Back from Kefalonia

I’ve just come back from Kefalonia, and I’m still not entirely sure how to talk about it without sounding like I’ve fallen in love. Because I have. Everything I imagined before going, the colors, the quiet, the food, the light, was real. But more than that, it somehow managed to match the version of the island I had created in my head, the one I pieced together from blurry YouTube vlogs and poetic TripAdvisor ramblings. I went in late May, just before the summer crowds, when the island feels like it’s waking up slowly, still stretching, still belonging more to its locals than to its visitors.

Myrtos Beach, which had loomed so large in my imagination, really is as surreal in person as all those over-saturated photos suggest. The drive down to it was everything I expected and dreaded: winding, narrow, a bit terrifying. But standing at the top of the cliff and looking down at that crescent of impossibly white pebbles surrounded by electric blue water—I felt like I had stepped into a daydream I didn’t want to wake up from. I swam in that shockingly cold, clear water until my fingers wrinkled, and then I just lay back and watched the shadows shift across the cliffs.

The rest of the island offered a kind of peace I didn’t realize I’d been craving. Villages like Assos and Fiskardo felt like they had been left behind in time, but in the best way possible. In Assos, I walked up to the old Venetian castle ruins one morning when the air was still cool, and I was completely alone up there. Just birdsong and the faint smell of wild herbs crushed underfoot. The view stretched out forever—green hills rolling down to the sea, cypress trees like dark brushstrokes against the softer greens, and that endless expanse of blue. I just stood there, not really thinking about anything, just breathing. That’s probably what I’ll remember most from this trip—how easy it was to just exist there.

Driving turned out to be part of the adventure, not the obstacle I thought it would be. I did end up renting a manual car, after a quick refresher course from a kind local in Argostoli, and somehow, the gear shifting became part of the rhythm of the trip. I drove along cliff roads that made my palms sweat, but I also found coves and beaches with no one else there, just me and the sea. Places like Agia Eleni and Koutsoupia felt like secrets the island was letting me in on.

And the food... it wasn’t just good. It was grounding. The kind of food that doesn’t shout but stays with you. I ate meat pie under a vine-covered pergola in a tiny village where the waiter just smiled and said, "My mother made it this morning." I drank local wine poured from plastic bottles, always slightly chilled, always slightly too much. I tried wild greens I couldn’t name, grilled sardines with just a squeeze of lemon, and the kind of tomatoes that make you question everything you’ve ever bought at a supermarket.

There were cats everywhere, of course. One in particular made it a point to sit at my feet every evening when I returned to the same family-run taverna in the hills above Lourdas. I never learned her name. She never asked for food. She just kept me company, like she’d done it before for someone else who came here looking for something and found more than they expected.

I did find that old trail I’d read about, the one leading to the abandoned monastery. I hiked it one golden afternoon, the sun warm but not punishing, the scent of pine and wildflowers carried on the breeze. And when I reached the top, I stood there alone, exactly as I had pictured. Except it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. It was a moment, real, still, complete. I didn’t take a picture. I just stood there and let it happen.

Now that I’m back, there’s a part of me that’s still somewhere on that island. Maybe on a terrace in the shade, maybe floating in that turquoise water, maybe sitting in silence while the day folds into dusk. Kefalonia didn’t just fulfill the dream—it made it feel ordinary in the best possible way. Like, of course this kind of life can exist. Of course a place can be beautiful without trying. Of course I could belong somewhere, even if only for a while.