Costas (who else?) drives an easy bargain - eetsa no problem! His array of not-so-shiny scooters await the tourist who dares. We purchase our transport and take off like the responsible non-teenagers we are. The helmuts are safely stored under the seat - no point in looking after your head when you are driving around in a bikini and bare feet.
A little should be said about the roads - in fact a whole lot should be said about the roads but it is best to try and stay alive along a highway(think overlarge lane) that has been laid down by some lunatic Greeks. The tarmac resembles a recent eruption of some Ionian volcano coupled with potholes that come with their own guide.
I not only survive but can also navigate the island without the aid of signposts. Why do you need signposts on such a small island - you will get there eventually, but tomorrow may have to be soon enough!
And so, off into the depths of the Greek countryside where we are verbally attacked by the cricket noise. Rosemary, thyme, lemons and olives arrive on the wind that I can only describe as Greek salad. We drive through the 'Greekness' and pass small inlets of pure turquoise. At every turn there are stone houses, olive groves, mountainous hills and death-defying drops to a sea that has no right to be that colour.
I find an unpleasant side to scooting. My teeth have become a graveyard to small flying bodies who haven't got the horse-power to avoid their enammeled death. I am a death-bringer and I really should learn not to smile so much. Killing the locals might be an offence if the police were remotely interested!