Santorini appears as a dreamscape, muted pink and grey skies, the bluest waters, the gorgeous destination my best friend and his wife chose for their wedding this past weekend. My relationship with Max spans over two decades, birthed out of Hunters Hills where I'd follow him and my brother to warehouse raves in a nasty crocheted skirt and black boots on Friday nights, long before he ever offered me fifty dollars to twerk on stage at a Dizzee Rascal concert, before he ever carried me out of a Damages afterparty for getting too pissed off whiskey sours. We've walked onto yachts we weren't meant to, spent countless nights on Fire Island, dressed as prom zombies three years in a row, filmed a staged break-in for youtube because he convinced me it was time for the internet to see how neurotic I truly am. I wouldn't ignore an open bar halfway through my second pregnancy for many, but there's little I wouldn't do for him and Marlena who is truly a goddamn saint for putting up with him. Click through for photos that do not do Greece justice and songs hiding underneath. If you're in Chinatown, stop by Lalito for lunch. I'm not plugging it solely because he'd bail me out of jail, I promise it's good.