Somewhere in Crete, there must be a secret island made entirely of umbrellas — black, floral, striped, forgotten. Every November, more arrive. They fly away from balconies, roll under café tables, or simply vanish from hallways, never to be seen again.
I know because I have contributed generously to that invisible colony. From 2017 until now, I have bought at least three umbrellas a year — by that count, about twenty-four in total. I currently own one. A blue one. It is loyal, but visibly nervous.
The Rain Comes, the Panic Follows
When the skies open, it is always the same story. “Where’s the umbrella?” Phil asks. “We had five!” Paul swears he saw one near the door last week. Mojito, unimpressed in his yellow raincoat, watches the chaos like a furry philosopher.
We look everywhere: under chairs, behind the shoe rack, even in the car. Nothing. The umbrellas are gone. It is as if they sense the forecast and slip quietly into another dimension.
The Great Raincoat Experiment
To finally break the curse, I decided this season would be different. No more umbrellas — we would buy raincoats. Three of them. One for Paul, one for Phil, one for me. Problem solved, I thought.
Except Phil, being a former American football player, could not fit into his. The sleeves gave up almost immediately, defeated by his arms. We had to throw it away, and the family laughed so hard it nearly made the rain worthwhile.
Now only Paul and I have raincoats. Phil, the giant, is left with the single surviving blue umbrella — the family’s last relic of eight years of weather-related chaos.
He carries it with dignity, like a general holding the last flag.
Borrowed, Lost, or Eaten by Crete
Umbrellas in Crete do not simply break — they migrate. You lend one to a friend, and somehow it never comes back. You leave one at a café, and it joins a family of others leaning in the corner like retired soldiers.
Some are lost to the wind, carried heroically into the Aegean. Others, perhaps, are taken by the gods. Poseidon himself might be holding them ransom, laughing somewhere under the sea.
No one ever throws away a Cretan umbrella — they just let them go, like balloons.
The Blue One
And yet, one remains — the blue umbrella. It lives quietly by the door, next to Mojito’s leash, as if aware that it has outlasted entire generations of its kind. Sometimes I imagine it trembling when it hears thunder, knowing its duty is near.
Will it survive another season? Who knows. But if it ever disappears too, we will salute it with dignity and laughter — because in Crete, that is how you say goodbye to an umbrella.
Maybe umbrellas in Crete are not meant to stay. Maybe they are little offerings to the weather gods — tributes for the rare drama of rain.
So, the next time you lose one, just sigh and say, “It has gone where all umbrellas go.” Then pour yourself a coffee, listen to the storm, and wait for the sun — because in Crete, it always returns.
