Where will I go next?

It hasn’t been long since I returned from Kefalonia, but already my mind is drifting toward the next time I’ll be in Greece. I thought the glow from that trip would last me a while, that I’d come home content and full, able to tuck the experience away like a cherished book you don’t need to reread for years. But something unexpected happened. Instead of feeling satisfied, I feel hooked. Kefalonia didn’t just give me what I was looking for. It opened something up. And now, every idle moment, every daydream, every quiet hour ends up in the same place: imagining where to go next.

There’s a pull I can’t quite explain. It’s not just about sunny beaches or good food or beautiful views. It’s the pace of life. The way mornings begin slowly, with light stretching across the water, and the afternoons melt into evenings that smell like grilled fish and warm stone. It’s how every village, no matter how small, seems to carry a sense of self. There’s a feeling of continuity in Greece, something deeply rooted that you can feel even as a stranger. And after Kefalonia, I’m not ready to let that go.

So I’ve started looking. Not in the vague, someday kind of way, but seriously. Late-night searches, bookmarked articles, notes on my phone filled with place names and ferry routes. Right now, I keep circling back to three places: Corfu, Crete, and Skiathos. Each one different, each one with its own promise.

Corfu catches my attention because of its layered identity. Venetian, French, British—it feels like a place that’s lived many lives. I imagine walking through the old town with its faded pastel buildings and shuttered windows, stopping for coffee in a shaded square, the sea always close by. I’ve read about the green hills and hidden beaches on the west coast, and I can already picture myself finding a quiet spot, swimming in the late afternoon, then wandering into a taverna where nobody rushes you to order or to leave.

Then there’s Crete, which feels like its own universe. Bigger, wilder, full of contrast. I’m drawn to the idea of being surrounded by rugged mountains and long, open roads. One day could be spent hiking through a dramatic gorge, the next lying on pink-sand beaches. I imagine renting a small car and just driving, without too much of a plan, stopping in villages where people still speak in their own dialect and offer you raki without asking your name. Crete feels like a place where the modern and the ancient live side by side, and that mix is deeply appealing.

Skiathos is the one I knew least about, but something about it keeps tugging at me. Maybe it’s the idea of a smaller island that’s still lively but not overwhelming. I imagine pine-covered hills leading down to sandy coves, mornings spent swimming and afternoons reading in the shade, evenings with the sound of music drifting up from the harbor. It seems like the kind of place that invites you to slow down without needing to disconnect completely.

What I’ve realized is that Greece has this quiet confidence. It doesn’t need to convince you of anything. You show up, and it just lets you in. Kefalonia taught me that. It let me feel at home in a place I had never been before. And now that I’ve had a taste of that, I can’t help but want more. More villages to explore, more landscapes to fall into, more conversations over glasses of wine with people I’ll never meet again but won’t forget.

I know I’ll go back. I don’t know exactly where or when, but the planning has already begun. And honestly, half the joy is in the imagining. Opening a map, following the coastlines with my finger, reading about places with names that feel like poetry. I used to think trips like this were rare and out of reach. Now I know better. All it takes is choosing a place and saying yes.

One thing that’s been sitting with me since coming back from Kefalonia is this growing curiosity about the more remote Greek islands. The ones without airports. The ones where you can’t just land and go, where getting there requires some patience and intention. Islands that don’t show up in glossy travel magazines or Instagram reels, where life moves even slower and the rhythm is set by the sea and not the season. I keep reading about places like Amorgos, Folegandros, or Kastellorizo and feeling this strong pull toward them, like there’s something honest waiting out there, something quieter and more stripped down.

But there’s a problem. To get to most of those places, you need to take a ferry. Not the short kind that hops across calm waters in half an hour. I’m talking about the long, open-sea rides where you’re out for hours, sometimes all night, crossing wind-blown stretches that can get rough even in summer. And the truth is, I get seasick. Badly. It’s not dramatic or cinematic, just miserable. That cold-sweat, staring-at-the-horizon kind of nausea that makes you count down the minutes like a prisoner waiting for release. Even the idea of it puts a knot in my stomach.

Part of me still wants to be braver. To face the ferries and the open sea and go to the faraway islands that feel like secrets. But for now, I think I’ll settle for one of these. And I don’t even mean “settle” in a disappointed way. There’s nothing second-best about spending a week on Skiathos or wandering the hills of Corfu or losing track of time in a Cretan village. If anything, they feel like the right next step. Another piece of Greece to get to know. Another version of that peace I found in Kefalonia, waiting somewhere under the sun.