In Oia, it is impossible to stay lost. Certainly a wrong turn leads bayward, but eventually, if you are meant to venture no further, the path will narrow, then bar herself with a door, a gateway, and you will retrace your steps, breathing heavy in the ascent.
In a way, the village reminds me of the 60degree Florida of my childhood, when beach going families have returned home to the routine they adeptly forgot for ten days in the 5 flagged city, and the Spanish streets are left for those who love them innately. As the air cools and the wind navigates the streets, shop hours become shorter, characters (from didgeridoo to local pirates) move further south, to Miami's constant bustle, and St Augustine is left quieter.
But it is different here. The reverberations of summer linger in a way Floridian cities know not. Locals seem nonexistent, save the harried bed and breakfast owner and tanned construction worker, toiling away in early bougainvillea skies even before the clanging of Sunday's sacred bells begin. There is a preparation for the season to come, a hastening of demolition and renovation that forgets cracked pallets along pathways.
Then, there are the faces already becoming familiar, as we pass along the single street or eavesdrop in the handful of eateries. The tourists who are here aren't the swarms of summer dread. We move in couples, triplets occasionally, amiably ignoring each other as we pass. Outside of our tables, we never stay within hearing distance. At sunset, a score of us spread through kilometers of paths, blissful as the sun dipped, rapidly shining a new day somewhere unimaginable.
