The lights come up to reveal a thin, solitary figure, dressed in black.

She claims the epic space with her broad, flowing hand gestures, musical phrasing, and unintentional air of absurdity. The figure’s hair is larger-than-life, like Medea or Medusa. She plays both lead and chorus like a choir leader… or Medusa.

“I feel so bad,” is her refrain.  “I feel so bad for you guys.”

Even though we’re at Nomikos Villas in Santorini , I’m transported back to The Odeon of Herodes Atticus in Athens. I can just hear this woman’s words bouncing off every stone surface of that extraordinary 5000-seat monument to live performance built thousands of years ago.

“I can’t.  I can’t give you Room 6 like your friends because there are people in it.  Who told you that you could have it?  A guy?  Well, that guy is an idiot.  Here, let me show you another.”

We’re sitting at a tired tiki-hut bar by a stagnant swimming pool.  Above us looms a cluster of white villas that, yes, are carved into the cliffs of Santorini – just like the Canadian couple said.

Our thespian hotel manager points toward an open door to the left of the closet-sized reception office.  It looks like a storage room – no, wait a minute, it IS.  That’s where the unmarked man put our luggage!

“Take a look at this one.  It’s bigger than what you were promised, but I’ll give it to you for the same price.”

We walk inside and, to be fair, it is kind of big.  But it’s also dark, dank, claustrophobic and full of other people’s luggage.  It’s nothing like the brochure.

“Is there anything a little less… dungeon-like?” I ask.

“We really want this bathroom,” Marilyn says, showing the woman the brochure.

“For that same price?  No.  I can’t.  I can’t do it.  I feel so bad…  It’s not your fault that the guy you talked to on the phone was an idiot.  But there’s one more room upstairs.  The people are checking out today if you don’t mind waiting.  15 minutes.”

She runs off and we plant ourselves back at the tiki-hut bar.  We’re drinking this nice red fizzy booze which has made the whole thing slightly comedic.  At least, for me.

“Dude, I’m happy to just go back to Atlantis,” I tell Marilyn.

“I want that f–king bathroom,” she says.

Medea returns, hands clasped, ready for Act Two.

“Okay, the room upstairs will be free soon.  I can’t give it to you for the same price, but I can still give you a discount.  Do you want to see it?  I feel so bad for you guys.  You’re on vacation…”

She’s giving us a performance aimed at bringing 5000 ancient Greeks to their feet in that oh-so-steeply-tiered amphitheatre back in Athens.

Instead, she’s got a two Aussies with flip-flops and blank expressions.

“You can see it and make your decision.  But it’s not cleaned yet, the people just left.  I made them leave faster.  For you.”

We climb up and up and up the stairs.  One thing’s for sure – the view of the Caldera never fails to disappoint.

We walk inside and, well, it’s a cave alright.  A cave with linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, one small window, and… what is that smell?

“So this is for the same price we were quoted?” Marilyn asks.

“No, I can’t.  I can’t do that.  I feel so bad…”

She shows us a folder with the regular prices.  “Here, see?  Usually 330 Euro.  My boss won’t let me do any lower than 165.”

Marilyn and I look at each other.  Medea won’t leave us alone to discuss it.

“I feel so bad…  Let me check.”  She runs off to the ‘wings’.

Marilyn and I decide that if she won’t give it to us for the 130 Euro we were quoted, we’re gonna hit the road back to Atlantis.

Medea returns for her third and final act.

“Okay, because you were lied to by that idiot guy on the phone, my boss says you can have this one for the 130.  Okay?  Now we’ll clean the room for you.  15 minutes.”

Lights down.