“Are we there yet?” I whined like a six-year-old on Christmas Eve. We were racing from the crowded town of Oia to the fishing village of Ammoundi to taste the local grilled octopus that we had fallen in love with all over Greece.
“Almost.” Patrick was giddy with excitement too.
We were on the island of Santorini, high above the Aegean Sea and making our way towards it. Hardly noticing, we passed the blue-domes and whitewashed walls of the buildings nestled into the side of the sunken volcano. The dramatic view over the caldera was lost on me. I could see nothing but the narrow steep steps under my feet as we descended. We reached the bottom and collapsed into the plastic chairs of the first tavern we came to, our stomach’s growling. A man with shoulder-length dark curls approached with bottles of water in his hand. I smiled—my own Greek God.