I was crossing a stormy Adriatic Sea, in the middle of a long Mediterranean vacation, when I found him. Thirsty, tired and bored after a night of being pitched back and forth by the waves, I had wandered down to the ship's cafeteria in search of company. Robert was a rangy Englishman with well-creased eyes, a thick Sussex burr and a gruff pride that barely hid the burn behind him. He was headed for a bartending job in Santorini, he said; a three-year stint in Toronto had ended abruptly. While the rest of us tourists shelled out for the overpriced ferry cafeteria fare, he sipped a slow series of espressos, digging deep in his trouser pockets for the slim billfold whose contents had to get him all the way to the islands.

We spent the rest of the day together, splashing through the rain for fresh air and staring at the horizon -- the only thing in sight not moving -- to keep our digestive tracts working in a single direction. At the storm's worst point, Robert hauled me around to the prow of the boat, where we leaned out past the railing and dipped back and forth into the waves to compensate for the ferry's sickening motion.

I was planning to spend a week working my way down the islands; Robert was going straight to Santorini. Before I left him at the railway station in Patras, he scribbled in my guidebook the name of a restaurant in Santorini. "I'll be working there, so that's the best place to find me," he said.

I hugged him before I picked up my backpack. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll see you in Santorini in a week."

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Three and a half weeks later I landed on Santorini. I hadn't meant to be so late, but each Peloponnese village I stayed in begat another stop in another town, until eventually I was moving even more slowly than the Australians whose paths I crossed. Finally, after an incense-laden Greek Easter on the sprawling island of Naxos, I headed south to Santorini.

The ferry arrived in late afternoon, in streaming sunlight. As we neared the island, the town of Thíra burst white over the caldera, splintering over the black cliffs that cupped the island's harbors. I made my way into town, drenched by the heat -- cold winds had cut through all my days on Naxos -- and stumbling in what I hoped was the direction of the hostel. At the sound of footsteps behind me, I turned my head wearily; I did a double take when I recognized the face.

"Robert?" I asked, not sure he'd remember me. Robert looked up and dragged his lips into a long dry smile. "Aha," he said, "I was wondering if you were going to show up."

He looked at me appraisingly. "You look terrible," he concluded. "Do you have a place to stay?" I admitted that I was looking for one. "I'll take you," he said, and headed off at a brisk pace. I wiped some sticky strands of hair off my forehead and followed.

After five minutes of turning through a series of white stuccoed alleyways, he stopped and wheeled around. "Here you go," he said. "I have to head over to work now; I can take you out later, but it won't be until midnight. If you'll be awake for it," he added.

I nodded eagerly; I was planning a long nap. "OK, then," he said, "I'll meet you down the road at the Kyra Thira; it's down there a few blocks on the right." He pointed down the lane. I nodded again, too exhausted to chat more. "Well, see you tonight then," he said, and walked off.

A few minutes after midnight I stumbled into the pub, blinking in the smoky room. A mural arched up over the walls, decked with portraits of Dizzy Gillespie and Billie Holiday; Robert sat at the bar, the only non-Greek in the room and the only person under the age of 50. I tapped his arm and he turned around sharply, then softened his shoulders and stood up.

"Have a good evening?" he asked.

"Fine."

"What would you like to drink? Niko, this is Rachel. Do you like sangria? Two sangrias," he said, and ushered me into a booth at the window. We sipped our drinks quietly; vaguely uncomfortable at the silence, I gazed outside at tourists staggering by in search of their hotels.

"It's quiet now," Robert volunteered finally. "It was busy over Easter, but all the Greeks have gone home. In a few weeks the Europeans will start coming, and it will be very crowded." He pronounced the sentence deliberately, rolling the word "very" with some distaste.

"Why did you come back here if you don't like the crowds?" I asked.

He paused. "I lived here for three years -- summers here, winters in Italy. Then I fell in love with a woman and moved to Canada with her. When I left Canada ..." He shrugged. "I hate England. I stopped in Italy to visit some friends, then I came here."

We downed a few more sangrias before the bar closed, then walked softly through the alleys, wandering back to the hostel. An old man came toward us, tapping the cobblestones with a cane, stopping occasionally to rap on a few wooden doors. I turned and stared, fascinated, and watched him knock at the door of the Kyra Thira. He exchanged a few words with Niko, and walked on. I turned back and looked quizzically at Robert.

"They used to keep the bars open all night here," he said. "But there are more and more tourists now. Some of the locals complained, so now everyone closes at 2." He gestured in the direction of the tapping cane. "He goes through town to make sure everyone is closed."

"Now," he said. We were at the hostel, standing before the heavy wooden doors. "Do you have plans for tomorrow?"

"Nothing really."

"Why don't I take you to Oía?"

"Sure, if you've got the time," I said hesitantly.

"Good. I'll come for you at 10." He kissed me quickly on both cheeks, European style, and held me for a moment, then let go. "Buona notte," he said quietly.

"Sleep well," I replied, then turned into the building.

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