The Travel Mistake of the Year Left Us Stranded on Fournoi

A muffled announcement, a missed question, and a musty room (Part 1)

Hillside shrine as seen from a Fournoi taverna.

Two weeks ago, instead of my usual newsletter, I sent a short email—just a quick hello—and was floored by the response. My inbox was filled with replies from people I hadn’t heard from in ages, as well as readers I’d never heard from before. The open rate soared, but what really mattered was that sense of connection. It reminded me why I write these stories in the first place: to share a little slice of life, to laugh at what goes wrong, and to find meaning in the middle of the mess.

So today, here’s one of those stories—about a ferry, a missed stop, and an accidental adventure on the wrong Greek island. If you enjoy this tale of accidental island life, please hit the heart, comment, or restack—it’ll help me recover emotionally from the trauma (especially that room I slept in).

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My husband and I have a rule: never check a bag. Ever since the 2020 “Great Airport Luggage Purge,” we’ve been carry-on purists. Once you’ve spent a vacation wearing the same outfit three days in a row and brushing your teeth with a hotel toothbrush, you learn.

But rules bend when you’re flying those propeller-powered island hoppers in Greece. The overhead bins are roughly the size of a breadbox, and if you try to cram a real suitcase up there, the plane will sigh and refuse to take off. So yes, we had to check our bags.

After landing in Athens from Zakynthos, where I’d just wrapped up the Traveling Women’s Retreat, we waited by the carousel. My bag came out. My husband’s didn’t. Nor did my friend’s. Around and around the belt went, displaying the same two lonely suitcases like sad contestants on a luggage dating show.

At the lost-baggage desk, the attendant cheerfully informed us that the plane had been “too heavy.” Translation: your bags didn’t make the cut. Lucky for us, our next flight was six hours away, and by some miracle (we called our cousin, who works at the Zakynthos airport), the bags arrived in time. “Travel is always an adventure,” my friend said knowingly—herself a seasoned traveler—and she was secretly relieved it hadn’t happened to one of our group’s first-time travelers.

After a lovely time on Samos, we planned to fly to Ikaria next. The ferry schedule didn’t line up, so we booked a quick one-hour flight back to Athens first, followed by another propeller plane to Ikaria. But our luggage PTSD kicked in, and we thought, why not just take the ferry directly from Samos to Ikaria instead? A brilliant plan, we decided. (We were wrong.)

The islands are practically neighbors, separated by what looks on the map like a short swim for a determined dolphin. So we hopped aboard, ready for the island where people “forget to die.” I was eager to learn their secret. I assumed it involved olive oil and naps.

The ferry made its first stop. The announcement came over the loudspeaker in both Greek and English, though the English sounded like it was delivered through a kazoo. My husband stood up, and I followed—then paused, sensing the universe whispering, maybe don’t.

“Is this Ikaria?” I asked a passing crew member.

He shook his head. “Karlovasi.”

Crisis averted. We plopped back down and congratulated ourselves on being experienced travelers.

Thirty minutes later, another island came into view. Another announcement followed, equally unintelligible. We grabbed our bags and bounded off, full of misplaced confidence.

We found a café by the harbor for lunch while my husband searched for the car rental on his phone. Except Google Maps wasn’t cooperating. The directions button was grayed out, like the app knew something we didn’t.

“I’ll just walk over there,” he said. Famous last words.

He returned ten minutes later wearing the face of a man who’d just discovered an inconvenient truth.

“I have good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is we’re on a new island. The bad news is… it’s not Ikaria. We’re on Fournoi.”

My fork froze mid-bite.

We had disembarked one stop too early. The ferry—our only ride that day—was long gone. We had no hotel, no plan, and no way off the island. We could see Ikaria shimmering in the distance like a mirage of better decisions.

Just then—as if on cue—a woman walked by. “I have room,” she said.

I had an uneasy feeling. My husband, wanting to be polite, went with her to survey the room. What were the chances someone would walk by with a room just as we’d figured out we were stranded on the island?

A young woman sitting alone nearby offered, “It’s clean.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

My husband came back. “You’re not going to like it,” he said.

We walked the one block to take a look together. The smell of must greeted me first. It was a sunny morning outside, but my eyes had to adjust to the darkness inside. An overhead light tried to illuminate the dank room, but it had long ago decided it could only do so much. The bed was stripped, and a mop leaned against the wall. The woman now had a companion with her as they both waited for the verdict on their room.

He had told the hotel owner that I would be making the decision—nothing like being volunteered as the fall guy before you’ve even seen the room.

I was in a bad spot. Could we sleep inside a wet tree trunk for a night? I was still shocked at our predicament and reluctantly agreed to rent their room for 40 euros. If we could find a private boat or water taxi to take us to Ikaria, we’d never have to sleep there that night.

What choice did we have?

To be continued…