I went with my parents to Cephalonia last month.
We meandered north, where roads hang over slashed cliffs that wet their long feet in glorious turquoise waters, and goats appear unannounced (‘holy!’) staring at the approaching cars and wondering what has happened to the world these past millennia.
My dad had several heart attacks.
The first two days we stayed at a village permanently scarred by people like us — fleeting and with no connection to the real world. I tried to learn about its past, but the few public information boards looked older than history; their letters erased by the sunlight, their pictures dead from dehydration.
‘Why don’t you try the Internet?’ my mom said, who is an expert in cutting the Gordian knot.
Our second accommodation, at the other side of the island, was a complete upgrade: better pillows, better views, and butter in the fridge. We surrendered to this new place instinctively, and remained its hostages for the rest of our trip.
On our way back to the airport we stopped to buy honey, because nothing sells a product more than relentless advertising buzz from its makers.