In Crete, getting lost is an art form. It happened to me again the other day—though, if I’m honest, it happens a lot. I’d set out for the small village of Galatas, which lies in the shadow of a long-lost Minoan temple a half hour from Heraklion. But on this island, a trip to put flowers on a friend’s grave can turn into a crossing between worlds—a passage through the fractured liminal space between time, reality, and the deep myst of truth.
I took the back road toward Galatas through Episkopi, a traditional village overlooking Karteros Canyon. The way should have been straightforward. Until, of course, I took a right turn into where the hell am I. On Crete, getting lost is only dangerous if you run out of gas—every road eventually leads to the sea. When I passed through Aitania and saw the Cretan Sea gleaming ahead instead of behind me, I knew adventure had once again found me.
Being a geographer, I decided a big left turn would surely set me straight. But at the top of a rise, I saw a single-lane stone bridge far below, ancient and beautiful, the kind of place that asks you to stop. I parked just past it and stepped out to explore.
As I turned toward the bridge, another car approached from the opposite side. White. Ordinary. Forgettable—except for the girl driving. When she saw me, she smiled—a huge, effortless smile that hit like sunlight through rain. The moment froze: a film still, perfect in its simplicity. For some reason, it felt familiar, fated. There was something in that smile that reached through me, like a message I couldn’t quite hear.
After she passed, I walked to the center of the bridge. The Karteros River ran beneath, its lush green bed slicing through the dry olive hills. I stood there listening to the water, caught between two worlds—the living and the mythic, the seen and the felt.
Later, when I finally found my way again, I came to a sign pointing toward something called Fairy Cave. The name made me laugh. But the legend is old: that fairies live there, singing to charm those who pass, vanishing at dawn. The cave is said to have been sacred to Athena herself, perhaps even her birthplace. I didn’t have the daylight—or the ground clearance—to visit. But something told me I already had.
A day later, sitting in the hospital with my cardiologist, Manolis Kanoupakis, the fairy’s smile returned to me. I’d feared my heart was failing again, but my tests came back clear. Manolis even labeled my X-ray Braveheart, as if to say: Not yet. You’re here for a while, yet.
And so I am. Still driving through the in-between places of this island, still getting lost, still being found. I’ve decided the girl in the white car was one of them—the fairy folk of the valley—sent to remind me that wonder is still alive, and that the road always leads somewhere worth going.
I hope you pass one, just when you need to.