Chasing Sunsets and Stories in Santorini
I usually pick a travel destination for its history, architecture, or food. But Santorini? I blame Bollywood. Like many others, I too had the dream of chasing that iconic sunset—those glowing orange skies over blue domes and white walls.
Since I was already in Crete for a work trip, I hopped on the cheapest ferry from Heraklion (PhD student budget still going strong). Cheapest also usually means slowest, and odd timings, so I arrived in Santorini at 4:30 AM. I had no clue about local buses—Greece isn’t exactly synced with Google Maps—but a quick Reddit scroll told me buses match ferry timings. And sure enough, one was waiting to take me to Fira, the island’s main hub. I know you must be asking yourself- what do you even do in Santorini on a student budget. Stay with me till the end and you will there is so much that could be done!
The moon was still high as we climbed uphill. I pressed myself against the window, hoping to catch a first glimpse of the town. No luck—it felt like the island wanted to keep its magic under wraps for just a little longer.
Fira turned out to be incredibly well connected, with €2 buses to every major village (Uber? Starts at €36. No thanks). Still early, I looked for a way to drop off my luggage. Found a gem of a place that stored bags, had a washroom and changing room—all for €3–5 depending on hours.
Freshened up, I took a bus to Akrotiri, tucked away at the southern tip of the island. I hadn’t read much about it beforehand—something I now see as a blessing. I walked in with no expectations, and what unfolded felt like stumbling onto a forgotten chapter of time.
The archaeological site of Akrotiri is often called the “Pompeii of the Aegean,” but to me, it felt even more haunting. This was a thriving Bronze Age Minoan settlement, buried under layers of volcanic ash after the massive eruption of Thera around 1600 BCE. The ash preserved everything with eerie precision: multi-storey buildings with painted walls, intricate drainage systems, pottery still patterned with marine motifs. You could almost sense how advanced this civilization was—how gracefully they lived, how abruptly it all ended.
Unlike crowded museums, the site is calm and covered, with suspended walkways that let you float above the ruins. It’s surreal. You’re walking through the ghost of a city that once buzzed with life, preserved not in imagination but in stone and earth.
And the ticket? Just €10. Honestly, it felt like a secret too few talk about. Afterwards, I wandered to Red Beach, took in the volcanic landscape, and returned to Fira. I still had time before check-in and was starving, so I roamed around town, stumbled across stunning viewpoints, and found plenty of affordable spots to grab a bite.
After a short rest, I headed back out—because golden hour in Santorini has a pull that’s hard to resist. Fira felt different now—softer, quieter, almost theatrical in the way the light played off its whitewashed walls, turning them shades of peach and rose. I wandered through narrow alleys lined with cafés and boutiques, every turn offering a new, postcard-worthy view of the caldera and the stillness of the sea.
I found a quiet spot along the promenade, away from the crowd, and watched the sun set the sky ablaze—orange, pink, lavender melting into the Aegean. Of course, I took photos (how could I not?), but nothing really captures the feeling of that moment.
And as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, the town transformed. Lights flickered on, one by one, until the cliffs were outlined like constellations. The streets filled with music, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery. Fira by night sparkled in a whole new way.
Naturally, I got the “are you here alone?” question more times than I could count—from waiters, shopkeepers, even the ice cream vendor. Santorini’s clearly a favourite for couples, families, and friend groups. Still, I found myself a spot at a cosy restaurant with caldera views—budget-friendly, yes—and ended the night full and content.
The next morning, I set off early for a boat tour to Nea Kameni and Palea Kameni. We hiked up to the volcanic crater and passed by the hot springs. I didn’t swim (still haven’t learned how!), but happily munched on snacks while soaking in the surreal views of the islands and caldera. It was during this cruise that I learned Santorini is actually a cluster of five islands—the remnants of a much larger island, once circular, called Strombolis. The dramatic caldera we admire today was shaped by ancient volcanic eruptions and earthquakes.
This evening was reserved for Oia. (Also, have I mentioned how surprisingly convenient the buses are on this island?) It took me barely 20 minutes to get there from Fira—and for just €2! Honestly, for a place as romanticized as Santorini, it’s refreshingly easy to get around.
As I reached Oia, the golden hour had already begun to settle in. The town was buzzing—but not in a chaotic way. It felt like everyone had collectively decided to pause, slow down, and head toward the same destination: the sunset. I made my way to the old castle ruins, one of the most iconic viewpoints, and found a cozy spot wedged between fellow sunset-chasers. The energy here was different—so much anticipation, cameras at the ready, people whispering as if in a theatre before the lights dim.
And then, just as the sky began its transformation, something even more beautiful happened—a proposal, right there in front of the crowd. It was quiet and sweet and full of nervous excitement. She said yes, and everyone around broke into soft claps and smiles, as if the sunset had just written them into its script.
As the sun dipped lower, the view became impossibly cinematic. The famous windmills stood tall against a sky splashed with peach and amber, and the white houses—stacked along the cliff like sugar cubes—seemed to glow from within. And yes, I finally caught sight of those postcard-perfect blue domes—exactly like the photos, and yet somehow more alive when you're there. Framed against the pastel sky, they looked like brushstrokes in a painting that had come to life.
What really amused me, though, were the long queues that had quietly formed along narrow alleyways—people waiting patiently for their turn to get that perfect Instagram shot with the blue domes in the background. The way everyone was coordinating poses, fixing flowy dresses, and scouting for that "just right" frame was almost a performance in itself. I found it oddly endearing—this collective dedication to beauty.
I thought the sunset from Fira was incredible (and it was!), but this… this felt like the one people write poems about.
It was one of those moments that felt perfectly timed and oddly personal, even though I was sharing it with strangers. Like the island had saved its most dramatic scene for the final act.
The next day was my last on this beautiful island before heading back to Paris, so I wanted to soak in as much of it as I could. I decided to skip the usual postcard spots and explore more of the island’s quieter corners. So off I went—to Kamari, Mesaria, and finally to Imerovigli, before hiking back to Fira to catch my bus to the airport.
The smaller, less touristy towns felt like a completely different side of Santorini. Quieter, slower, more lived-in. Kamari had this laid-back charm with its black sand beaches and locals going about their day. Mesaria was even more residential, with winding alleyways, faded doors, and sleepy cats sunbathing on doorsteps. It felt like peeking behind the island’s curtain, and I loved that contrast.
Imerovigli, on the other hand, was back to Santorini in full cinematic mode—absolutely stunning, perched high with panoramic caldera views. But it also came with its own kind of theatre. I saw at least three women in flowy dresses doing elaborate twirls for photographers, determined to capture that perfect sun-drenched frame. It was a different kind of beauty, curated but still breathtaking.
And then, one final walk—hiking the trail back to Fira, my bag a little heavier, my heart a little fuller. Santorini had given me everything I hoped for and more: ancient stories, quiet streets, dramatic skies, kind strangers, and moments that linger.
I went to Santorini chasing sunsets—but I came back with so much more. What stayed with me weren’t just the golden skies, but the quiet moments too—like sitting in a tucked-away café with a cold frappucino and my book, letting time slow down between pages. I came back inspired—by the whitewashed towns, the soft curves of the architecture, the winding streets that always led to something beautiful, the warmth of the people, and the gelato (of course).
But above all, I was moved by how this island, shaped by disaster, chose to become something even more beautiful. Santorini isn’t just a destination—it’s a reminder of how light returns after everything else falls away.
And just when I thought the island had already given me everything, my flight—delayed, of course—finally took off. And there it was: one last sunset, painting the sky in familiar hues. As if Santorini was saying goodbye the only way it knew how.