Truth-Telling Series from In Love with the Med
There are places that impress you. And then there are places that stay with you forever — because they once held you, fed you, remembered your name, and gave you back to yourself a little more whole.
For me, that place was — and will always be — Mykonos.
Not the Mykonos of glossy billboards and branded beach clubs. Not the Mykonos of €500 sunbeds and bodyguards at lunch. But the Mykonos I knew, the one I worked in, lived in, and quietly loved, back when the island still had a soul, and style meant something more profound than expense.
I Was There
Not as a tourist. Not for a summer fling with the Aegean. I was there, inside the small five-star hotels of the 1990s, when hospitality was discreet and deeply personal. When guests didn’t want a show, they wanted to feel at home.
I was there before the island became a product.
I was there on long August nights, waiting for delayed flights to arrive past midnight, when everything was closed — and local restaurant owners would show up at the hotel, uninvited but always expected, with trays of warm food “just in case you’re all still working.”
I was there when guests became friends, and friends became part of your story. I remember the couples who came back every summer, the children we watched grow, and the farewell hugs that meant something.
I was there when, after work, you could walk into Chora and be greeted like family, not just because you worked in tourism, but because you were part of something shared, something local, lived, and loved.
It Was a Different Island Then
Mykonos knew it was beautiful, but it didn’t make a spectacle of itself. The elegance was in its restraint.
We didn’t need curated experiences or digital menus. The welcome was genuine, the flavors were honest, and the light—oh, the light—carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.
The hotels were quiet. Some of them were exquisite. But none of them needed to scream it.
We offered freshly ironed linen, impeccable service, and the kind of silence that only truly luxurious places allow you to sink into. Guests didn’t come to be seen — they came to feel the sea. The air. The simplicity.
And we worked hard — not for tips or TripAdvisor reviews — but because hospitality was something sacred.
Chora After Hours
Some of my fondest memories have nothing to do with my official title. They live in the twilight hours, when the shift was over, and you wandered into the town not as a professional, but as yourself.
Chora welcomed you.
A table would appear for you, even if the place was full. A drink would arrive unasked. A plate of food might follow. No bill. No performative generosity. Just filoxenia — that Greek word for “love of strangers” that, back then, meant something.
No one asked for anything in return. We were all part of the same rhythm: summer, work, joy, fatigue, laughter, wind. You were seen — not for your position or what you could spend, but because you were there, and you mattered.
And Then It Changed
I wish I could say it happened slowly, but I can’t.
The change came like a tide — first subtle, then sudden, then irreversible.
The small hotels I loved were bought, branded, reimagined. The soul was stripped out, and replaced with something louder, shinier, emptier. Service became scripted. Authenticity became a concept. Reservations became rituals of power.
The guests changed too. Many didn’t come to belong — they came to broadcast. Mykonos became less of a place, and more of a stage.
Where once we welcomed people who wanted to feel part of the island, we now host those who want to own it. Even if only for a week.
And something was lost.
No — everything was lost.
The Kind of Money That Doesn’t Say Thank You
I have no problem with wealth. The Mykonos I knew had always drawn the well-traveled, the elegant, the quietly rich. What it didn’t have was this new money — the kind that has no memory, no grace, no roots.
Now it’s champagne showers and beach clubs with menus thicker than novels. DJs flown in. Bodyguards at brunch. “Exclusive experiences” that are anything but.
I walk through Matogianni now and I don’t recognize it. Not because it’s changed — places do change — but because it feels performative. The magic’s gone. What’s left is a fantasy sold to people who never knew the real thing.
But If You Know Where to Look
You can still find her — the Mykonos that mattered.
She’s there in the early morning, before the boats start buzzing. In the soft light on a stone church. In the hands of the fisherman in Ano Mera, tying rope the same way his father did.
She’s in the smile of the old lady at the bakery, who still gives you a koulouri and asks if you’re eating enough. She’s in the laugh of a local friend when you sit down at a café that doesn’t have an Instagram page.
She’s under the noise — and she’s tired. But she’s still there.
You just have to arrive with respect.
Mykonos Is Two Islands Now
One you’ll see in magazines. The other you’ll see if you’re still.
The first one is loud, impatient, curated, expensive.
The second one doesn’t care if you have 2 followers or 2 million. It cares if you know how to listen. If you remember the difference between price and value. If you treat people like people.
I loved the second island. I still do. I carry her with me.
What I Miss the Most
Not the old hotels. Not the quiet luxury. Not even the sunsets, though they were sacred.
I miss the feeling. The mutual care. The sense that this was an island that looked after its people, staff, guests, locals alike.
I miss the days when restaurant owners would drop off trays of food because they knew we were working late.
I miss walking into town and being offered a meal, not because someone wanted to impress, but because they noticed you were tired.
I miss the Mykonos that fed you, saw you, and didn’t need to post about it afterward.
If You’re Going to Mykonos Now
Go early. Go quietly. Go off-season. Or don’t go at all.
If you do go, be kind to her. Choose the small places. Speak to people. Ask about their winters, not just your lunch. Don’t treat the island like a photo set. Treat it like someone’s home.
Because once, it was home for many of us.
And some of us never truly left.
Mykonos, Still Mine
You can take the logos. You can take the parties. You can take the €1,200 beach bed and the fireworks at sunset.
You can even take the Matogianni I don’t recognize anymore.
But you can’t take my Mykonos.
The one where I worked through sunrises and slept beside open windows. Where guests became family. Where people fed me when I was too tired to ask. Where beauty wasn’t bought — it was shared.
That Mykonos? She still lives in me.
And if you’ve ever known her — really known her — she probably lives in you too.