The pack of wild dogs followed us through the predawn streets of Athens, establishing a perimeter whenever we stopped and scouting ahead as we walked. They followed us our entire walk to the train station, becoming our guardians and signaling our approach to anyone who appeared. One man, on a Vespa, slowed to try to talk with us or pet the dogs; they circled warily before latching onto his ankles and attempting to pull him off the scooter. He swerved away, yelling as the dogs subsided around the eight of us. Wild dogs are not uncommon in Athens, we learned, and the government vaccinates them even though they seem to eat through osmosis. At least that would partly explain why they didn’t seem to do much besides lounge around and sleep all day. Though, by the end of my fifth day on the island of Santorini, I could see why no one in Greece seems interested in doing much else.

The ferry ride from Athens to Santorini took about nine hours, most of the time spent dropping passengers off at other islands off the coast of Greece. I spent the time with the group of Americans (and one Greek-American, fluent, who was translator and cultural informant for the entire trip) I was traveling with on the covered deck, chain-smoking, talking, and reading. Greek men, old and young, surrounded us doing the same thing; breathing the air was like smoking a pack itself. The day was overcast as we pulled out of the dock at 7:30, and my stomach was a ball of acid caused by travel anxiety. The sea breeze smelled salty and refreshed me and my hands played lazily with my friend’s worry beads, the Greek for which I don’t know but is more useful in describing the strings of non-religious beads that Greek men compulsively fingered.

Arriving on the island we disembarked from the ship and were immediately assaulted by taxi drivers and tourist information and sham artists offering forgeries of maps. The bus we eventually settled on to take us to our rented house accelerated up the steep hills and severe corners. The countryside was filled with rural villages and vineyards, farmlands and small grocery stores. Many of the storefronts were boarded over or otherwise dilapidated and deserted, because it was off-season or because of the economic recession I still don’t know. Our landlord greeted us with eurotrash dancepop blaring from the speakers attached to the house where he had an office.

We settled into the way of life on Santorini quickly upon arriving, eating grilled pork and lamb gyros with smooth espresso frappes. We explored the small, meandering roads leading away from the capital of Fira, watching winds push clouds across the sky and hiding in their shadows. The Aegean surrounded us, but the island itself was mostly mountainous. We made it to the beach one day, black volcanic sand crumbling around my toes as the water rushed forward to welcome me.

We rented ATV’s, which instantly branded us as tourists (as if it weren’t obvious enough), our second to last day on the island. I spent much of our remaining time on one or wishing I were. I hadn’t driven any type of vehicle since leaving the United States, so that was reason enough to thrill in racing around the corners or up and down the bumpy roads. We took the vehicles to the most western part of the island and greeted the ocean. On our way out, a small dog ran into the road and I swerved to avoid it, the unwieldy and monstrous ATV grinding in protest. I avoided the dog and blushed, embarrassed because of the two Greek men who stood silently watching on the side of the road. I thought of our protectors back in Athens and felt foreign and confused, then glad that I hadn’t contracted fleas from them.