In the evenings, the main plateia in Karystos is filled to the brim with people lounging at coffee shops, children riding bikes and squealing, and couples cuddled on benches beneath the trees. Once a summer on a Saturday night, the local dance studio puts on a street-fair style recital in the plateia. They set up a stage and colorful painted backdrop, lights, and a sound system that reaches all the way to the waterfront.

At 9:30pm when the show began, the chairs were full, and more crowds stood behind and on the sides. There must have been hundreds of people packed into the plateia to see this local dance recital.

My initial thought was- wow, I wish dance had this type of support everywhere!

My next series of thoughts were more confused. I hadn’t really had any expectations (all I have are memories of my own dance recitals), but I was really surprised when every single dance was done to an American song. If you compiled the list, it would have been the top 20 pop and R&B hits from the last few years – Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Ne-Yo, Beyonce, to name a few – as well as some rather loud, angry rap-songs (yes, still in English) with lots of foul language… definitely the unedited versions.

To top it off, all the dance movements (done by ages 5-15, I would guess) looked like something out of 50 Cent’s Candy Shop video.

Of all the great dance styles in the States, it seemed a shame that the one we would export to the rest of the world would be music video dance. Was I the only one slightly uncomfortable watching young kids sing dirty words, while wearing skimpy clothing and doing sexual movements? I can’t quite explain it, but as an American, I felt somewhat responsible. Is this the only impression of American culture we have given the world?

I am currently on the island of Schinousa in the Little Cyclades. It is only 9.5 square kilometers, and the main town holds no more than 220 residents. It, like the other Little Cyclades, is still very much the middle of nowhere, ‘the boonies,’ – a very small place with a very slow pace of life.

When doing research at one of the ferry ticket offices, I happened to ask whether there was public internet access any where on the island. Ironically, while there are no internet cafes, there is a public wi-fi network that had been paid for by the island to help “put it (the island) on the map.”

However, this public network only works within about a 20 foot radius of the antennae next to the medical office, so I had to huddle on the side of the road with my laptop to get a signal, even then only a partial one. I was able to access skype and make a call to people in the States – while sitting on the side of the road in Schinousa next to the farmland. I wasn’t even on the main road, which only has a few tavernas and mini markets anyway.

While I was talking to my computer (on Skype), an elderly Greek man passed me leading his donkey and singing softly to himself. I tried to imagine him on Skype, and had to smile to myself.

I couldn’t have asked for a better moment to sum up life on the Greek isles. Only here do the old and new sit side-by-side, starring each other in the face, and not really knowing what to think – internet and donkeys. Modern cities and ancient civilizations rub shoulders; buses squeeze through on streets only meant for pedestrians.

After months of planning, booking hostels, and arranging transportation, I decided to risk finding accommodation the day I arrived in Skyros, and let the domatia owners pounce on me with their pictures and prices.

I arrived in Skyros port just as the sun was setting, and had to take a bus to the town, which is a few kilometers inland from the port. The bus driver did not announce stops, but rather plummeted through, just barely letting passengers off at each location.

By the time we reached the last stop, I was sure I had missed the town. And there weren’t any domatia owners with pictures as far as I could see. I had a brief moment of panic.

When I gathered my luggage, an elderly Skyrian lady said to me “Room?” Without any other option, I followed her, hoping for the best. She slowly led the way through the twisted narrow streets of the town, as I desperately tried to memorize, right, left, left, straight, right. But it was hopeless. All I could do was follow.

She led me down a residential street, up a narrow set of stairs on the side of a building, and up two spiral staircases (also on the side of the building) to the roof. There she showed me my room – a small little addendum to the building accessible only by the roof patio, but beautifully decorated like a miniature Skyrian home – ceramics on the wooden walls, embroidered drapery, a large collection of painted dishes and silverware in the kitchenette, and a tiny little WC.

After bartering a price (also in traditional domatia fashion), I had found my Skyrian home- cheaper and definitely more unique than any hotel room. And as I found out soon, just around the corner from the main street- a location that should cost a fortune, especially considering I had my own private roof patio with a view of the stars.

As I near the end of my route, I have flown to a northern set of islands – The Sporades – generally not frequented by the crowds of tourists that flock to the Cyclades or other more famous (or infamous) Greek isles.

The Sporades lie just off the coast of Evia; Skiathos, Skopelos, and Alonissos cluster together in a row, while Skyros lies south and farther east. One thing that makes these islands unique is that they are green, not brown. Instead of being covered by dry, arid desert, they are overflowing with trees and lush natural environments that give them almost a tropical flavor…except for the beaches tend to be more pebbles than sand.

My favorite so far has been Skopelos, which lies in the middle of Skiathos and Alonnisos, and combines the best of each. From Skiathos it takes the touristy elements – the chic waterfront bars, the nightlife, and the incredible (if expensive) jewelry and clothing shops. From Alonnisos it takes the natural beauty and the peacefulness: stretches of green hills and trees leading to the cerulean-colored sea.

Recently, the name Skopelos might have become familiar to a larger crowd, because it was the shooting location of the feature film Mamma Mia, which starred some of the most well-known actors in the world, such as Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan. Although the filming took place in 2007, the movie was only released last summer in 2008, so the island is still a bit starstruck. The island has named itself “Mamma Mia’s island” and there are the “Mamma Mia beaches” and “Mamma Mia tours” to show you the “Mamma Mia beaches.”

While the island has undoubtedly used the press to boost tourism, hopefully increasing influxes of people won’t cause the island to loose its cobblestone charm and local flavor.

Just don’t be surprised if you walk into a café or restaurant and hear ABBA on repeat.

On my second night in Santorini, a bunch of people at my hostel in Oia were hanging out in the courtyard just talking, relaxing, and sharing travel stories. A group of four American guys walked up and sat down, and immediately one of them seemed very familiar to me. I did not know how or why I recognized him, but I could swear I had seen his face before.

Maybe I should have said first that I have an odd knack for remembering faces. There was the one time in Boston that I recognized a girl that I had seen five years earlier in a play in Edinburgh, Scotland. And there was another time that I recognized a receptionist from a hostel in Sydney, Australia, when I was exploring the Great Barrier Reef two months later.

So, I was fairly certain that I had seen this guy before. I didn’t want to target him in the large group of people, but it soon came out in the conversation that they were from Michigan. No connection there; I have never been to Michigan. I eventually discovered that he had graduated from Harvard last year, although I had never actually spoken or been introduced to him before. Later that evening, I was talking to another American who grew up in the same small town where I had gone to boarding school – a town with cows, farms, and not much else. But for all we knew, we probably passed each other on the street at some point during my four years there.

Santorini is a small island, but sometimes it seems like the world is smaller. You may just run into someone you know from half-way around the world.

Arriving at the port in Fira was almost enough to make me turn around, get back on the ferry, and and leave Santorini. Under the steaming hot sun, I wove through hoards of tourists with luggage and backpacks, domatia owners shoving pictures of accommodation rooms in my face, lines of coach buses and rent-a-cars, and finally found my own pension owner with a sign and minivan to take me to my room.

Fira itself is equally hectic – whizzing modpeds and ATVs, honking horns urging pedestrians to get out of the streets, the smell of souvlaki and gyro joints, and the bright displays of postcards, cheap souvenirs, and glittering jewelry shops. Exploring the town that day, I saw more foreigners than locals, heard more English than Greek, and even encountered foreigners working in the stores from all over the world except Greece.

Unfortunately, Santorini has become an island that seems to exist solely for tourists, so I had to accept that it would be more difficult to have a local experience here than any place I had visited in Crete.

For two out of my four and half days on the island, I rented an ATV, and escaped the city centers of Fira and Oia. Instead, I drove to the less frequented beaches like Vlihada and Mesa Pigadia and viewed the caldera from small cliffside roads not the alleys in Fira or an expensive touristy cruise. I drove all the way past Akrotiri to the lighthouse and later explored the countryside on the northeastern edges of the island. Oftentimes I would be the only one on roads through the countryside with the mountains to my left and the ocean to my right. And although I didn’t necessarily meet locals, I still saw parts of the island that few people make it to, and I had found a way to make the island unique for me.

After the tourist meccas of Santorini and Ios, I have now been venturing through the Little Cyclades, which are exactly the opposite of the typical tourist hotspots. These pindrop islands are so small that they are not even labeled on many maps of the Cyclades; they just look like extraneous pieces of land lying off the coast of Naxos.

Iraklia, the first of the Little Cyclades I visited, has only one main street, the length of which can be walked in five minutes or so. There is one grocery store, one mini market that is also the post office, ferry ticket agency, and a domatia, and a smattering of family- run tavernas. Everyone knows everyone, and if one domatia owner has no rooms, they will send you across the road to their friend’s place.

There are no buses, no taxis, and the ferry schedule is unpredictable. The beach and the tavernas are the most frequented destinations, and the two most common activities are reading on the patio (or beach) or walking along the coastline. The day of the week and the time of day seem to dissolve. This is the place to escape and disconnect from the world.

Let’s just say I was not the typical Iraklia visitor either. I was only there for a day, I had a laptop, and I was inquiring about exact ferry times and schedules – details, details, details. Definitely crazy. Most people come for months and only bring a bathing suit and book.

Ultimately, one day is hardly enough to embrace the mentality of the Little Cyclades. In fact, for anyone coming from a high-pressure job or strict schedule, the absence of structure can be extremely disorienting. But that is definitely what the Little Cyclades are about – leave the computer at home and forget about facebook.