A Night In: Santorini

You descend the steps. The restaurant has no walls, only arches looking out into the void. You order the cherry tomato fritters and a glass of Assyrtiko wine—the grapes grown in volcanic ash, tasting distinctly of salt and stone. After dinner, you find a bar with a deck built over the water. Below, the caldera is a black mirror. Across the water, the dormant volcano sits like a sleeping beast.

You grab a table at a vineyard in Pyrgos, not for the wine list, but for the view. The light begins to turn. It is no longer the harsh white of noon, but a soft, honeyed gold. The volcanic cliffs look like they are made of cinnamon and sugar. a night in santorini

The cliché is true: you have never seen a sunset like this. It lasts forever and ends too soon. Now it is dark. True dark. The kind of dark that makes the stars look like chipped diamonds. You descend the steps

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You step inside. The floor is cool marble. The bed faces a window that is the entire wall. Outside, a single ferry blinks on the horizon. After dinner, you find a bar with a

The sun touches the rim of the sea. For a moment, it hesitates.

They flee on the last cable car down the cliff, exhausted from the heat. They miss the real Santorini. They miss the night.