11 Apr,2025 By Fake Travel News
This post comes to us from Jeff, a solo traveler from Colorado. Thanks for the blog entry, Jeff, and sorry about the divorce!
Are you recently divorced and stuck with non-refundable tickets to the world’s most romantic island? Don’t worry—you’re not alone! Well, actually, you are completely alone. But at least someone else has been there before. Me.
Six months ago, Diana and I booked our “second honeymoon” to Santorini while still playing the roles of happily married couple. However, three months later, I discovered Diana’s affair with her CrossFit instructor, Rick.
After the divorce, I was left with half a house, along with a very confused golden retriever named Pancake. Additionally, I got stuck with two non-refundable tickets to Santorini with a strict no-cancellation policy. When I contacted the airline, they helpfully informed me I could change the name on one ticket for “only” $850, which seemed like adding financial insult to emotional injury.
“Screw it,” I thought. “I’m going to Santorini alone. How bad could it be?”
Spoiler alert: Pretty bad. But also kind of amazing. It was that special “I’m laughing to keep from crying” sort of way.
My taxi driver from the airport was a jolly man named Stavros. His mustache deserved its own passport. He kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“Where is your wife?” he finally asked. His accent was thick but his perception was thicker.
“Not here,” I replied. I tried to sound mysterious rather than pathetic.
“Girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Boyfriend?” he asked without missing a beat.
“Also no.”
He nodded sagely. He looked like he’d just solved a complex math problem. “Ahh. You come to Santorini to find love!”
I didn’t correct him. I just smiled weakly and stared out the window. The impossibly blue Aegean Sea stretched before us. I wondered if it was deep enough to swallow both my sorrows and my ex-wife’s CrossFit instructor.
“Santorini is magic for love,” Stavros continued. “You come alone, but you no leave alone!”
If only he knew. The only relationship I could maintain was with the mini bottles in the hotel minibar.
My hotel was perched on the cliffside in Oia, boasting “breathtaking views perfect for couples.” Indeed, the website hadn’t lied because the view was truly breathtaking. From my private balcony, I could gaze at the caldera below while the water looked so blue it seemed Photoshopped. Meanwhile, white-washed buildings cascaded down the cliffside like a waterfall of milk.
It was the kind of view that makes you want to share it. You turn and say, “Can you believe this?” But when I turned, there was only an empty chair. Just the ghost of vacations past.
Breakfast was served on a communal terrace. Upon approaching the buffet, I quickly counted the romantic displays around me: seven couples feeding each other fruit, two marriage proposals in progress, and one pair enthusiastically practicing for the Olympic event of “Most Uncomfortable Public Display of Affection.”
I loaded my plate with Greek yogurt and honey. After finding a small table in the corner, I settled in for a quiet breakfast. Within minutes, however, a cheerful waiter approached.
“Good morning, sir! Table for one?” he asked. This was somewhat unnecessary since I was already seated alone.
“Yes, just me.”
“Your wife, she is sleeping in?” he asked with a wink.
“My wife is probably waking up next to Rick in Denver,” I replied. My smile felt more like a grimace.
The waiter’s face performed an impressive journey as it went from confusion to shock to pity in three seconds.
“I bring you Bloody Mary,” he declared while patting my shoulder sympathetically. “On the house.”
Twenty minutes later, I was on my second complimentary Bloody Mary. I took artistic photos of my drink against the backdrop of the sea. I posted it on Instagram with the caption: “My date this morning is spicy, red, and full of vodka. #SantoriniSolo #BetterThanRick.”
A couple at the next table was talking about their annual visits. They’d been coming to Santorini every year since their honeymoon. Fifteen years! Diana and I hadn’t even made it to five. I raised my Bloody Mary in their direction. A silent toast to marriages that actually work. Then I took a large gulp. I focused on the burn of vodka rather than the burn of regret.
Santorini is famous for its unique beaches. The black beach at Perissa and the red beach near Akrotiri stand out. In my emotionally fragile state, these became perfect metaphors for my journey through heartbreak.
The black beach has volcanic sand. It soaks up the sun’s heat until it’s almost too hot to walk on. This reminded me of the initial shock of discovering Diana’s betrayal. I sat on a rented lounger. Happy families and couples frolicked in the water around me.
“The black represents the darkness of my soul,” I narrated to myself. My voice-over was worthy of a bad indie film. I applied another layer of SPF 50 to my increasingly pink shoulders.
Later that day, I visited the red beach. Getting there requires a short hike over rocky terrain. The dramatic landscape features rust-colored cliffs rising from the sea. It seemed to represent the anger phase of my grief.
As I carefully picked my way down to the shoreline, a honeymooning couple stopped me. They asked if I would take their photo.
I took several photos of them. Their arms wrapped around each other against the backdrop of crimson cliffs. I felt a stab of something between envy and nausea.
“You should get someone to take your photo too,” the woman suggested kindly.
“Oh, I’m good,” I replied. “I’m practicing being present in the moment rather than documenting it.” This sounded better than “A solo photo at the red beach might look too much like a dating profile pic or a cry for help.”
As I left, I realized I’d skipped a color. Where was the green beach to represent my jealousy of Rick’s superior abs? Perhaps Santorini needed to expand its geological palette. It would better accommodate the spectrum of divorce emotions.
I signed up for a traditional Greek cooking class. This might have been the worst decision of my trip. The brochure promised “an intimate culinary experience where you’ll learn to prepare authentic Greek dishes.” It failed to mention that “intimate” meant “you’ll be the only solo person among six disgustingly happy couples.”
The chef, Maria, was a middle-aged woman with strong hands. She had no patience for measuring cups. “You put love in the food, not measurements!” she declared. She demonstrated how to properly knead dough for spanakopita.
We were paired up for most activities. This meant I was partnered with Maria herself. This arrangement seemed to amuse the rest of the class to no end.
One particularly enthusiastic couple from Australia got creative. They arranged their feta cheese and vegetables into a smiley face.
“Look how cute!” the woman squealed. She showed it to her partner. He responded with an adoring look. You’d think she’d just discovered the cure for cancer. Not arranged food products in a vaguely human pattern.
“Very creative,” Maria said diplomatically. Then she showed us how to hollow out cucumbers. We were making a traditional lamb stuffing dish called gemista.
I scooped out the seedy center of my cucumber. I created a void where once there was substance. The parallels to my hollowed-out heart were impossible to ignore. Diana had scooped out my emotional seeds. She replaced them with nothing. Not even lamb.
“You are squeezing cucumber too hard,” Maria observed. She gently took it from my white-knuckled grip. “Gentle hands make better food. And better love,” she added with a wink.
By the end of the class, I had learned how to make tzatziki and moussaka. I also built a compelling case for never attending cooking classes while emotionally vulnerable.
Fortunately, not all of my companions in Santorini were nauseatingly in love. On my third morning, I sat on my balcony nursing both a cup of strong Greek coffee and a mild hangover. While enjoying this quiet moment, I noticed a scruffy orange cat watching me from atop a nearby wall.
Unlike most strays, this cat didn’t approach with a practiced look of starvation. He regarded me with feline indifference that bordered on disdain. I immediately felt a kinship.
I named him Odysseus since he seemed to be on his own epic journey through life. Over the next few days, I noticed he led a small band of stray cats that roamed the narrow streets of Oia. These cats weren’t a family, exactly, but rather a coalition of convenience—independent souls who occasionally joined forces when it suited them, much like my fantasy football league back home.
“You’ve got the right idea, Odysseus,” I told him one evening. I shared a bit of leftover souvlaki with him. “No commitments, no CrossFit instructors to worry about.”
Odysseus blinked slowly. I chose to interpret this as profound agreement.
In addition to Odysseus, my other non-human friend was a donkey I encountered on the steep steps leading from the port up to Fira. These hardworking animals carry tourists who don’t want to make the climb themselves, and consequently, this job seemed to have left this particular beast with a deeply philosophical outlook.
I huffed and puffed my way up the steps on foot, partly for the exercise but mostly for the self-flagellation. Halfway up, I locked eyes with a donkey who carried a woman simultaneously taking a selfie and complaining about the smell. The donkey’s expression showed such profound resignation that I immediately stopped to catch my breath, then offered him a sympathetic pat.
“I get it, buddy,” I whispered. “Some days you’re the tourist, other days you’re the ass.”
A nearby donkey handler chuckled. “His name is Hector,” he informed me. “He has been carrying people up these steps for ten years.”
“Has he ever considered a career change?” I asked.
The handler shrugged. “What else would he do? This is his purpose.”
I pondered this as I continued my climb. What was my purpose now that I was no longer half of “Diana and Jeff”? Perhaps, like Hector, I was destined to carry my burdens up and down steep inclines.
If you’ve ever googled “Santorini,” you’ve seen the sunset photos. Orange and pink skies melt into the horizon. Whitewashed buildings glow in the fading light. It’s consistently rated one of the most beautiful sunsets in the world. Everyone knows the best place to view it is from the Byzantine castle ruins in Oia.
Everyone had the same idea on my fourth evening in Santorini. I arrived an hour early to secure a good spot. Hundreds of people were already jockeying for position. Selfie sticks extended like medieval lances in some bizarre modern jousting tournament.
Couples were particularly aggressive. They fought for prime real estate where they could silhouette their kisses against the setting sun. I overheard one man practicing his proposal speech. Another couple argued over their Instagram caption options. “Love you to the moon and back” or something “less basic” were the contenders.
I found a small section of wall with a decent view. I sat down and prepared to be emotionally moved by the famous sunset. Next to me, a woman was FaceTiming with family back home.
“It’s so romantic here,” she gushed into her phone. “I wish everyone could experience this with someone they love.”
She glanced at me. I sat alone with my bottle of water and emotional baggage. She quickly averted her eyes. It was as if solitude might be contagious.
Eventually, the sun began its descent as a fiery ball sinking slowly into the Aegean. While the crowd collectively held its breath, they subsequently erupted in applause when it finally disappeared. You’d think the sun had just performed a difficult piano recital rather than the same act it had been faithfully performing since the formation of the solar system.
Was it beautiful? Objectively, yes. Did it stir my soul or heal my broken heart? Not particularly. After all, sunsets, like many experiences, are heavily influenced by context, and consequently, watching day turn to night while surrounded by romantic bliss is not exactly ideal for nursing a broken heart.
As the crowd dispersed, I heard snippets of conversation:
“That was magical!” “Best moment of my life!” “Did you get it on Instagram? Tag me!”
I stayed seated on my wall. I watched as the colors faded from the sky and realized something: the real show happens after most people leave. The blues deepen and the first stars appear. There was probably a metaphor there about patience. About seeing beyond the obvious.
“The volcano is still active,” our tour guide explained. Our boat approached the small, dark island in the center of the caldera. “But don’t worry, the last eruption was in 1950. It was very small.”
This information was meant to reassure us. But I had recently watched my marriage erupt, collapse, and bury my emotional Pompeii. I found the possibility of a volcanic explosion oddly comforting. At least it would be a natural disaster rather than a man-made one.
The hiking trail up the volcano was steep and rocky, and throughout our climb, steam rose from vents in the ground. Our diverse tour group, which consisted of a family with teenagers, a few couples, and me, dutifully followed our guide in single file.
“If you look closely, you can see the different layers of lava from various eruptions,” the guide explained. She pointed to the striated rock face. “Each represents a different period in the volcano’s history.”
At the summit, we could see the entirety of the caldera. It had formed from an enormous eruption thousands of years ago, whereby most of the original island collapsed into the sea. As a result, the landscape served as a stark reminder of nature’s power, demonstrating how even things that seem solid and permanent can be completely wrecked.
“Any questions?” the guide asked as we paused for photos.
“What would happen if someone fell in?” asked one of the teenagers.
“Tyler!” his mother immediately scolded.
“The mouth of the volcano is not open here,” the guide explained patiently. “If you fell, you would just hit rock. But it would hurt.”
“Story of my life,” I muttered. Perhaps a bit too loudly.
On the boat ride back, I struck up a conversation with the embarrassed mom. She turned out to be recently divorced herself.
“First vacation as a single parent,” she confided. “It’s not what I imagined for my life. But we’re making it work.”
“At least you have your kids,” I replied. “I just have a dog and a collection of true crime podcasts.”
She laughed. “The podcasts help, don’t they? Something about other people’s problems being worse than yours.”
For the first time in days, I felt a genuine connection. We shared the experience of having survived something that once seemed unsurvivable. It wasn’t exactly a Hallmark moment. But in the landscape of my Santorini experience, it was a welcome oasis.
On my final morning in Santorini, I wheeled my suitcase through the narrow streets. I headed toward the taxi stand. I passed a wall with a quote painted in elegant script: “Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.” – Mother Teresa.
Under normal circumstances, I might have found this inspiring. In my current state, however, it felt like a personal attack. After all, how could I possibly spread love when I could barely spread butter on my toast without thinking about Diana, who, incidentally, used to prefer it with honey rather than jam.
Just a few steps further, I noticed something that made me stop short—a trash dumpster with a simple smiley face spray-painted on its side. Apparently, even the garbage receptacles in Santorini were happier than me.
For a moment, I stood there contemplating the contrast between the lofty Mother Teresa quote and the grinning dumpster. Suddenly, to my surprise, I found myself laughing—a real, genuine laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside that I had thought might have died along with my marriage.
There was something perfectly absurd about the juxtaposition. The aspirational call to spread love. The simple reality of finding joy in garbage. Perhaps that was the real lesson of traveling to Santorini alone. Beauty and happiness are found in unexpected places. Even in the midst of heartbreak.
As Stavros drove me back to the airport, he asked, “Did you find love in Santorini?”
While considering my answer, I thought about Odysseus the cat, the philosophical donkey, and the fellow divorced mom. I reflected on the sunsets that continued whether anyone watched them or not, as well as the unexpectedly profound smiling dumpster.
“Not the kind I expected,” I replied thoughtfully. “But maybe the kind I needed.”
He nodded sagely in the rearview mirror. “This is why Santorini is magic. You come with non-refundable tickets, you stay despite the broken heart, and ultimately, you leave with… something else.”
Although this wasn’t the most eloquent observation, it was, nevertheless, in its own way, as profound as any Mother Teresa quote.
And as the plane lifted off, with the island growing smaller beneath us, I came to a realization about Santorini: despite being marketed as the perfect destination for couples, its real magic is, in fact, more universal. Above all, it reminds us that beauty exists independently of our circumstances, while connections come in many forms. Furthermore, even in our darkest moments, there’s always a ridiculous smiling dumpster waiting around the corner to put things in perspective.
The non-fake disclaimer: Fake Travel News is a satire travel blog. We have fun creating and exaggerating travel stories from around the world, but we also love travel and the very real magic it grants to the human experience. For non-fake information on Santorini Island, you can visit the following link: My Santorini Travel Guide – SantoriniDave.com
