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I used to be a diligent travel planner. I would map out each holiday to the day, ensuring I didn't miss a single site, stopover or shopping opportunity. But naturally this brought rigidity to my adventures. So when three years' back I stopped booking ahead and allocating a train ride weeks in advance, my world opened. Going with the flow meant I could make last minute snap decisions, buddy up with a new-found travel companion and go places that hadn't even crossed my horizon. For the most part, this laissez-faire approach went off without much of a hitch. But on occasion it has almost been my undoing. My 2019 short-but-sweet exploration of Portugal and Greece was to be my ten-year reunion with Europe. With a flight into Lisbon and out of Athens, the 2.5 weeks in between were my oyster. Swept up in the vibrancy that is Portugal, I left myself only a little time, a mere three days, to explore the aquamarine isles of Greece. After much deliberation and extensive crowd sourcing, Mykonos was chosen to fulfill all my feta-driven dreams, and I hastily booked flights and accommodation, whilst sitting atop a double decker bus-come-hostel in the Algarve. The trip was doomed from the start. Not only did I book a flight from Athens to Mykonos that departed before my flight had even landed from Lisbon, but once arriving to Athens airport, I was told I was on standby, the flight had been oversold. It was then the waterworks commenced. With a look of pity, the woman behind the check-in counter assured me I would get on the flight, that this was standard procedure. She was right and my tears and I landed safely at Mykonos airport at 10pm Friday night. On recommendation, I had booked a hotel room slightly over my budget but situated right at Platys Gialos, the heart of my Greek beach needs. So when my taxi pulled up to the hotel and the reception was locked I was all kinds of confused. After summoning the poor owner from her home to 'check me in', I was informed that she was booked out and I didn't have my particular booking at her end. Panicked, we both checked our booking.com accounts. It seemed I had a confirmed booking for a hotel of this name...but on another island! Cue the waterworks again! Recognising my distress but not quite knowing how to deal with a 33-year-old weeping Australian girl, the owner helped me search for a nearby refuge who could house me for the night. With my head hung low and tears rolling down my face, I shuffled 200m round the corner to a quaint BnB. Upon seeing my face, the elderly owner, who spoke little-to-no English rushed to my aid as I spluttered to her my booking details. Compassion doesn't require the tool of a mutual language; she settled me into a chair, brought me a huge glass of wine, and a water for good measure, and fetched another staff member who could translate my needs. Led to my room, relief flooded me knowing I had somewhere to rest my head for the night, somewhere filled with love and care (and a bucket-sized glass of wine). These small moments of genuine hospitality can leave a life-long heart shaped memory, and as I was warmly hugged upon my departure, I knew this wouldn't be the last time I set foot on this island of the gods.