Now, keep in mind—I did promise that along with the beautiful sunsets, whitewashed villages, and dreamy travel moments would come the honest stories.

And this is definitely one of them.

There have been exactly two times in my life when I have been willing to go to just about any length for something.

The first was years later, when I got sober.

The second was on a cold, nearly deserted, off-season mountainside in Oia, Santorini, when I desperately wanted a corkscrew.

It was my birthday, and at the time, all I really wanted was a glass—or two…or three—of Merlot. I didn’t think this was an unreasonable birthday request.

In fact, I had planned ahead. On our way into Santorini, I had proudly purchased a bottle of wine specifically for the occasion.

Although, if we’re being completely honest, back in those days I planned almost everything around where and when I would be drinking, so perhaps “thoughtful birthday planning” is being a little generous.

That evening, I pulled out my carefully selected bottle and pictured exactly how this was going to go: Sarah and I would sit on the tiny balcony of our little Greek house perched on the hillside, sip wine, stare out over the caldera, and have one of those perfect Santorini moments you see in travel magazines.

There was just one tiny problem.

I didn’t have a corkscrew.

This was not a twist-off bottle.

Of course it wasn’t.

I searched the Airbnb.

Nothing.

I searched my suitcase.

Nothing.

Kitchen drawers. Bags. Cabinets. Random objects that had absolutely no business opening a wine bottle.

Nothing.

Eventually, I did what any rational person stranded on a Greek island with a sealed bottle of Merlot would do.

I Googled it.

I investigated shoes. Keys. Walls. Various questionable bottle-opening techniques that seemed significantly more likely to end with shattered glass and an emergency room visit than with a nice birthday glass of wine.

Finally, I looked at Sarah.

“Well…we have to go find a corkscrew.”

Apparently, simply not drinking the wine had not yet entered the list of available solutions.

We knew there was a small local market somewhere nearby.

And by “nearby,” I mean nearby according to my personal travel calculations, in which absolutely everything is “just around the corner.”

So out the door we went.

Up one hill.

Then another hill.

Then another.

Oia is built into the side of a mountain, which means what looks like a charming little stroll on a map is actually an Olympic-level stair-climbing event.

“Should be right up here.”

Another hill.

“I think it’s just around this corner.”

Another hill.

By approximately hill number ten or eleven, Sarah had probably begun questioning not only the location of this market but several of her life choices.

And then we rounded a corner.

We froze.

Standing directly in the middle of the only road leading toward the market was a massive dog.

Not a cute Greek-island dog.

Not a friendly stray looking for snacks.

This thing looked like Cujo had retired to Santorini.

He stood completely still, staring at us.

We stared back.

He looked at us like two tourists who had very conveniently delivered themselves directly to his dinner table.

Then came the growl.

A deep, low, absolutely unmistakable:

Do. Not. Come. Any. Closer.

Suddenly, the corkscrew became slightly less important.

I know I said I was willing to go to any length, but apparently being mauled by Cujo on a deserted Greek mountainside over a bottle of Merlot was where I finally drew the line.

Sarah and I began backing away.

Slowly at first.

Then considerably faster.

We retreated down the same hills we had just climbed until Cujo was safely out of sight.

Crisis avoided.

Normal people probably would have gone back to the Airbnb, accepted defeat, and enjoyed the gorgeous Santorini view without wine.

Not me.

The moment my heart rate returned to something resembling normal, my brain immediately went:

Okay…but I still need a corkscrew.

The market was clearly no longer an option.

So now there was only one thing left to do.

Find a Greek person.

It was getting late. Oia was incredibly quiet during the off-season, and most of the little homes around us appeared dark.

My hopes were fading.

Then I saw it.

A light.

Coming from a small building farther down the hillside.

It was practically a beacon.

We headed toward it and discovered several Greek men working inside the house. Even better, the window was open.

Now, I have no idea what these men thought when an American woman suddenly appeared outside their window in the dark, cautiously stuck her head inside, and said:

“Hello…this might sound strange, but you don’t happen to have a corkscrew, do you?”

But they somehow understood the assignment.

And then, against all odds, one of them produced a corkscrew.

I could have hugged him.

I probably looked at that thing the way Indiana Jones looked at the Holy Grail.

After climbing half of Oia, being threatened by Cujo, abandoning one route, wandering around a deserted mountainside, and essentially knocking on a stranger’s window, the mission was finally complete.

I had my corkscrew.

And at that moment, it felt like the greatest birthday present Santorini could possibly have given me.

Years later, of course, I look back at this story very differently. I am happily sober today, and there is something both funny and humbling about remembering just how important that bottle seemed to me at the time.

But that’s part of telling honest travel stories.

Not every memory is about the perfect sunset or the breathtaking view.

Sometimes it’s about realizing you once climbed eleven hills, faced down Cujo, and interrupted a group of Greek construction workers…

all because your birthday Merlot had a cork in it.