Corfu

I had visited Greek islands before—the whitewashed villages, the blue domes, the expected postcard scenery. But Corfu surprised me completely. As our ship approached, I saw not the typical Cycladic architecture but something more European: terracotta roofs, Venetian bell towers, fortresses rising from rocky headlands. This was a Greek island that had spent four centuries under Venetian rule, and then French, and then British. The layers of influence showed in every building, every archway, every winding street.

I walked from the cruise terminal along the waterfront, the morning sun already warm on my shoulders and the taste of salt on my lips. The Old Fortress dominated the view ahead—a massive medieval stronghold separated from the old town by a moat. Cruise passengers were already streaming toward it, but I turned into the narrow streets of the Old Town instead, wanting to find Corfu before the crowds did.

The kantounia—the narrow lanes of the old town—felt more Italian than Greek. Laundry hung from wrought-iron balconies, cats dozed in doorways, the smell of coffee drifted from tiny cafes. I got lost almost immediately and didn't mind at all. Every turn revealed another scene: a marble fountain, a Byzantine church, a courtyard filled with bougainvillea so purple it looked painted. The Venetians had built this town to last, and four hundred years later, it was still achingly beautiful.

I stumbled upon Liston, the famous arcade built by the French during their brief rule, modeled after the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. Corfiot Greeks sat at cafe tables drinking freddo espresso, watching the world pass by with that Mediterranean ease I never quite achieve. I ordered a pastitsada—Corfu's signature pasta dish with slow-cooked spiced beef—at a taverna where the waiter seemed amused that I had wandered so far from the obvious tourist route. The dish was rich and complex, nothing like what I expected from Greek cuisine, a reminder that this island had absorbed influences from everyone who had ever ruled it.

After lunch, I climbed to the Old Fortress, paying the €6 entrance fee and ascending the stone paths to the top. My breath caught when I reached the summit. The view stretched in every direction—the mountains of Albania across the strait, the terracotta rooftops of the old town below, the brilliant blue of the Ionian Sea surrounding everything. I could see why every empire had wanted to control this island. Whoever held Corfu held the gateway between the Adriatic and the Mediterranean.

I sat on the fortress walls for a long time, watching tiny fishing boats cross the strait, feeling the wind that had carried Venetian galleys and British frigates and now carried the scent of wild herbs from the hillside below. For the first time in days, I wasn't thinking about itineraries or attractions or what I should see next. I was simply present, in this place where centuries of occupation had somehow created something beautiful rather than broken. A young couple nearby was photographing each other against the backdrop of the Ionian Sea, and an elderly Greek man sat alone on a cannon, smoking and watching the ships with the patience of someone who had watched them for decades.

On my way back to the ship, I stopped at a small store and bought a bottle of kumquat liqueur—the local specialty, made from the tiny citrus fruits that grow only here. The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with knowing eyes, wrapped it carefully and said something in Greek I didn't understand. But I understood her smile: she was sharing her island with a stranger, the way her people had been doing for generations, offering hospitality to whoever came ashore.

I thought about all the travelers who had stood where I stood, from ancient Greeks to Venetian merchants to British tourists like me now. The island had accepted them all, absorbed their influences, remained somehow stubbornly itself. There's a lesson in that, I think—how to be shaped by experience without losing your essence, how to welcome change while holding onto what matters. The evening light was turning golden as I walked back toward the port, the kind of light that makes everything look like a memory even as you're living it.

The moment that stays with me: sitting on those fortress walls, the wind carrying scents of thyme and sea salt, watching the play of light on water that had been watched by Roman sailors and Byzantine monks and Venetian governors. My heart swelled with gratitude—not just for the beauty, but for the privilege of adding my moment to all those centuries of moments, becoming part of the island's long memory even as I passed through. I came expecting a Greek island. I found a teacher.

Reflections are my own; I'm charting soundings in another's wake. Mediterranean summer cruise, 2024.