A holiday that I didn’t take one single photograph

In the hot summer of June 2017, I finally made up my mind, packed my bags, booked my ticket and hotel room, decided to spend a week in Mykonos – one of the paradise islands that everyone should visit at least once. Without much recommendations from anyone, I chose flying British Airways via London to reach there, which took me almost twenty-four hours in total.   Not knowing if that would be the most direct route, but there is always something about Terminal 5 of Heathrow that makes travelling less stressful.  It could be the ambience, or the customs and immigration checkpoints, or simply because of the Avios.  It’s just much less crowded and quiet than Terminal 3.  Anyway, as soon as I landed, I didn’t get the “Wow” feeling, or say to myself “Oh my God, I’m finally here!”  The rudeness of the driver sent by the hotel to pick me up was very unwelcoming – naturally impatient with a long grumpy face.

I picked the Elia Mykonos Resort as google said there’s a long-stretched sandy beach of their own.  I had chosen a beachfront bungalow which was only steps away to the beach.  The breathtaking view was right in front of me once I opened the door.  Pretty spacious inside with authentic Greek-style decorations.  There were a couple of restaurants in the hotel, but I didn’t want to have my three meals there every single day, so I put on my flip flops, singlet and shorts to look for a grocery store nearby.  Checked with concierge and found out that the nearest one was about five minutes’ drive, far up the hill.  Then I realised that I was in trouble as I can’t drive.  That’s ok though, I thought, but not until they were going to charge me 50 euros for taking me there.

It’s the third morning since I checked-in that I felt something was not right – just not right.  And I asked myself that was it because of the driver, or the rip off ride to the grocery store, the hotel that I picked, or being alone on an island feeling lonely?  After careful self-reflection; none of that.  There’s a fantastic view out there, white sandy beach, happy holidaymakers, scrumptious seafood, let alone the mysterious areas that I haven’t visited yet.  However, I literally spent most of my time inside the bungalow, doing nothing, apart from the nearest restaurant which I visited a couple of times for breakfast or dinner.  I kept asking myself why I couldn’t enjoy myself there, and I hadn’t taken even one photo in three days.  There was just something bothering me, which I couldn’t tell what it was.  It’s not the money.  It’s not the place nor the people.  Physically, a bit sluggish, feeling very unusually tired. There was this sense of horror as if something terrible was going to happen – as an omen. I tucked in early, hoping that feeling would pass.

The first thing I did when I got up on the next morning was to call British Airways as I wanted to get out of there immediately, despite whatever additional charge that could have incurred.  I packed my bags, walked to the reception, dropped off my key and off I went to the airport, although there was no refund for the rest of the nights that I booked. At that moment, I only knew that I wanted to go home. When the plane landed at Heathrow for transit, I went through the immigration and collected my baggage. Took a deep breath as soon as I stepped out of the terminal with a smile on my face heading to the city aimlessly….

…..to be continued