Santorini has more than three hundred and fifty hotels, dozens lining the edge of the caldera and creeping down the side of it. The Astra, once a good little hotel with blue curtains and rustic wood furniture, has evolved into a great little hotel with designer flair. I sit on my terrace, filtering the last rays of the evening sun through a glass of white wine. From almost a thousand feet above the sea, I look out at the Caldera, whose violent formation may have been the source of the myth of Atlantis. I’m awestruck, as I’m every time by its overpowering beauty. There is no intervention by man, note the encroachment of more white cubes along the caldera’s lip nor the coming and going of ferryboats in the basin far below, that could detract from its majesty.