Yesterday we climbed a volcano and, in a manner of speaking, drove ourselves up the wall – the Oia steps, to be precise.  It had been adventure on the high seas and high up a cliff, and by the end it was high freaking time I slept.  

After a long shower - which served the double purpose of rinsing the hot springs’ mineral deposits out of my clothes – I collapsed in a heap on my bed.  Somehow, though, Marilyn still had the energy to go out and eat and make new friends (Aussies, of course – because there’s not a place in the world where you won’t find them).  Where this boundless energy comes from – whether she jabs metal rods into powerpoints to charge herself up, or has an endless supply of intravenous caffeine - is anyone’s guess.  It’s always been this way, right back from when we met as 12-year-olds.

All I had the energy to do, meanwhile, was eat three cookies and fall asleep watching Catch Me If You Can – which was apparently still airing when Marilyn returned from dinner several hours later.  The Greeks have such long ad breaks in their TV programming you could cook a three-course meal during one and use the next to eat it in.  Maybe that’s the idea.

But this is the main difference between my best friend and I - while I’m often content to just be in a new place, Marilyn cannot rest until she’s seen and done (and eaten) everything.  Then she rests in much the same way as a fallen pillar. 

I, on the other hand, will see some things (plenty of things, really), eat some things (again, plenty), and be content to just soak up a new atmosphere along the way.

Though some might call it faffing, I need reflection time.  Maybe I’ll stay up till the wee hours to pore over my journal, or wake up early without prompting (which only ever happens if I’m travelling) and meditatively repack my bag.  I need time to find the soundtrack to a place.  I need time to write.

It’s only now that we’re travelling together - particularly here in Santorini - that our differing energy levels have come close to being contentious.  Maybe it’s a weird side-effect of being in such an overwhelmingly spectacular place.

As for my sleep patterns, with every trip my body becomes more skilled at creating a timezone all of its own.  And then, even once I find a locally-appropriate sleep pattern to cling to, it only takes the slightest disturbance to knock it off course again.

In Athens, it was the roosters and the cigarette smoke.  In Mykonos, it was the roosters again.  In Santorini it was the motorbikes, the church bells… and the roosters (But where are they all?  From Athens to Crete I didn’t see a single rooster, but I heard them everywhere!).

The next day is the rainy, whiney one where we have a rainy, whiney (yet tasty) lunch and talk about impending doom in our epic (and epically-juvenile) friendship.  Whatever.  Everything is about to get a whole lot more luxurious when we get to the place that the Canadian couple recommended to us.

Our final night in Santorini will be spent in kick-ass caves carved into an Everest of style with bottomless breakfasts and beauty spa-worthy bathrooms.  Marilyn has already called the place and haggled with them to get the same price as the couple.  It’s sorted – the hotel peeps are even going to pick us up outside the post office.

We bid a sad farewell to Hotel Atlantis, its spectacular view, and the lovely staff there.  The super helpful front-desk lady even asks if we won’t stay just one more night.  In truth, I’m not sure why we’re leaving either, considering we struck gold with this place, but there’s more to see.  Adventure calls.

When an unmarked white car shows up, and an equally unmarked guy gets out and takes our bags, I have a small, silent freak-out.  This could be anyone’s car.  And this guy could be, well, anyone.  In a strange home-away-from-home moment, we drive along a eucalypt-lined road to a small town on the other side of Fira called Firostefani.

The driver – who, despite language barriers, I’ve gleaned to be a pretty nice dude - drags our bags along the cobblestones and up the stairs for us.  Definitely something that an employee of a luxury abode would do, right?  All signs are good: Kolofarthia!

But when we meet the rail-thin, frizzy-haired manager-on-duty of Nomikos Villas, we soon experience another concept of Greek origins: Drama.