Monkey in Santorini?

May 14, 2012

There are no monkeys in Santorini. At least none to my knowledge. The expectation that there might be was simply the result of a classic miscommunication worthy of Abbot and Costello. (Young people, look up the reference . . . ) I’ll blame it on my American accent. As is our custom, Paola and I were talking about the plans for the day as she worked and I sipped coffee in Café al Bacio. We stared out the floor to ceiling windows of al Bacio and took in the amazing sight of Santorini across the harbor. The city seemed to hang off the steep cliff in front of us. The rock face ran down all the way to the water and there were few choices on how to get from the shore to the city. The easiest is a gondola for which you can purchase tickets to take the picturesque ride to the top. You may also take the trail that climbs the hill. It is steep, but for someone who lives in the Rocky Mountains not incredibly daunting. Pao was feeling full of energy that day and suggested we jog up. I laughed, believing that was not a good idea to attempt, but told her if she was game, I was game.

And the third option was the monkeys. Actually, they were donkeys, but that is where the confusion set in. I told Paola that the third option was to ride up on the donkeys. She immediately heard monkeys and the confusion began. She kept insisting there were no monkeys, but I was adamant that there were donkeys and we failed to bridge the pronunciation gap for a full minute. At lot of confusion can take place in so short a time. I could see Paola trying to grasp the concept of riding a monkey up a hill. Finally, I caught on to what she was saying. “No, no,” I exclaimed, “not monkeys, donkeys! Burros! Burros!” The light went on for my Columbian friend and we dissolved in laughter. We agreed not to ride monkeys in Santorini.

The quartet this time was Tim, Pao, and I, accompanied by our Crew Administrator, Lavern. We decided to walk up the hill and a few yards up the trail Paola decided that she wanted to jog. I agreed and off we went leaving Tim and Lavern behind. This lasted about 100 meters until Pao realized that this was not a good idea. Given my high altitude lifestyle I was disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to try to make it to the top. But as we continued our climb we encountered the reality of this donkey trod trail . . . donkey poop. The trail was littered with it in a constant stream. This meant the entire climb would now be accompanied by the pungent smell. The other challenge was the donkeys, themselves. When they came up the hill with riders or down the hill returning to their handlers, they did so with no concern for who was in their way. So as not to get stepped on by heavy hooves, we took the precaution of jumping up onto the wall each time they passed. When they stopped on the trail and we had to pass I learned something else about my Colombian friends.

Just as with the parrots in Rhodes, Paola really didn’t like the donkeys . . . at all. Each time we passed she hid herself in the middle of my back and forbade me from talking to them as we passed, convinced they would take offense at my conversation. Needless to say this combination of a steep trail, the odor of donkey droppings, and my timid friend made this a rather interesting climb to the top.

But once we reached the top it was worth it. The view was stunning of the harbor where our home rested at anchor. Once again, Paola found a shop, this time with hand painted high heels that look stunning on her but for which she could not justify the cost. We celebrated the climb with a perfect gyro at a little walk up café hidden down a side alley away from the eyes of most tourists. We counted as good luck that we stumbled upon a bride and bridegroom walking from the church having just gotten married. Tim found a shop at which he had previously purchased custom blown glass decorative dishes for his home. As we walked down another alley, Paola found a sweet shop and insisted she needed to buy a piece of lemon cake on display. The procured dessert was huge but she swore she would eat the whole thing. About five bites later she offered me a taste and then placed the plate in my hand telling me it was now mine. After playing a frivolous game of hot potato with the cake while running through the narrow streets of Santorini we found two other crew members who were willing to take the cake off our hands and prevent the great Lemon Cake War of 2012. All too soon it was time to return to the ship.

We planned to take the gondola down, but when we approached we saw the wait would be at least a half an hour. Not feeling particularly patient we headed back down the trail, returning to the realm of donkeys and poop.

And the adventure continues . . .