The year is 1970. It’s Saturday, August 20th, and in two days me and my family are going to Santorini, nicknamed one of the most romantic places in the world, so to speak. We’ll be staying with one of my father’s friends in his hotel. I heard he has a daughter and a son. Anastasia and Alexandre. I think they're French, or something.
Anastasia is about a year or two younger than me. I think dad said 18 or 19 years old, I can’t recall. Alexandre (or Alex, as he prefers) is around a year older than me, so dad thinks all of us will get along great. I honestly don’t know, we’ll see.
I started packing shirts, when dad came in and said, “You don’t need to pack a lot, Tim. Fred will be providing us with plenty of comfortable clothes.” When he says “comfortable clothes,” I get a little bit wary, because my dad’s version of comfortable clothes are skin-tight shorts, baggy t-shirts, and god-awful loafers. So I just say, “ ‘K, cool.” But when he leaves I throw in a few extra clothes, just in case.
The next two days fly by and before I know it we’re driving to the boat port to get to Santorini.
We load our stuff onto the boat, and I find a spot on the boat to curl up and get some sleep for the next few hours.