A street on the island of Myconos, Greece


The third father/daughter trip to Greece departed on the second day of the Gulf War II, 2003. The week before, I was at a meeting with eight people who all had kids. I said, “Would you go to Greece next week with a 12 year old?” “No way!” was the collective response.

I got home that day to one of those parental e-mails from my dad in which he diplomatically – and directly – urged me not to go. With his photographic memory he noted the specifics of 25 years of Greek plane hijackings and terrorist groups.

Being susceptible to influence, I was thrown into a most unpleasant quandary. For about 48 hours I twisted and turned as to what to do. But then, a sense arose that we should go, and so we did.

We seemed to have Greece to ourselves. Greek TV was not friendly to America. But we had a fine time with the Greek people themselves.