Santorini, Greece
I signed Husband up for a spa treatment at the hotel. The English translation of the service menu was missing, and as I don’t read Greek, I wasn’t really sure what procedure I’d selected for him.
Me (when he returned, pink and glowing, after an hour): “How was it?”
Husband: “The therapist had me get undressed down to my underwear and lay on a wooden platform. She drizzled warm olive oil on me, kneaded my muscles like they were bread dough, then rubbed salt into my skin and sprinkled rosemary oil on my hair.”
Me: “Did you like it?”
Husband: “After I was sure she wasn’t preparing me for dinner, yeah, it was pretty nice.”
More Santorini…
We woke up to seven bell peals from the local church tower–even though it was eight o’clock. I asked the villa manager about it.
Apparently a real bell ringer is employed (as opposed to using a recording). He’s an elderly gentleman who rings the bell every half hour from 8 AM to 10 PM (one bell for half past). So why the miscount?
According to the villa manager, the bell ringer grew up before Daylight Savings Time was instituted. So he’s off half the year.
“It is easier for this part of the village to adjust than for him to,” the villa manager said.
Lots of walking meant lots of calluses.
Tried the local version of a pedicure. The garra rufa (“kissing fish”) nibble away dead skin.
It really works (and it really tickles)!
Two-thousand-year-old ruins dot the landscape in Greece. Will these be the relics of the ’08 real estate crash?
The roads here are largely single-lane former donkey cart tracks that serpentine up and down the mountains.
Husband suggested we rent a motorbike to tour the island.
I suggested we walk up to the highest cliff and throw ourselves into the ocean as it would be a less painful death.
We opted for a car.
