Santorini: A Return to the Realm of Gods

At the tail end of an Oceanic European cruise, we arrived—salt-slicked and sun-warmed—on the jagged cliffs of Santorini. From the moment the caldera came into view, with its cascading whitewashed dwellings clinging to obsidian rock, I felt the magnetic pull of another world. Here, the boundaries between earth and myth blur; Santorini is not merely an island but a living monument, a relic of gods, mortals, and the restless sea.

For months prior, I had combed every inch of Airbnb, searching not for a hotel or tourist enclave, but for a home—something that would allow me to live among the bones of the ancient village. Following the devastating 1956 earthquake that leveled much of Oia, the town has been rebuilt with reverent restraint, preserving its cliffside charm while embracing a minimalist beauty.

Rebuilt after the 1956 earthquake, Oia’s whitewashed curves and carved stone paths honor both the island’s past and its enduring elegance.

I found a one-bedroom hideaway carved into the caldera walls, where soothing whites, soft blues, and earth-toned textures came together like the threads of a Hellenic tapestry. A private hot tub perched above the sea sealed the deal—a quiet throne floating between sky and sea.

Once settled, we did what all visitors inevitably do: we wandered. The labyrinthine paths of Oia are a devotional—each step a hymn, each corner a whispered prayer. From the old Venetian castle to the hilltop churches and down to the Aegean’s edge, the town unfolds like a mythic scroll. Here, in the honeyed light of late afternoon, I could almost see Odysseus himself turning a corner, cloak billowing in the wind, haunted by sirens and the longing for home.

Lotza feels like dining at a Greek family table—with Dionysus surely watching—where every dish is steeped in tradition and framed by sunset.

That evening, we dined at Lotza, a family-owned restaurant tucked above the cliffs. The sun dipped into the sea as we were seated, painting the village in gold. Our meal was humble and divine: creamy hummus, a Greek salad bursting with the ripest tomatoes and feta that tasted of salt and sunlight, and a plate of Beer Chicken and Rice that remains the best meal of the trip. A son of the owner served us, and we spoke briefly of the family’s roots, their pride in carrying on tradition. That meal—simple, familial, and framed by an Aegean sunset—will forever live in my heart.

Later, under a moonlit sky and to the soundtrack of waves breaking against volcanic stone, we strolled Oia. The villages across the caldera sparkled like fallen constellations. There is an unmistakable magic to Santorini at night; the island hums with the ghosts of philosophers and lovers, of ship captains and sea nymphs. History is not buried here—it breathes.

By starlight, Oia transforms into a glowing dreamscape, its cobblestone paths echoing with waves and the whispers of myth.

Back at our cave house, champagne in hand, we slipped into the hot tub and watched the constellations shift above us. The water was warm, the air cool. There are luxuries, and then there are moments that feel like inheritances from the gods.

The next morning began with a bracing plunge into the Aegean below. We climbed down the endless stairs—our feet echoing against sun-bleached stone—and leapt into the clear, cool water. There is nothing quite like being enveloped by the Aegean, the same sea that once carried heroes to Troy and back again. As we ascended the steps once more, chasing our breakfast delivery, a chorus of local cats awaited us, no doubt veterans of many such mornings. We ate on our terrace and slipped once more into the hot tub before a cold shower and a dash down to the port to board a catamaran.

The day at sea was a sensorial feast. We swam in the sulfuric warmth of the volcano’s thermal waters, floated in the calm off Red Beach, and tasted grilled chicken and vegetables chased with baklava that flaked like golden scrolls. The caldera’s black cliffs towered around us, remnants of a cataclysmic eruption some 3,600 years ago—an explosion so vast that many believe it to be the root of the Atlantis myth. Whether lost city or living legend, the energy remains. You can feel it in your skin after hours under the sun.

From hidden coves to volcanic cliffs, our catamaran tour unveiled Santorini’s wilder side—where crystal waters meet mythic horizons and every swim feels like a baptism into legend.

Back in Oia that evening, we returned to Lotza. Perhaps it was predictable, but in places like Santorini, repetition is ritual. Perfection deserves reverence.

The next day we let time stretch. After sleeping in, we took to the ancient footpath that threads its way along the caldera ridge to Fira (Thira). The 14-mile round trip was less a hike and more a pilgrimage. At one point we found ourselves off the main trail, scrambling along cliff edges with nothing but the sea far below—a humbling reminder that even paradise holds danger. Back on track, we arrived in Fira as the bells of the Church of Ypapanti rang out over the town.

After a long hike to Thira, we lit a candle in the hilltop chapel—a quiet act of gratitude beneath timeless skies.

We stepped inside, lit a candle, and offered a silent prayer. The gods of Greece—those old, proud beings—may have faded from daily worship, but in these sacred moments, you understand why they were once believed to walk among us. There is divinity in every stone, in every flowering vine curling along white walls. Lunch was a simple chicken sandwich, eaten above the caldera with Oia now a glimmer on the horizon.

As we wandered Fira, we passed mermaid mosaics glistening on sunlit walls, bouquets arranged for a village wedding, and donkeys bearing goods along stone paths. Time behaves differently here. It contracts and expands like a breath, and soon we were headed back.

In Fira, everyday scenes—a donkey’s journey, a simple sandwich, flowers for a wedding—feel touched by ceremony and myth.

Too tired for dinner out, we embraced simplicity. A final soak, a cold shower, and an early night’s rest. Even in stillness, Santorini sings.

Our final full day began in the hush of early dawn. We hiked up to the ruins of the old castle to catch the sunrise. From this vantage point, the entire caldera revealed itself like a secret. Wisps of cloud danced along the cliffs, the sea glowed molten blue, and the village blushed pink as the sun rose. It felt like an ancient rite.

We spent the rest of the day reading, reflecting, and returning again and again to the hot tub. These quiet hours offered space to process what the island had given us: not just beauty, but presence. Not just history, but connection. Santorini reminds us that the world is old, that we are young, and that both truths are beautiful.

These quiet corners of Santorini—sun-soaked terraces, ancient bells, endless sea—are the memories I’ll carry like myth.

In mythology, Santorini was once said to be formed from a clod of earth thrown into the sea by Euphemus, son of Poseidon. Whether that story is true or not, the island feels touched by something otherworldly. Maybe it’s the proximity to the sky. Maybe it’s the echo of gods in the wind. Or maybe it’s just the clarity of a place that refuses to be anything but itself.

Whatever it is, Santorini is not just a destination. It’s a return—home to the stories that shaped us, to the myths that made us, and to the sea that still sings our name.