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Back to the Islands And Sore Feet in
Paris
I Stumbled Out of Greece and Limped Out of Paris
The
Bartender was home, sitting on the top of his world in Santorini.
The inspiration hit me like
a shot if alcohol– appropriate, considering the subject matter
– and then I encountered The Instigator.
Tara Reid was on Mykonos for a segment of her silly show
that airs on American entertainment television and while the program
was as bloated as the hostess, it did have enough glimpses of this great
island to stir my soul. Enter The Instigator.
I ran into her at a local bar and over beers she proclaimed,
"Hey, I'm going to Mykonos in two weeks. You should come along."
A day later, I had a flight. Unlike The Instigator, however,
I was adding Santorini to my trip and, as a bonus on the return, two
days in Paris.
Going Again to Greece
After Five Years, It's Still Much The Same
It had been five years since my last
trip to Greece. This was far too long a time to be gone from one of
my favorite places on the planet.
Greece is beautiful, captivating and spiritual, not to mention stupor-inducing
stupendous. Everytime I see a picture or video of Greece, or hear someone
talk about going, I'm lured to it like a fish to a baited hook.
There are no real rules in Greece. If you want to try and squeeze your
moped down to a secluded viewpoint or jump up and dance of a bar, have
at it. The only thing stopping you is one's own common sense. The people
are like elephants because they never forget. Visitors are welcomed
back with open arms. as well as with rounds of shots. The official symbol
of the Greek Islands, it seems, is the shot glass.
When it come to change, Greece is as stubborn as those donkeys on the
Santorini cliff trail. The beloved Drachma has been replaced by the
loathed Euro, there seem to be more of those boring fast boats than
the slow ferries between islands, the scooters are newer on Santorini
and you now have to get a ticket at the mini-mart in advance to ride
the buses in Mykonos. But otherwise, Greece was the same as I had left
it in 2000. Heck, it's pretty much identical to the place I first visited
back in '94.
Santorini
The Bartender (center,
back), and Greg (far left) party with the crew of a private yacht.
Door to door, it took 31 hours of travel
time to reach Santorini from L.A. I was down a pair of the new sunglasses
I had just bought, lost somewhere in route from Atlanta to D.C., I suspect,
but I was in Greece and unconcerned.
It took just 15 minutes to shower and make it out the door. It's Santorini,
and I wasn't about to spend any time flaffling around, as the Aussies
call it (this is being busy without really accomplishing anything).
The first stop was as clear as the night sky. It was The Topical
Bar, a classy little place with hip music, a great crowd, super
employees and a cool-breeze balcony featuring a moonlit view of the
caldera. The only missing element was human – my friend. This Greece
newbie had flown a few days earlier to check out Athens but instead
of being at the airport to fly to Thira with me, he was a no-show. Kidnapped
by some damsals at the Acroopolis, I hoped, before I hopped the plane
without him.
But this would be an issue to ponder the next day, as a night in Santorini
awaited. As I made my way through the small streets of Fira it was as
if I had never left, like I had been here only yesterday. I scooted
down the steps and turned into The Tropical Bar with a lively bounce
in my step. It was packed and jamming, just as I had figured. As I leaned
in to get a drink, "Santa Barbara" came flying down the bar.
"Hey," she said. "You have not been here in five years.
What took you so long to get back!?"
This is what I love about Grrece. It had indeed taken five years for
me to return and one of my favorite bartenders (she's from Santa Barbara,
CA, and also is also the evening manager) not only remembered me but
nailed the timeframe exactly.
"Let's do a shot," she said. And so we did,
"You remember the bartneder, right." Santa Barbara continued.
I looked and waved, and the other bartender gave me the acknowledgable
"hey dude" head tult and put down shot glasses. And so we
all did shots. "And you remember Sara, the waitress." It was
dark and I squinted and Sara came by with a big hug and said "let's
do shots." And so we did.
Did I mention the shot glass is the national symbol of the Greek Islands?
And so it goes for the rest of the night. I eventually scooted around
town to check out a couple of other places – Two Brothers
is still there, Trip Into the Night is unfortunately closed and a place
called Murphy's is now an "in" spot – and
had a nightcap at the Town Square, the public gathering place.
 The
next morning – noon or close to noon suffices for "morning"
in Greece – I jumped on the moped and headed to my favorite secluded
place, a tiny fishing harbor called Ammoudi. Along the way, the views
are as stunning at Lynne
Kush. One in particular is of special significance. A
friend and I found it during my first vist and it stopped us right in
our moped tracks. We stared at it for ages, transformed and unable to
move. I left a piece of my heart there and have to go visit it whenever
I return to Santoriini. As I rode and stopped at places like this, which
is at the town limit of Oia, I wished m friend was here so he could
share this great Greek experience.
Back on the moped, along the cliffs I putted, hoping not to turn the
corner in the face of a truck or launch myself some thousand feet to
the sea below. Safely and happily I made it to Ammoudi. But as I adjusted
tthe parked moped to let someone through a tight spot, the camera fell
out of the backpack and smashed onto the ground. Bummer! But I was in
in Ammoudi and would find a new camera in town (369 Euros, for those
keeping count). And, much to my shock, along wandered my missing friend
Greg as I was lunching at one of the tiny tavernas.
Let me say this – the Greeks are great when it comes to ships
but they should not be allowed to operate an airline. Turns out Greg
was at the airport all right, but Olympic had oversold the flight and
rebooked him for the next morning without ever consulting him. Because
I had flown in a few hours earlier, I was already there but Olympic
had no record of me on that flight, or any other for the entire day.
Anyway, Greg knew the magic words "Tropical
Bar at sunset" so I figured if he were on Santorini,
he would find me then and there.
Sunsets at The Tropical
Bar are as soothing as a full-body massage.
It was obvious Greg was captivated by Greece and later I introduced
him to Santa Barbara ("let's do shots") and Sara ("let's
do shots!"). At sunset, which over the caldara is as soothing as
a deep-tissue massage, he opted for the Tutty Frutty, one of Santa Barbara's
signature cocktails. It hit the normally light-drinking Greg like an
exploding volcano. Sara – whom I call "The Capitol Girl"
because she is from Canberra, Australia – and I laughed while Greg
giggled.
After sunset and a traditional Greek dinner, we went back to The Tropical
Bar then I introduced him to the Two Brothers. Shots, shots, and shots
followed to the point he was well beyond his limit. " NO MORE SHOTS!!!,"
he cried out back at The Tropical Bar, to which Santa Barbara, another
shot in hand, simply replied, "Get over it."
The second night, we met the friendly crew of an incredible 200-foot
private yacht that was anchored below The Tropical Bar. We partied with
them, then departed for Mykonos.
Before Greg left, I took him on a walk through Firastafani, one town
up the cliff from Fira. I love spending time there, looking at the white
buildings, the deep blue sea and the startlingly steep cliffs. It was
the prefect place to settle for a few settling moments before entering
the day and night Party Zone of Mykonos.
Mykonos – Greek Groundhog Day
Enter The Instigator: Put Your Hands Up, Put Your Hands Up!
For the Bartender, some things in Greece never change.
M y spiritual soul satisfied after four
days on Santorini, it was time to pin the ears back for the all-out
party that is Mykonos. Greg, unfortunately, was going to miss it all;
he had to hustle back to the States to work. The Instigator, however,
was waiting.
We did not exchange hotel info and needed no phones. We knew exactly
where we would meet – the Skandinavian Bar and Disco, one
of PubClub's World's
Best Bars..
While waiting on The Instigator, leaning on a wall outside the
bar, a youthful Greek gentleman came up and said. "I know you.
Come on." Turns out he is the owner (owner's son, actually, who
runs the place) and we went inside. For shots, of course.
So, by the timeThe Instigator arrived, I was more buzzed than
the control tower on Top Gun. Not a problem, so was she –
as well as her three crazy girlfriends, Tami, Tracy and Angela. The
party for all of us had started and it was obvious it was not going
to end until we left Mykonos five days later.
The girls turned
out to be a bit wilder – and more fun – than the writer
imagined.
And that's the way it's supposed to be here. Mykonos is like the movie
Groundhog Day. Every day is the same: Tropicana Beach Bar on Paradise
Beach by day and the Scandinavian Bar by night.
 The
girls turned out to be much more fun and wilder than I had ever imagined.
They would arrive in late afternoon already buzzed, trumping my routine
of seeking lunch and power nap before the music cranks up the beach
party.
I was constantly playing catch-up.
But this was Greece and time here has taught me it's best to go with
the flow. So while we were encouraged to "Put Your Hands Up, Put
Your Hands Up" as the song suggested, it was the Euro-pumping "California
Dreaming" that became our song. Like most everyone on Paradise
Beach, we danced on the tables, the platforms and in the sand. Like
we would be dancing on tables in our conservative California!
As the sun gave way to the stars, we traveled back to town but even
this was exciting as the girls would serenade me from the back of their
jeep. They couldn't sing, but then again my ears were ringing from DJ
Aris at the Tropicana, so it mattered little.
Tami, Tracy and The Instigator, .all made for Mykonos
After a brief break, we would gather for dinner and hit Scandinavian
Bar. There we would meet up with other friends also on holiday –
Nigel, a solo traveler from London seemed to know everyone on the island
– and go until daybreak, Californians not dreaming, but living.
Mykonos was a bit slow for September but we kicked it in higher gear.
Often this was to staggering levels. Literally. Sometimes, we would
wander the tiny town, hitting different bars. And doing more shots.
The last night, we wound up doing photo ops in a little dingy on the
harbor's beach.
Now I can't wait to get back to Mykonos again in July when it's really
cranking! Perhaps on that trip, I'll be The Instigator.
Paris – I Should Have Bought Those EuroShoes
in Mykonos
Despite Swelling Feet, Paris Proves to Be Swell
The Eiffel Tower was just one of many landmarks visited by our weary
writer.
It's getting harder to tell Americans
from Europeans by their dress. Europeans often wear jeans, though mostly
of the high-fashion variety. Ballcaps are not uncommon. And sneakers,
once the neon sign of an American, are everywhere. The brand of the
latter is different, mostly Pumas in flashy colors like silver, red
or blue an in and designs that look like a Formula 1 car in motion.
But they are still sneakers.
While in Mykonos, I passed by a place selling these shoes and contemplated
going in and getting a pair. Those "EuroShoes" as I called
them, could be put to good use day and night in Paris and on future
European visits. But having unexpectedly bought the new camera and a
pair of stylish cross-trainers already in the bag, it seemed to be a
splurge. Turns out it would have been a savior.
Paris is a great walking city. There's so much to see, so many cool
streets, places to explore, buildings to admire, landmarks to see, so
incredibly beautiful at night that I heard it begging to be strolled.
So what happened the first afternoon? My stylish cross-trainers blew
out. The soles split directly behind the toes and suddenly I was without
arch support at the Arc de Triomphe.
But instead of limping back home, I continued to walk. Down the Champs
Ellise. Past at least a dozen Charles de Gaulle residences. To the Eiffel
Tower. To Notre Dame. Ile St-Louis, an amazingly quaint village in the
heart of a busy city. Down the entire length of Rue Saint-Germain. The
thing about Paris is that the buildings and landmarks are so huge, they
look an easy walk away. Viewed from the park at the massive Louvre,
Arc de Triomphe appears to be about a 3-wood away, the Eiffel Tower
a reasonable Par 5.
In reality, these places are 45 minutes, perhaps even an hour, apart.
It's pleasant walking – down a tree-lined street, past parks,
along the Siene River with plenty of benches to rest along the way –
but this is hardly a small stroll.
Eventually, the right foot started to ache and I began to list to the
left. If I were in Pizza, I would have looked like the tower. The solution
seemed simple enough: Put on an extra pair of socks, slip on some comfy
docksiders at night, find a cafe on a busy street and drink plenty of
great French wine at some of the many cafes. It proved to an effective
local strategy but failed me when the foot swelled to the size of a
grapefruit on the way home.
The busy Latin Quarter is one of Paris' most popular nightspots.
I enjoyed Paris. I had one of those high-speed waiters at dinner. It
took him a while for him to notice me, but once he did, he flew by with
a menu, wine, a meal, more wine and finally the check, all as if his
parking meter were about to expire. He would disappear for several minutes
– hooked up to an IV and oxygen tank, no doubt – only to reappear
with the speed and agility of Terrell Owens (but with a much better
attitude). It was quite entertaining.
Everyone was friendly. From the helpful girl at the information desk
at the otherwise dreadful Charles de Gaulle airport who took a good
10 minutes to help me find my way to the approximate location of my
hotel, to the gentleman at the hotel, to the waiters themselves. "People
in Paris are nice," a female French friend told me a few years
ago when quizzed about the topic. "The only rude person is the
guy at the bottom of Eiffel Tower and he's rude to everyone." I
did not approach anyone at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower.
Looking back, some silver EuroShoes would be looking pretty stylish
in the closet, and the only thing that would be aching would be my soul
– to get back to Paris – and not my sole.
The Bartender can be reached at bartender@pubclub.com
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