V.V.V. is 35-45 years, middle to upper management types that are here to bond with their spouse and recharge their batteries. There are long-limbed Germans with golden tans, chocolate skinned Italians in g-strings and designer eyewear, bejewelled French with impeccable manners and grooming, loud-mouthed Americans, men from Great Britain dressed like boys in colourful tee shirts, board shorts and caps, accompanied by milky-white women. And somewhere in a corner, there is always the sullen gay couple of the week.

Mostly the couples at V.V.V. seem very relaxed and happy to be spending time together so it’s really good to be here with one’s beloved. The beauty of the place, the friendly hotel staff, the Ouzo and delicious local wine, act as aphrodisiacs and all contribute to a lovely holiday in one of the most romantic and breathtaking locations on the planet.

Without fail, the only couples consistently unable to exude any joy at all are the gay couples. The dynamic goes like this: there is always one partner who is slightly taller, stronger and older. This is the one I sympathize with as he looks confident and at ease with himself. However, he must patiently endure the endless needs for attention from his younger partner that invariably has the expression of someone who’s been sucking on a lemon.

Another weekly feature is the 30-something bachelor of spinster on holidays with middle-aged parents. This phenomenon seems to be predominantly one of Germanic extraction. But why would a grown man or woman feel the need to crash his/her parent’s holiday and choose to bunk in their holiday suite???!!

Two other categories fall into the minority groups: the mixed-colour couples and the older woman-younger-man couples.

As usual, morning is my quiet time alone. All the other couples do everything together – they seem to be perpetually in sync. I’m the only one who breakfasts alone while her partner sleeps.

The waiters are intrigued by the fact that I brought my own supply of green tea. They take turns in examining my individually sized tea dispenser, with much interest they try to figure out its mechanism. Finally on the third morning, they stop offering me coffee and just bring a jug of boiling water to my table.

It’s funny how adults can act like clumsy, greedy little children that don’t know what they want. This always happens round about 8:30 a.m., when the breakfast crowd thickens around the buffet tables. Guests holding small white plates bump into one another looking confused by the endless possibilities of hot or cold and sweet or savoury options.