Bedtime is now 8am. Dinner is midnight. Brunch is around 5pm before an afternoon siesta. I’m not sure where the hours of 8am – 5pm go, they don’t seem to exist in Europe. I wake up, wander the streets in search of food and when I next look at the clock it’s evening.
Right now though it’s 7am in the morning and I’m soaking wet, standing in a café outside Cavo Paradiso Club in Mykonos. I lost my bra inserts (affectionately known among womankind as ‘chicken fillets’) doing a backflip into the pool in my underwear about an hour ago, but the dress and heels are intact. Every table we visited tonight had a different drink; Moet, vodka & peach, whisky and coke, tequila shots at the bar with the manager and two crazy looking lesbian women. One had wiry red hair sticking straight up from her head and bright sea blue contacts in her eyes. It’s a scary sight at any time of day but particularly harrowing at 3am in the morning surrounded by pulsing blue lights. The manager wants to know if I’d like to come back, live above the club and jump into the pool every night next summer. Tempting.
I’m attempting to order a salad from the menu; SALATA. Italian. I got this. Prosciutto, Formaggio, Tacchino. I read these words loudly as if I know what they’re saying. Sounds like a good salad; ham, cheese and mushrooms. I’m pretty impressed with a place like this having salad and even though I can’t see fresh anything, I order a number 11. The owner moves around the counter, pours some batter onto a hot plate and fills it with ham, turkey and prosciutto before asking if I want it takeaway. Hang on; I’m supposed to be getting a salad. I start reading out the ingredients to him again from the sign before he interrupts and asks why I’m not reading the menu in English right next to the Italian version. Shoot. Apparently SALATA means ‘salty’, which I think is the Greek idea of ‘savoury’ and in this café means Crepes. Drunk Confidence strikes again. I take the crepe with only a slight grumble about the fact that ‘salata’ is clearly ‘salad’ in anybody’s language.
Mykonos is living up to its reputation as a party town, though Santorini is the surprise runner up. We meant to have two days of relaxation and liver cleansing in preparation for Mykonos but George, the Hotel Manager of Armeni Village and a connection of a local Greek friend Demi-(licious!), had other plans. It only took a complimentary bottle of wine to convince us to head into Thari, the main town of Santorini, for some partying with him that night. We were looked after all evening, crashing after sunrise to be woken by a complimentary continental breakfast. We took quad bikes around the island that afternoon, scored some more drinks and a delicious local dessert of chocolate and banana deep fried in a crepe at a beachside cafe and rode home in our bikinis under the setting sun.
Life’s pretty good.