How We Spent 15 Days in Italy and Greece

It all felt strangely familiar—like déjà vu wrapped in jet lag and excitement. Just a few years ago, we boarded a plane to Italy for our very first international family trip together, a whirlwind of gelato, grappa, and group texts with too many emojis. Although it was my same blue Osprey backpack full to the brim with clothes, the same airlines, and the same Mama Neely planning it all, there was some key changes this time around. It wasn’t just Italy calling—it was Greece too, with her ancient ruins, sun-drenched islands, and salty-blue siren song pulling us across the Aegean.

Leading up to this trip, life had felt like one big inhale. Work, deadlines, personal shifts, and emotional growth filled the space between plane tickets and packing lists. But when the moment finally came to exhale—bags packed, cats kissed goodbye, passports scanned—we stepped into a new chapter of family travel. This wasn’t just a vacation. It was 15 days of connection, misadventure, laughter, minor meltdowns, and unforgettable moments stitched across two of the most breathtaking countries in the world.

Characters in the trip: Myself, Chris, Mama Neely, Chris’s brother Jon, his girlfriend Corah, Chris’s sister Tess, and her sons Troy, Truman and Hansin

Day 1: Volare, Oh Oh

Our adventure began in the seaside town of Polignano a Mare, a postcard-worthy cliffside gem that felt both unfamiliar and strangely like home. Maybe that’s because, as we found out, it is home to our unofficial theme song—“Nel blu dipinto di blu” (you probably know it better as “Volare”). We’d sung it countless times under the Mexican stars with Max and Karen, never knowing it was born right here. It really is a small world after all.

After landing and checking into our hotel, we were up early for breakfast—our first introduction to the abundance that is the Italian buffet. Classy, thoughtful, and downright delicious. We didn’t mind the two twin beds shoved together; after a long travel day, we could’ve slept on a marble slab and still called it luxury.

We wandered down the rocky cliffside that lines the town. Naturally, I couldn’t help but try to climb it—proof to myself that my rock climbing muscles haven’t entirely atrophied in the absence of my gear. My freshly acryliced nails didn’t thank me, but I like to think my harness and shoes—resting peacefully back home—were proud.

Around 9:30, Jon and his new girlfriend, Corah (our resident lovebirds), caught up with us just in time for the kids’ first scoop of gelato. We walked inside the city walls, watched the kids’ eyes widen at the history carved into the stone, ducked into a church, and then did what any self-respecting traveler does after a long morning walk: stopped for drinks.

Corah complimented my onion ring (the jewelry, not the snack), which was a Mexico-inspired purchase made under Britt’s good influence. It felt like a full-circle moment—friendship fashion with a passport stamp.

We decided to hop in the car and check out Monopoli, a town so beautiful it feels like a film set, only realer. We meandered through alleyways and piazzas, admired more churches and stonework, and finally settled on a lunch spot. And then… the fish. Fish, fish, fish. It was like a maritime parade on every menu, which is fine for most, but not for me. I know, I know—it’s ironic, considering we live on a sailboat and I was raised in Santa Cruz. But fish is just not my thing. Thankfully, Chris asked if there was anything sin pesca, and though the waiter was initially puzzled, he quickly rallied to accommodate. Bless him.

Roughly 500 steps later, we returned to Polignano a Mare. I promptly fell asleep in the car and took a glorious two-hour nap back at the hotel.

Dinner was at La Terazza—an absolute highlight. Our server, Giuseppe, was everything you hope for in an Italian waiter: charming, hilarious, and on a first-name basis with the wine list. He raised one skeptical eyebrow when we asked for balsamic for our bread, but he delivered it with a smirk that said “tourists,” and we loved him for it.

Two “nuns tits” desserts later (yes, that’s really what they’re called), we paid the check, waddled back to the hotel, and collapsed into bed—hearts full, bellies fuller.

Accommodation’s: Hotel Coco dei Saraceni

Day 2 – Trulli Houses and a Trash Truck from Hell

Chris and I were the first ones up, our internal clocks still not fully adjusted, though the promise of strong Italian coffee certainly helped. It was a bit reminiscent of being on night watch – never fully awake or asleep, but alert nonetheless. We sipped our cappuccinos in the dining room, basking in the early quiet of the day, when Tess and Hansin appeared—eyes bleary, expressions dazed. Apparently, Hansin had woken everyone up in the middle of the night convinced we were all about to be swept away by a tidal wave. Not exactly the wake-up call Tess and her kids ordered, but memorable and sweet in a way that Hansin truly was trying to save everyone from impending doom.

One by one, the rest of the crew trickled in: Jon and Corah next, looking every bit the new couple, then Troy and Truman. Mama Neely brought up the rear at 9:30, the queen of the sleep-in. While we regrouped, Tess and Chris teamed up to set her up with a Saily eSIM (Psst—use code AVOCET for a discount if you’re traveling too)

With no plans but all the possibilities, we packed like we were prepping for an adventure day with our Mexico pals Max and Karen: sunglasses, snacks, and the spirit of “we’ll figure it out.” Laughter filled the car with Troy and Hansin as our passengers—a duo that rivals any buddy comedy. Lip Syncing to Italian classics while Troy rocked a very classic Italian look really set the tone for the day.

Our spontaneous stop of the day: Zoosafari. A drive-through wildlife park that felt like an ethical gray area but also sparked a sense of awe I hadn’t felt since my time studying in Africa. Seeing rhinos (both black and white), lions, water buffalo, and hippos up close scratched an itch I didn’t realize I had. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Locorotondo

After our animal encounters, we wound through the backroads of Puglia, olive groves stretching endlessly in every direction, until we reached Locorotondo. The wind tore through the stone streets like something out of a movie—blustering, dramatic, cinematic. We wandered until hunger took over and ducked into a restaurant with delicious gnocchi and service so slow it forced us to take a breather – not an easy thing to do when on vacation with A-type Neely’s.

As we strolled post-lunch, we noticed strange little dolls of old women hanging above us. Later we’d learn they were Quarando. In Locorotondo, a unique Easter tradition involves hanging dolls of old women, called “Quarandone,” in the streets for the 40 days leading up to Easter. These figures symbolize penance, and their destruction on Easter Sunday represents the triumph of life over death, joy over sadness, and spring over winter. Again, reminding us of Mexico where a paper mache Judas was created and hung with explosives with care, then lit ablaze as a crowd surrounded and cheered for the destruction of the biblical traitor. 

Speaking of the biblical, we popped into a nearby church where many of the statues and paintings were veiled in purple cloth. My religious upbringing kicked in and although not Catholic, it jogged a memory I hadn’t accessed in years—this tradition of covering sacred images during Lent. Sure enough, I later confirmed that the veils stay in place until the beginning of the Easter Vigil, traditionally lifted during the singing of the Gloria. It all ties back to Passion Sunday’s Gospel reading (John 8:46–59), where Jesus “hid himself” from the people. There’s something deeply poetic about that—hiding the holy to create space for the sacred to return. Even though it wasn’t ancient by Italian standards, it carried a solemn weight. 

After, I snuck off with “the littles” (aka Hansin and Truman) for a game of hide and seek from the wind while everyone else took a moment to get caffeinated. Little moments like these with the boys are the ones I love to create. I’ve been in their lives since their first days, and now here we are—playing games in foreign cities. Auntie core activated.

Alberobello

Next stop: Alberobello—a town straight from a fairy tale and certified UNESCO site. The drive there was very “Tuscany-lite,” with patchwork farmland and rolling hills. But what made this place magical were the trulli—those iconic conical-roofed houses that stretched across the horizon like something out of a storybook.

The littles were starting to fizzle after a jam-packed day of adventure, so Tess took them on their own quest, giving the rest of us a moment to stroll slowly and sip the surroundings. We wandered in and out of shops tucked inside the trulli, picking up trinkets and treats—dish towels, tiny models, a gift for Troy’s girlfriend and truffle salt sold by a man who ushered us up to a rooftop terrace with a panoramic view of town. Then came Troy’s suggestion—“Let’s stop in here. Just for appetizers.” Reader, we stayed for the full dinner. It was worth it. 

It was dark by the time we left—unsurprising, considering that in Italy, dinner doesn’t really begin until 8:00 or later. We drove the half hour back to the hotel with bellies full and hearts fuller. Chris and I, still buzzing, decided on a little moonlit stroll to walk off the wine and carbs.

After a much-needed shower, we sank into bed just as the real party started outside our hotel balcony. Beneath us, drunk Italian twenty-somethings belted Volare into the night air. Years ago, that might have annoyed us—but now, it just reminded us of our own travels, bringing us right back to La Cruz de Huanacaxtle and all the times we were those twenty-somethings. I hope they never forget nights like that as we let their laughter and their joy seep through the streets and into our bones.

The 4:00 am garbage truck, however… that bastard can kindly go f**k itself.

Day 3 – Double Cappuccinos and Rainbows

“Good morning, amore—it’s 9:15.”

WHAT?!

How had it gotten so late? We’d been the early risers of the group until today. But this morning? That all went gloriously down the drain. I bolted out of bed, doing my best impersonation of a functioning human being while trying to pull myself together for another incredible breakfast.

I blame the garbage truck.

Our room had been warm, so we slept with the balcony doors open again. Not a bad call—until said garbage truck rolled in and camped out for a full thirty minutes like it was it’s mission to disrupt my rest. The clanging, beeping, and rumbling shattered any hope of deep sleep. We finally succumbed to the noise, angrily getting up to shut the french doors and deal with the heat. Granted, it wasn’t Guanajuato-hot (nothing ever will be), but still hot enough to be bothersome. Eventually, we scraped together a few more hours of rest before embracing what I consider the real morning.

Down at breakfast, Tess, Hansin, and Mama Neely were already finishing their last sips of cappuccinos just as ours arrived, hot and heavenly. They had an ambitious itinerary for the day and left to get a jump on it, leaving us to our own, much lazier schedule.

As we finished what was on our plates, Jon and Corah wandered in, sleepy and smiling. We lingered at the table chatting—sailing, plans, the kind of big-picture dreaming you only have space for when you’re traveling slowly. Eventually, we all returned to our rooms—Chris to wrap up editing our latest YouTube episode, and me to answer client emails and add a few lines to this very blog.

Later, the four of us met up for a rainy afternoon wander. It was raining all morning, so we bought umbrellas for €5 each, and I swear, as soon as coins exchanged hands, the rain eased like we had made a deal with the gods themselves. We ducked into a small café for drinks and light bites and ended up staying for hours. Family, politics, sailing, life—it all came out in that effortless, winding way conversations do when no one’s watching the clock.

We walked all the way to the far edge of town, where we found a scrappy little colony of cats that appeared from every corner. They were curious but cautious—just shy of letting us pet them, but too intrigued to fully leave. Typical cat behavior, and somehow completely charming.

Back at the hotel, we settled onto the patio with more café, just in time to watch a double rainbow arc over the cliffs. It was the kind of moment that doesn’t need to be written down to be remembered… but here I am anyway, trying to do it justice.

Around 4:00, the rest of our crew returned from their day of adventuring—Roman ruins, caves, and tales to spare. We freshened up and headed out for dinner at a nearby steak house. The steak was incredible, the pasta dreamy—but dessert? Dessert stole the show. Cannoli, the best tiramisu of the trip so far, and gelato that made us all go quiet in reverence. 

That night, I slept hard. Not even the god-forsaken garbage truck could wake me.

Day 4 – Short Doors, Long Pizza

Our last breakfast in Polignano a Mare felt bittersweet. There’s always that one final coffee, the final glance out the window, the mental checklist running wild in your head. Then there’s the packing… and why is it that everything fits perfectly on the way to a place, but packing to leave requires both a minor miracle and a touch of sorcery? Still, somehow, we got everything zipped and stuffed, and nothing was left behind.

Today was extra special—Troy Boy’s 17th birthday. And it was about to be a jam packed day with truly no moment to spare.

First stop: an old Roman port, quiet and salt soaked. I couldn’t resist a little impromptu bouldering session—gotta keep those calluses ready. It was tough to imagine these ruins as a bustling port as the water lapped through the walls, but Egnazia is a hidden archaeological gem that offers a quiet, powerful glimpse into Italy’s ancient past. Once a thriving Messapian settlement later absorbed by the Romans, Egnazia was built along the historic Via Traiana and features remnants of city walls, Roman baths, a forum, and underground tombs. Unlike more crowded ruins, Egnazia lets you wander through history at your own pace—its worn stone roads and sea-kissed foundations telling stories older than the Empire itself. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t beg for attention, but quietly demands your awe.

We snapped a few photos before we piled back into the car and headed toward Ostuni, the famed White City.

Ostuni

Ostuni is straight out of a dream. Whitewashed buildings glowing under the sun, narrow streets like stone labyrinths, and the most perfectly imperfect little doors. Contrary to popular belief, the doors aren’t short because Italians were historically petite, but because after a massive earthquake, locals were taxed based on window and door size. Just like Guanajuato Mexico! I love when places across the world echo one another.

We learned that door colors even had significance—green for farmers, brown for craftsmen, blue for fishermen—and that fewer than 300 locals actually live in the historic center. Also, not to be dramatic, but it is also home to the second-oldest olive tree in the world. Which is old, considering the one we saw in Loreto for my 27th birthday was apparently one of the first brought to the Americas. 

Sadly, we didn’t get to stop at the Convento delle Monacelle, home to one of the most hauntingly beautiful exhibits I’ve ever read about: Delia, a 25,000-year-old expectant mother, preserved in time. Her remains were discovered in a nearby cave and are now on display alongside other prehistoric artifacts. So, if you find yourself in the area please do me the justice of visiting! 

We stopped for lunch—pizza and tiramisu for the birthday boy—before making our way to Castello Dentice di Frasso, a fortress perched above the sea in Carovigno. Originally built in the 15th century, the castle served as both a lookout and a noble residence, strategically placed to defend against Saracen pirate raids along the Adriatic coast. Over the centuries, it’s seen sieges, renovations, and reinventions—now restored, it offers a glimpse into the layered legacy of southern Italy’s coastal defenses. The castle was old, but its insides had been gently reshaped—plaster walls, uplighting, and quiet whispers of a more modern hand. It felt like walking through a seashell: the rough, weathered exterior giving way to smooth spirals sculpted by time and tide. The contrast didn’t erase the past—it illuminated it. A reminder that history isn’t lost in change, but echoed through it.

The littles, high on sugar, were practically vibrating. I launched a jumping jack competition to burn off some of the buzz immediately after lunch but it clearly didn’t make a dent in their energy levels. As we wandered through the castle grounds, I asked them how small they thought the trees were when first planted. Watching their eyes trace the massive trunks upward, I could see the wheels turning. Trees, like people, grow quietly but powerfully. If only the branches—and the walls—could talk.

Troy had a moment—a full-blown modeling moment, naturally. It’s not rare when you’re born into a family of photographers, but today he leaned into the European vibe with blue steel smirks and perfectly timed brooding stares. He looked every bit the young man he’s becoming. If he weren’t already so head-over-heels for his sweet girlfriend Cat, I’d warn the ladies of Italy. But he’s steadfast, loyal, and—watching Jon and Corah pose in the golden light—clearly missing her in that quiet, tender way that only long-distance-high-school-love teaches you.

Agriturismo Costarella Masseria

We grabbed affogatos to-go, the espresso melting into ice cream as we hit the road for our final destination of the day: Agriturismo Costarella Masseria, a charming farmstay tucked into the countryside near Borgagne. Each of us had our own cozy room and after freshening up, we gathered for dinner.

One meter-long pizza (yes, really) was ordered and completely demolished. Troy had his first legally ordered beers while Tess shared his birth story—full of laughter, awe, and a little disbelief that we’re already here, 17 years later. We traded stories of our own 17th birthdays, snuck in a few cautionary tales about drinking (“it’s really not that fun…”), and tried to give him the kind of wisdom we wished we had when we were his age. He’ll figure it out.

We all slept hard that night. The kind of sleep you earn. And even though getting out of bed the next morning was brutal, I’m grateful Chris wouldn’t let me skip breakfast—because on this trip, every moment counts.

Accommodations: Masseria Salentina Costarella

Day 5 – The Calm Between Chaos

After a wonderful night’s sleep—no 4:00 am garbage truck this time, just the soft crow of roosters—we greeted the morning in a golden beam of sunlight. Our hosts led us below the farmhouse into a cool stone cellar where breakfast waited: a spread of homemade pastries, meats, cheeses, fresh bread, and—of course—steaming cappuccinos.

Corah sat across from me, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. The look on her face was all too familiar—that slight, stunned overwhelm that comes from being fully submerged in Neely family energy. It’s a lot. We’re a lot. But she was handling it with grace. I kept her in the corner of my eye throughout the morning, just like I do with the nephews—quietly making sure she was okay.

“You’ll learn how to disassociate out of survival necessity,” I told her, and it pulled a small laugh. A win.

Back at our rooms, I cracked open my laptop to peek at some work emails. Outside, the sound of kids playing tag and climbing trees floated in on the breeze, sunlight dappling the stone walls. Chris headed to the laundromat with his sister—thankfully. The boys’ sock pile was becoming a biohazard, and I was running low on my favorite underwear, teetering dangerously close to the “bottom of the drawer” pairs.

It was a bright day, warm enough to wear a skirt, and Tess proposed we split up into a “girl car” and a “boy car” then we were off on our adventure. We passed through the newer parts of Lecce, a working city where the primary industries range from agriculture and ceramics to paper production and tourism. But it was the old city that drew us in—its creamy limestone architecture glowing under the sun, every carved column and baroque detail whispering stories.

Lecce

Lecce is often called the “Florence of the South,” a title earned by its elaborate stonework and 17th-century flair. Built almost entirely from soft, golden pietra leccese (Lecce stone), the city’s architecture has a way of catching the light and holding it, like it’s constantly glowing from within.

I bought a new ring and matching earrings from a street vendor—little treasures to remember the day—and we found a gelateria rumored to have the best gelato in town. One bite from Troy’s cup and I had to agree. Rich, creamy, and impossibly smooth. Lunch was, once again, delicious. It’s almost not worth noting anymore—every meal here feels like a love letter to the land.

The churches smelled of Easter lilies and candle wax, preparing for the celebrations to come. Clergy bustled about, and the air inside was thick with reverence and anticipation. Outside, the streets were stirring too—spring had awakened more than just the flowers. In the ruins of the old Roman amphitheater, we spotted an orange cat lounging lazily in the sun—like a miniature lion claiming his kingdom, an echo from an earlier time.

On our way back, we stopped for groceries and later, Tess made orecchiette pasta with salad while the kids ran circles around the courtyard. After dinner, Mama Neely, Tess, Chris and I poured wine and talked about SV Sea Castles’ boat project. It was one of those rooted conversations that builds something lasting—not flashy, but foundational. We laughed, cried, and love was laced throughout the chat – the kind that stays with you long after the trip is over.

We finally made it to bed around 1:00 am, our bellies full and hearts fuller. Tomorrow would be a big one—emotionally, historically, spiritually—so we let the quiet take us.

Day 6 – Easter Eggs, Ancient Caves, and Matera After Dark

Poplar trees are officially my nemesis. But these are things we knew from previous experience. Luckily this encounter was on a much smaller scale, but uncomfortable al the same.

One hour into our Easter morning drive and my eyes were an itchy, watery mess. I tried to blame the emotion of leaving our sweet agriturismo behind, but no—it was just airborne betrayal courtesy of spring in Italy. We had one last breakfast before saying goodbye to our little countryside haven, made even more memorable by an egg hunt for the kids organized by fellow guests. The littles dashed through the yard searching high and low for chocolate egg shaped treasures. 

We snapped a quick family photo while sipping homemade wine, playing music with our host, and soaking in our final moments before packing up. Jon and Corah needed more time to collect themselves, so Chris and I piled the kids into the car and drove to the coast. The sea never disappoints. Turquoise waves met golden sandstone cliffs with theatrical flair, and the kids explored the different textures of stone, clay, and flora that surrounded them. 

Eventually the rest of the family manifested on the cliffside with enough time for a few photos before continuing on. From there, we continued north to Matera, where we’d spend one day and night – and what a day it turned out to be.

Matera 

Our room in Matera was nothing short of spectacular. The view was something out of a romance movie as the small balcony overlooked the city built into the hillside. Music echoed through the streets as birds flew and cats meowed, painting the most incredible scene. After a quick bite to eat, we embarked on a walking tour and were immediately transported into a place where time folds in on itself.

Matera isn’t just a city—it’s a living monument carved into time itself. Recognized as one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, its story stretches back more than 9,000 years. The iconic Sassi districts—clusters of homes and buildings sculpted directly into the soft limestone cliffs—are what give the city its haunting beauty. From the outside, the facades resemble something from a forgotten dream, but step inside and you’ll find a stunning blend of ancient engineering and modern adaptation.

The word grotto here doesn’t mean a natural cave, but rather a manmade chamber—painstakingly dug by hand, one stone at a time. These spaces became homes, chapels, cellars, and storerooms. They can’t be precisely dated, as the usual methods of carbon-dating don’t apply to stone, leaving you with a strange, beautiful ambiguity—was this carved 500 years ago? Or 5,000? You simply can’t tell.

Unlike most cities where layers of history build upward, Matera flips the script. Here, the future was built below, and the past remains perched above. As generations dug deeper, drawn by the light that streamed from narrow doorways or single sunshafts, the city grew downward. This vertical timeline means that the higher you climb, the older the stone beneath your feet becomes.

Our guide explained that in ancient mines, when the flame of a candle went out, it wasn’t just the wind; it meant carbon dioxide was rising. It was time to run. Life in these caves required constant awareness, quick thinking, and a reverence for nature’s invisible forces. Everything in Matera—from its architecture to its atmosphere—feels carved with intention, built not just to withstand time, but to honor it.

After the tour, we wandered into a restaurant inside a cave—a literal stone chamber filled with the scent of woodsmoke and roasted garlic. I continued the tradition of shocking the family with my ability to eat an entire pizza to myself and still leave room for dessert. It’s amazing how your appetite can come back when you are truly happy and healthy.

Back at the hotel, we did a quick change and grabbed the three bottles of wine we’d been unintentionally stockpiling. With an early departure looming, we had no choice but to finish them. Chris, Tess, Troy (who is freshly of legal drinking age in Italy), and I accepted the challenge with gusto.

We hit the streets of Matera, which were buzzing with nightlife—mostly teenagers around Troy’s age, dressed in all-black leather and puffing on what seemed like endless cigarettes. “Smells like prom without the fruit” Troy said with a smirk. It took me a second to realize he was talking about the fruity smell of vape pens which have sadly become a major accessory in high schools back home. Somehow, the scene felt more cinematic than chaotic. We wound our way through the crowds until we reached a stone church perched high on the cliffs.

From there, we could hear karaoke echoing across the ravine. The sound drifted up like smoke, wrapping us in melody and moonlight. It was one of those perfect, spontaneous moments you can’t plan for—just pure, glittering memory. As Troy bounded up the slick marble stairs, we warned him to be careful. His comeback—sharp, hilarious, and now an eternal family inside joke—sent me into a fit of laughter so strong I collapsed onto the ground. I nearly peed myself, which sent Tess and Chris into laughing fits of their own. It was the best type of domino affect.

We eventually found our way back to bed around 2:00 am. After a hot shower and one last look out over our balcony—lights flickering in the distance, the city resting like a sleeping giant—I climbed beneath the sheets, full of wine, joy, and gratitude.

Accommodation’s: La Casa di Ele

A few more photos from Matera because it really was THAT incredible:

Day 7 – Ricotta, Ruins, and a Rooftop View

Our last morning in Italy began with one of the simplest yet most divine breakfasts I’ve ever tasted: a homemade fig balsamic reduction spooned generously over creamy ricotta. It was the kind of flavor that makes your eyes close involuntarily. I could survive on balsamic alone for the rest of my life and die happy—preferably with a spoon still in hand.

With no time to linger, we packed up the cars (again) in a mad dash and said goodbye to a city we hadn’t gotten nearly enough time to explore. In the backseat, Troy and Hansin were running low on sleep but not on spirit. Hansin serenaded us with “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys, and soon enough we were all singing like the Partridge Family—if the Partridge Family had a bit more chaos and a lot more questionable harmonies. Every tunnel became our personal amphitheater, and we belted songs like no one was listening (because no one was… except maybe the toll booth attendant).

Mid-drive, the other car decided to stop for a bathroom break in what can only be described as “maximum congestion,” but our car—the A-Team—took the alley route. Feral, but efficient. Just the way we like it.

Herculaneum

Roughly two hours later, we rolled into Herculaneum, the smaller, lesser-known sister city of Pompeii, with an hour to spare and a very punctual tour guide named Connie. She was sweet, sharp, and determined to get us through the highlights of this ancient wonder in record time—which, to be honest, felt like trying to read the Iliad during a lunch break.

While Pompeii tends to hog the spotlight, Herculaneum was once the more affluent coastal town, home to aristocrats, philosophers, and lavish villas perched above the sea. When Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, Pompeii was buried in ash, but Herculaneum was engulfed in a pyroclastic surge—a superheated flow of gas and volcanic matter that essentially flash-preserved the entire city. Because of the way it was buried, organic materials like wooden beams, furniture, food, scrolls, and even clothing survived, giving us an incredibly vivid look into daily Roman life.

One villa in particular—the Villa of the Papyri—was so grand and architecturally inspiring that it later served as the model for the Getty Villa in Malibu. Its frescoes, marble columns, and library of over 1,800 scrolls (many still being deciphered today) tell a story of wealth, intellect, and artistic taste that still feels deeply human.

We didn’t have nearly enough time to take it all in, but what we did see was unforgettable: wide stone streets, intricate mosaics, bathhouses, and balconies that whispered stories we could only imagine. One hour. A blink in a place that’s stood for millennia. I was honestly a bit jaded that we didn’t get to see the bones that laid in the boat houses, which I was immediately drawn to like a moth to flame… but I suppose that just means we need to go back!

From there, it was a blur. We raced to return the rental cars, dashed through a chaotic airport, and against all odds, we freaking made it. We boarded our flight to Greece with passports intact, luggage accounted for, and only minor sweat stains.

When we landed, two vans were waiting for us. Our Airbnb turned out to be an entire apartment building, with a unit for each family pod. Chris and I scored the penthouse, which sounds fancy, but also came with the small caveat that the only access point to the communal hot tub was straight through our bedroom. And just like our penthouse in Guanajuato this one was worth it for the view alone. From our rooftop terrace, the Acropolis stood proud in the distance, lit up like a beacon. It was one of those “is this real life?” kind of moments.

Before bed, we FaceTimed Jay and Kenna from SV Sitka, and they shared some BIG news—but you’ll have to follow their story to find out what that is. Let’s just say the day ended with wide eyes, happy hearts, and an overwhelming sense of what a life this is.

Day 8 – Goddess Territory

Even after staying up until 1:30 a.m. FaceTiming our favorite Canadians we still managed to score a glorious 7 hours of sleep. At 9:30, Chris brought me coffee like the hero he is, and I took it straight to the rooftop to wake up slowly beneath the shadow of the Acropolis. There’s something wildly grounding about sipping your morning brew while looking out at that much history. I even got a little work done before the day swept us away.

At 10:00 sharp, a private van arrived to whisk us through Athens—a city sprawling and alive, home to nearly 5 million people and centuries upon centuries of stories. The van alone was a gift from the gods… because walking Athens? Not for the faint of heart or flip-flop footed.

Our first stop: Parliament for the changing of the guard—a ritual equal parts solemn and theatrical. The soldiers, known as Evzones, stood tall in their traditional uniforms: crisp white kilts (fustanella), embroidered vests, and yes, the iconic pom-poms on their shoes (tsarouchia). Those pom-poms aren’t just decorative—they were originally used to hide sharp blades. Every movement they made felt deliberate, like well-trained dressage horses, each stomp echoing like a drumbeat of history. Next, we arrived at the site of the first modern day Olympics.

I am honored to say I am friends with a handful of Olympians both in the winter and summer games, so to stand underneath the rings was incredibly special. After a few photos and a quick coffee we wound our way uphill to the crown jewel of Athens: the Acropolis.

According to ancient Greek mythology, the city of Athens was named after a contest between Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Poseidon, god of the sea. To win the favor of the people, Poseidon struck the earth with his trident, creating a saltwater spring. Athena, in turn, offered them the olive tree—a symbol of peace and prosperity. The people chose her gift, and the city became hers.

Her sanctuary, the Parthenon, still stands proudly atop the Acropolis, even in its weathered form. Built in the 5th century BCE, it was a symbol of Athenian power, philosophy, and art. Much of its original marble was taken during Roman occupation—so naturally, I couldn’t help but joke: “Raid and recycle!” Seems Rome treated Greek temples like an ancient Home Depot.

We wandered among the massive Doric columns, marveling at the scale. At one point, we calculated that our entire boat’s weight would equal roughly two of these marble drums. That’s a kind of metric you only think of when you live aboard.

At the highest point, just beneath the Greek flag, we had a 360-degree view of Athens—all 5 million people of it. The sea sparkled in the distance while the city unfolded below in every direction, white buildings stacked like stone waves crashing inland. We took our photos with a couple nearby, offering to trade photographer favors, which quickly turned into Chris and me unofficially becoming the location photographers for at least a dozen more tourists. Posing strangers? Light work. But when the crowd started thinning, we took our moment to escape and rejoin the family.

Back in the tour van, our driver dropped us at a perfect lunch spot where we did what any indecisive and hungry crew should do—we ordered all the appetizers, family-style. Every plate was passed like a gift: grilled halloumi, dolmas, tzatziki, fried zucchini, and more. It was the kind of meal that starts as a snack and becomes a full-on experience. It only made us hungrier… for food and more time in this city.

After some shopping and a necessary gelato break, Corah crowned us with golden olive branch headbands—the ultimate Greek souvenir. We looked like the most chaotic royal family to ever wander the streets of Athens.

Jon, Corah, and the littles peeled off back to home base while the rest of us wandered deeper into the heartbeat of the city. I picked up a pashmina and a dress—shorter but matching the one Tess bought. Troy found a beautiful necklace for his girlfriend and treated himself to a gold chain to “fit in” better with the European teens, looking every bit the stylish nearly-adult he’s becoming.

We found a table, ordered a couple rounds of drinks, and let the afternoon melt into laughter—those kinds of laughs that start in your belly and leave your cheeks sore. Memories made not from the places, but the people beside you.

Eventually, Mama Neely and Troy split off, leaving Tess, Chris, and me to continue our sibling stroll. We wandered with no real destination—just following the lights and energy of the city. We stopped for another drink, using the classic excuse of needing a bathroom… but really, we just didn’t want the day to end. There’s something special about adult sibling time.

As the sun slipped behind the buildings, casting everything in gold, we stopped at a pharmacy to get cough medicine—half the group was coming down with something, probably a mix of sleep deprivation, air travel, and one-too-many “just one more drinks.” We also stopped to grab gyros to go, and I couldn’t resist getting a walking gyro for the way home. Crispy, savory, messy—perfect.

Back at the Airbnb, the kids were splashing in the hot tub, their laughter echoing off the terrace. We sat together, eating our gyros with the Acropolis glowing in the distance, bathed in elegant uplighting like something out of a myth. I took a breath and tried to hold it all still—this moment, this light, this family.

Eventually, I slipped away—quietly excusing myself to pack my bags and answer a few work emails and take time for myself, knowing that the next morning would demand every ounce of energy I had left. But as I folded clothes and zipped up my backpack, I carried with me the laughter, the gold crowns, the taste of fig and feta, and the glow of the Acropolis outside our window. Waking up in Italy, falling asleep in Greece. What a wild life.

Day 9 – Seasick, Sandcastles, and the Softest Bed in Greece

7:00 a.m. came way too soon. My bags were packed, so all I had to do was throw on clothes and wrestle my bangs into something halfway respectable. They were in full rebellion, made worse by the lack of my trusty straightener. I did what I could and called it a win.

At exactly 8:00, our vans from the airport returned, this time to whisk us away to the sea port where we boarded a ferry bound for Naxos. The boat ride? Beautiful. Peaceful. A little spicy. 

“I’m gonna puke,” Hansin muttered, wide-eyed and pale.

Chris, in full dad-mode, lunged over me with his empty salad container—which, heroically, caught the entire stomach-load of motion sickness in one go. I continued to hold the bowl while he searched for napkins. It was textbook teamwork, reminiscent of how our cat Cleo gives us just enough warning before decorating the floor. I scratched Hansins back, wiped his mouth, and handed the sloshy container to his mom.

“I feel better now,” he said. And then asked for a donut.

The ferry ride was five hours long—blessedly uneventful after that. I carved out time to write, email clients, and edit our V-Cove video, laughing out loud at all the outtakes. The ferry passed island after island, pausing at various ports like a slow dance through the Aegean.

Tess and I headed out to the deck to glimpse Mykonos, which I expected to be more stacked and cliff-clung like Amalfi, but it stretched low and wide. I stayed just long enough to snap a few photos before retreating back below deck, the wind snapping against my face like a reprimand.

Finally—Naxos. We were herded off the ferry like cattle, noise-canceling headphones firmly in place to buffer the chaos. We found our shuttle and arrived at our accommodations which were, in a word, luxurious. Clean lines, white stone, olive trees, and the faint scent of lavender in the air. It felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard. I took full advantage of the in-room-amenities: jacuzzi soak, sauna session, steam shower, followed by a little work follow-up in the massage chair, then a nap. It was indulgent and needed.

That evening, we ventured out for dinner and were met by an army of cats. Dozens of them, weaving between tables, lounging under chairs, trotting behind pedestrians. I FaceTimed Kenna just so she could witness the sheer number of them and she laughed, saying it was worth waking up at 7:00 a.m. to see.

We ate on the beach, the sun melting into the sea while the kids played in the sand. The peaceful scene didn’t last long: a local Greek boy stormed their sandcastle and flattened it with precision. War ensued.

Naturally, a sandcastle war began—battles of vengeance, shouted diplomacy, and new walls hastily constructed and demolished. In a move of pure Americana, our nephews drew a literal line in the sand. Eventually, the moms intervened and peace talks resumed. Troy, peacemaker and golden retriever soul, even joined the Greek boy to build a new castle while his younger brothers looked on, betrayed but proud. All is fair in love and sand.

We returned to our romantic rooms, the evening breeze wrapping around us as we soaked in the hot tub, flirted with the sauna and steam shower (though it hit way too close to our Temazcal experience for my comfort), and finally collapsed into the most comfortable bed we’d encountered so far.

We slept like the sea itself had sung us to sleep.

Accommodation’s: Legato Wellbeing Spa Suite

Day 10 – Slow Magic

Day ten? More like “sleep in until ten.” For the first time on this whirlwind trip, we had no alarms and no real plans—just an entire morning stretched out ahead of us like a sun-drenched invitation to be lazy. Well, our version of lazy, anyway: rotating turns between working on our laptops and sinking into the massage chair, followed by naked jacuzzi soaks that felt a little too luxurious to be real life.

Chris and I were first up for our scheduled massages. The therapists came to our room, which made the whole thing feel even more indulgent—like Greece herself was rewarding us for surviving planes, ferries, sandcastle wars, and all the wonderful chaos so far.

Afterwards, we rinsed off the oils and headed out for a slow walk to the beach. The afternoon felt golden and easy as the sand melted between our toes. If the sea wasn’t so cold I would have had a full on Mama Mia moment (you know the one) but I couldn’t bring myself to do it so I settled for a few mermaid-esque moments upon a nice warm granite rock. 

We even squeezed in a bit of geocaching, climbing up to Apollo’s Temple where we found a hidden cache tucked away. From the top, the view stretched wide—the ruins standing strong against a sky melting into sunset colors. It felt like catching a secret the gods left behind just for us. Inside I tucked one of our boat cards — who knows, maybe we will get some new Greek followers!

The walk back was leisurely, winding through streets lined with shops that reminded me so much of Avalon on Catalina Island—little boutiques, ocean breezes, and that kind of relaxed buzz only coastal towns seem to know how to pull off. But the best part? CATS!!! So many cats — even one that looked like a relative of our sweet Cleocatra. 

Back at home base, the rooftop firepit was glowing and everyone was gathered, lounging around and sharing a casual dinner. We swapped stories about the day, the kind of conversations that stretch and bend without ever needing to go anywhere important. After all the movement, rushing, and adventuring of the past week, this slower rhythm felt like its own kind of gift. A reminder that sometimes the best travel days are the ones that don’t demand anything from you at all. 

Day 11 – Scooter Races, Storm Chases, and a Need for Speed

Fun fact: Greek coffee is not my thing. (And after this experience it’s definitely not Corah’s thing either.)

Greek coffee is made by boiling very finely ground coffee beans (think powdered sugar texture) directly in water, usually in a small pot called a briki. It’s poured—grounds and all—into a small cup without straining. It’s thick, strong, earthy… and a bit gritty. Traditionally, it’s meant to be sipped slowly, letting the grounds settle at the bottom. But if you’re expecting a smooth latte, you’re in for a surprise—it’s like drinking a hearty, bitter essence of coffee itself.

Corah and I both ordered double Greek coffees and immediately regretted it. Best way to describe the taste? Like drinking the inside of an old lady’s house. Cozy, floral, a little dusty… and absolutely not what we were craving. Corah couldn’t even finish hers, leaving Chris to polish it off—which he did, vibrating out of his chair like a kid who got into Halloween candy.

Once we were caffeinated (or whatever that was), we decided to rent scooters from a man named Delchev at Eco Riders—a no-nonsense Greek man who made it very clear that if anything happened to the scooters, it was absolutely our problem. No insurance? No problem. Loose helmets that looked about as protective as salad bowls? Totally fine. Greece, baby.

Jon and Corah got their own scooters, and Chris and I planned to share one—until I immediately realized I hated being a passenger. Chris sensed it, so he hopped on the back of Jon’s scooter and gifted me my own ride. Freedom. A deep, childhood flashback to why my parents yanked me out of dirt biking at age 10. Apparently, I have a need for speed in my DNA and immediately began researching dual sport bikes for my return to California.

We ripped through the winding roads of Naxos, feeling the sun, the salt air, and the absolute joy of it all. Eventually, we caught up with Mama Neely at a small tavern tucked into the mountains, where Tess and the boys had dropped her before heading off to their marble carving class. Together, we set out for a short hike—never quite finishing it, but it felt good to stretch our legs and be greeted at the trailhead by more local cats, who clearly own the island. Then, without much warning, the sky cracked open.

Rain. Thunder. Lightning.

Zeus himself must’ve been feeling dramatic, rumbling directly over the very mountain where—legend has it—he was born. We tried to make a run for it, but the storm was relentless. We abandoned our scooters at a gas station, soaked and laughing, and retreated back to the tavern where we first found Mama Neely.

Running across the marble courtyard towards shelter, my Birkenstocks betrayed me, sliding out from under me and sending me flat onto my back in the middle of the downpour. For a moment, the world stood still—strangers at nearby tables froze, eyes wide with horror, unsure if they were witnessing a disaster. But as the rain poured down and the shock wore off, I burst into uncontrollable laughter, soaked to the bone, water streaming down my face. It was ridiculous, it was messy, and yet I couldn’t stop giggling at the rom-com-esque scene it was.

Suddenly, Chris’s hand appeared in my blurry vision, hauling me upright and toward shelter. I was drenched, freezing—and smiling ear to ear. All I could think was: I’m alive. And I could really use another coffee. About 30 minutes later, Tess and the kids returned from their marble carving class, proudly carrying their hand-chiseled souvenirs like tiny modern-day artists.

Jon and Corah had borrowed Tess’s rental car to head back to the hotel and change. When they returned, it was like watching summer morph into winter—puffy jackets, beanies, pants. “I guess your theory is correct,” I teased Jon, referencing his earlier pants theory: if he wore shorts, the weather would be bad. If he wore pants, the skies would clear. And sure enough—the sun was back. Zeus, apparently, was appeased.

The rain behind us, we spent the afternoon exploring the small towns of Naxos:

• Halki, a picturesque village known for its Byzantine churches and the famous Vallindras Kitron Distillery (where a sweet citrus liquor is still made).
• Apeiranthos, a marble village perched high in the hills, full of steep stone streets, poetry, and old-world charm.
• Filoti, another stunning village nestled against the slopes of Mount Zas, with whitewashed houses and taverns spilling out into shady squares.

Each town had its own heartbeat: lazy cats, tiny cafes, brightly painted doors, and locals who smiled and nodded as we roamed through.

As the day turned to evening, we waved goodbye to Tess, Mama Neely, and the kids, then rode our scooters to the far side of the island. The landscape opened up to green hills dotted with grazing goats, their bells chiming like music on the wind. The road wound higher and higher until we reached an overlook so stunning it didn’t seem real—just endless ocean, rugged cliffs, and the faint outlines of distant islands.

It was pure cinema—complete with the flashing “E” on me and Corah’s scooters, meaning we were dangerously low on fuel. Laughing (and maybe a little panicked), we backtracked to the nearest town and filled up just in time.

We returned the scooters to Delchev with five minutes to spare, frozen from the lack of sunshine, but triumphant.

Back at the hotel, we jumped straight into our jacuzzi tubs, letting the hot water chase the chill from our bones before meeting up with the family for a relaxed dinner. Our waiter, a fellow sailor and photography enthusiast, swapped stories and pointed out places we needed to explore by boat the next day—because no matter where we are, this family always finds a way back to the water. But more on that later.

Since the moment we landed in Europe, Troy had been dead set on going clubbing. I’m not exactly sure what he pictured—maybe neon lights, maybe a movie montage—but we all tried convincing him that it’s not quite as glamorous as it looks. (Despite the many questionable nights Chris and I spent “clubbing” back in Mexico.)

But a promise is a promise, and tonight was the night. Gold chain on, excitement practically radiating off him, Troy was ready.

At 11:30 p.m., we started the night at a rooftop cocktail lounge, a much classier beginning than any of us deserved. We ordered a round of drinks and sat together under the stars, talking about life, love, and the endless possibilities ahead of a seventeen-year-old. Troy spoke with such maturity, his words carrying the twinkle of youth mixed with a surprising weight of thoughtfulness. It was one of those conversations you tuck away and carry with you.

Around midnight, we made our way to Ocean Club—the “best-reviewed club on Naxos,” according to every sign, brochure, and Google review. But when we got there? Not a soul in sight. The place was so empty it felt like stepping into an abandoned movie set.

“Closed for the season?” I asked Chris, watching him come back outside wearing a face caught somewhere between a smirk and pity. A man nearby—clearly hustling for business—tried to convince us to stop into his bar instead. Chris asked him, “When do people actually show up around here?”

“2:00 a.m.” the man said casually, like it was perfectly reasonable. Disgusting.

Troy was stunned. To be fair, when I thought about it, even our days at Lusty on Land followed a similar timeline. That bar would close at midnight, and we’d all migrate to the speakeasy where the real dancing happened until 3:00 a.m. (Never 4:00 a.m., though. I hate 4:00 a.m.)

Still determined to salvage the night, we agreed to have one more drink at the man’s waterfront bar. I stuck to a mocktail, and Troy, bless him, was cut off by us. “Shots?” he asked hopefully. Chris and I laughed, shook our heads, and shoved a glass of water into his hands before paying the tab and calling it a night.

By 1:00 a.m., we were all tucked into bed—visions of gold chains and empty dance floors drifting somewhere behind our eyelids. Sometimes, the adventure isn’t what you expect. And sometimes, that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

Day 12 – Back on the Water and Into My Heart

“Hello?”

Nothing but the echo of our own voices through the still building. Our family had left us behind. At 8:30 a.m., we found them already sitting by the port next to our charter boat, a Beneteau 450 named SY Gratsia. Her gleaming teak decks were warm underfoot, familiar yet foreign, like a memory waking up after a long sleep. It had been too long since we felt this.

While the captain and crew readied the boat, Chris, Tess, and I grabbed coffees nearby, savoring that specific brand of excitement that only a day on the water brings.

Chris and Jon sat on the cabin top next to Tess, immediately falling into the sacred sibling ritual of messing with their big sister—sending her into a laughing fit punctuated by threats of future retaliation. Some things never change.

As we motor-sailed toward Paros, someone (probably fueled by too much coffee) kicked off a push-up contest. I surprised myself, managing 15 solid push-ups in one set—way more than my usual gym sets. A small but satisfying victory. Staying climbing-ready for home, one unexpected ferry workout at a time.

We anchored in a cove on the windward side of Paros—and when I say wind, I mean it. It was chilly enough to make you think twice about leaving your layers behind. But the boys? Unfazed. They jumped straight into the cold, laughing and shrieking like wild things. Olga, our first mate/stewardess, prepared sandwiches for everyone while we tried to keep warm. Originally from Ukraine, this was her first season crewing, but you wouldn’t know it—she was a natural. If she stuck with it, the world of sailing would absolutely open its arms to her.

Later, the captain—realizing we were all experienced sailors—seemed far more motivated to raise sail properly. Chris, Jon, and even Corah (who spent years crewing on Channel Cat out of Santa Barbara) immediately jumped in to help. Me? I was happy to play passenger for once, snuggled up with Hansin, who has the natural gift of being wonderfully cozy.

Chris couldn’t resist the helm—beer in hand, eyes on the horizon—the scene so familiar it tugged at my heart. My captain.

At one point, dolphins darted toward us, slicing through the water like silver blades. But true to tradition, as soon as I noticed them, they vanished. Oh well—still magical, even if fleeting. The rocky islands and deep blue seas were so reminiscent of Baja that it made me ache for our own boat.

We eventually rounded the lee side of Paros and made our way into port—our first experience with Med mooring.

Med mooring is a docking style common throughout the Mediterranean where boats anchor off the stern or bow, then back or nose into a dock or quay. Instead of tying off alongside a dock like in the States, you squeeze in stern-to (or bow-to), usually with the help of a line running to an underwater mooring point. It’s tight, sometimes chaotic, but it’s the norm—and once you get used to it, it feels strangely efficient.

We arrived in Náoussa, a charming town on the north side of Paros, once a sleepy fishing village and now a picturesque harbor town full of bougainvillea-draped tavernas, little shops, and cobbled streets that wind like rivers. Despite its popularity, Náoussa still felt authentic, like a place that had carefully preserved its soul.

After tying up, the family grabbed ice cream, and I wandered in and out of shops, snagging a few more gifts to smuggle home. We all regrouped to enjoy a drink on the beach, where a very friendly cat leapt into our laps demanding affection—just like our cats back home. Apparently, this was the trip of cats adopting us.

Back aboard Gratsia, lunch was served—the most incredible Greek meal we had yet. Prepared lovingly by the captain’s mother, it included moussaka, dolmades, spanakopita, lamb, Greek salads, and so much more. There was so much food that not even Chris and Jon, who usually treat meals like full-contact sports, could finish it.

Bellies full and hearts fuller, we motor-sailed to another anchorage—a calm, flat basin, where the water was warm enough for most of the family to dive in. I opted to stay nice and dry, basking in the sunshine and quietly missing my own boat in Mexico.

On the sail back, Chris, Truman, Troy, and I all piled into a sleepy cuddle pile, dozing in the cockpit as the boat rocked us like a cradle. We woke up just in time to watch the sails come down and the engine hum us back to port. Back on land, we shuttled back to Naxos for an easy, cozy night. Snacking on leftovers. Soaking in our luxurious rooms one last time. Holding onto these last few moments before reality pulled us home.

Tomorrow would be our last day in this island paradise… and honestly? I wasn’t ready to go.

Day 13 – All Good Things Come to an End

If you’ve followed us for a while, you know it’s not always sunshine and rainbows around here. Trouble has a way of finding us—even in the most romantic, picture-perfect places. It doesn’t really matter what the spark was, but by Day 13, Chris and I found ourselves arguing, the kind of raw, painful argument that leaves you both exhausted and teary-eyed.

From 10:00 to 1:00, we went back and forth—hard words, long silences, the kind of conversation you don’t script and can’t shortcut. Eventually, we clawed our way to middle ground—frayed but holding. Later, we found out we weren’t the only ones having tough conversations.

Up on the sunroof, while Tess and the kids escaped to the beach early, the rest of the crew was sorting through their own emotions, their own knots to untangle. Maybe it was the weight of travel, the ticking clock of the end drawing near, or just the natural rub of being together for so long. Whatever it was, it seemed the whole group had weather to sail through that morning.

Once the air cleared and our eyes dried, we rallied. We made our way to the beach where we found Tess blissfully stretched out on a lounge chair, a little oasis of calm. We stretched out beside her, soaking up the sun like a lizard, cracking open my book and ordering a piña colada. Soft rooftop lounge music drifted through the salty air, and for a moment, I was transported back to Mexico—to all those lazy, sun-soaked Lusty days.

The hours passed gently—no plans, no rush, just the rhythmic pulse of waves and warmth.

Eventually, we packed up and headed back to home base to freshen up, then ventured out for one last stroll around town. We found a delicious cheese shop that immediately reminded me of the one in Carmel, California—small, fragrant, cozy. We bought a little truffle cheese to nibble on as we wandered, along with olive oils to bring home as gifts (and for ourselves, of course). Chris stumbled upon a perfect long-sleeve Greek linen shirt, and just like that, he looked like he belonged here—salt air, linen, and all.

Our final stop was Apollo’s Temple to watch the sunset. We stood there, breathing it all in one last time—the stone archway, the golden light, the heavy, beautiful finality of it all. Watching the sun slip behind the ruins felt like saying goodbye to something sacred. 

That night, we had our last dinner together with Chris, who would be leaving us the next morning in Athens to head off to work in England. The evening was spent packing up, soaking in the hot tub, massage chair, sauna, and steam shower—milking every last luxurious moment from our time in Naxos.

We weren’t quite ready to let go. But the tide was pulling us forward, ready or not.

Day 14: The Last One Standing

Ironically, wind is my least favorite element. Especially the strong, cold kind that carries salty sea spray across your already cold face, as if the Poseidon is just spitting on you for fun.

At 8:00 a.m., we were the first ones at the ferry port, waiting for our floating chariot back to Athens. We were booked on a ferry that would take at least five hours—maybe more, depending on how badly the weather wanted to mess with us. Unlike the ferry on the way over, this one had “economy” seating which was cafeteria-esque seating, with loose chairs situated around fixed tables. 

I had grand plans of writing, maybe even getting a jump on some client work. But once I saw the laptop start to rattle, threatening to yeet itself off the table, I took that as my cue to power down and hold on.

The wind outside was ferocious. The sea chopped harder by the minute. Chairs shook. Little kids threw up while their parents tried to appear calm. The quote from Captain Ron ran through my head like a warning siren: “You folks might not want to be down here in case she breaks up.”

Sea spray slapped the windows with alarming force, power-washing the view. Somewhere behind me, a baby screamed like it was being exorcised. Chairs skidded across the deck like haunted furniture in a horror film. Or maybe in the final scenes of Titanic.

I was deeply, sincerely grateful for:

• Noise-canceling headphones
• Peppermint essential oil
• A good book to mentally take me off the sea and put me in Yosemite
• And a stomach made of steel

Then… it was over. The storm passed. The seas settled. And by the time we pulled into Athens, sunshine had returned, like it had never left.

We hugged Chris goodbye—he was off to England for work, and the hug lingered a little longer than usual. It’s always hard to part ways after so much closeness, especially knowing the trip was winding down. The rest of us checked into our hotel and began the slow process of reentry. Tess, Mom, and Jon went out to do some last-minute shopping while the rest of us collapsed. And then—finally—Corah got sick. Like dominoes, one by one over the course of 14 days our crew had fallen. I was officially the last one standing.

 Accommodation’s: Athens Signature Hotel

Day 15 – Coming Home

4:00 a.m. The absolute worst time of day. Not night, not morning—just that awful liminal space where everything feels a little too real and not real enough. Despite my personal disdain for it, I was up. Bags packed. Ready.

Mom, Jon, Corah, and I made it to the airport in silence, the kind of silence that only exists when everyone is equally exhausted. We cruised through security, boarded our first flight, and I queued up my favorite murder podcast—then promptly passed out.

I woke up just in time for the final approach. Snowcapped mountains floated beneath the wing, Swiss chocolate appeared in my hand, and a cheerful “auf wiedersehen” echoed from the cabin crew. It was one of those surreal transitions that travel gifts you: half-asleep, halfway across the world, still in motion.

We had some time to kill in Zurich, so I found the first chai latte I’d had in weeks, cracked open my laptop, and sent off article pitches while scribbling new ideas. It felt good to flex that creative muscle again—writing in transit, one foot already in the next story. By 11:30, it was time to relocate to our gate. Just one more flight and we’d be back on U.S. soil.

Somewhere between boarding and takeoff, I started writing about my first climbing adventure—staring down at the calluses that had softened, temporarily overshadowed by the acrylic nails I got for this trip. My goodness, I was ready to chew them off and get back on the wall.

Swiss Airlines was as dreamy as ever—thoughtful service, surprisingly good food, and the quiet grace of efficiency. The cabin was more than half empty, which made me wonder if no one wants to visit the U.S. right now, and fair enough. But the empty seat between Mama Neely and me was appreciated—perfect for curling up in strange configurations to chase whatever sleep I could grab. Eventually, we touched down in the States. We were home.

Bags made it. We made it. A few hours later, we were back in Ventura, where Jon, Corah, and I quickly packed up and headed to the mountains. No rest for the wicked. I already had a full schedule for the following days:

• Welcoming home a dear friend from a wild winter on the Bering Sea
• Watching Star Wars Episode III in theaters (as one should)
• And cheering on our sailing buddy Griff as he headlined Shabang in San Luis Obispo.

Back at Runaground Ranch, I dumped my travel-worn bag into the laundry, repacked it with clean clothes, gave both cats a proper snuggle, and hit the road again—keeping the momentum alive. It’s going to be a great summer. And it all started here.

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A Note of Gratitude to Mama Neely— Thank you.

Thank you for dreaming up this adventure, for planning it down to the last detail, for navigating the countless changes, reroutes, and curveballs that happened along the way. Thank you for booking the flights, picking the stays, coordinating the cat herds (a.k.a. us), and holding it all together with patience, grace, and the occasional well-deserved sigh.

This trip wasn’t just a vacation—it was a gift. A collection of once-in-a-lifetime moments we’ll carry with us forever. From windblown ferry rides to rooftop toasts, none of it would have happened without you. You gave us the space to explore, the time to connect, and the kind of family memories that grow richer every time we retell them. We love you. And we’re so grateful to have wandered this corner of the world by your side.