You’re invited to an island in Greece whose name you’re not allowed to mention. At first, you think it’s cute, like, “Oh for sure, for sure, American tourists ruin everything. I’ll totally gatekeep this one,” but you soon realize it’s not a joke. You’re told it’s like the real life version of the island in Mamma Mia and the opposite of Mykonos. You get on a plane without any idea of what you’re going to be doing once you get there. You haven’t made a single reservation. The only pin of your GoogleMaps is the name of the hotel, which is owned by someone who is a cousin of the friend who invited you, probably. You come to realize that everyone on the island is a cousin of the friend who invited you, probably. 

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