The Crossroads Compass – Chapter 4
Thalia
Athens unfolds before me like the pages of a history book come to life, and I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like an idiot. The bus deposits me near Syntagma Square, and I clutch my guidebook like it’s a lifeline. Which, let’s be honest, it kind of is. My Greek might be limited to “please,” “thank you,” and “where’s the bathroom?” but by God, I’m going to see this city if it kills me.
First stop: the Acropolis. As I climb the ancient steps, my heart races with the realization that I am woefully out of shape. Note to self: lay off the spanakopita and start running again.
But then, there it is. The Parthenon. Holy. Freaking. Cow.
Its weathered columns reach skyward against a backdrop of impossibly blue sky, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. I stand there, slack-jawed, trying to imagine this place in its full glory thousands of years ago. Were the ancient Athenians as awestruck as I am? Or was this just their local mall, where they’d hang out and gossip about which god was sleeping with whom this week?
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts my reverie. “Could you take our picture?”
I turn to see a couple, clearly tourists like me, holding out their camera. For a split second, I consider saying no. I mean, I’m having a moment here, people! But then I remember I’m not actually an ancient Greek, just a very sweaty modern American.
“Sure,” I say, taking their camera. As I frame the shot, making sure to get the Parthenon in the background, I think: this is why I came here. Not just to see the sights, but to be part of this shared human experience. To connect with strangers over our mutual awe at human achievement.
Also, let’s be real, to get some killer Instagram shots. I pull out my phone and start snapping away, trying to capture the majesty of the Parthenon without getting too many tourists in the frame. After a solid fifteen minutes of channeling my inner influencer, I finally settle on a shot that’s equal parts “I’m cultured” and “I’m having the time of my life.”
I upload it with the caption: “Just hanging out with my new 2,500-year-old friend. NBD. #AcropolisAdventures #WhoNeedsAJob”
Almost immediately, the likes and comments start rolling in.
@SarahFromAccounting: “OMG, so jealous! Looks amazing!”
@MomWorriesALot: “I hope you’re wearing sunscreen!”
@BestieJess: “YASSSS QUEEN! Live your best life!”
@ThatGuyFromCollege: “Wait, you don’t have a job? I’m hiring if you’re interested…”
I smile at my phone, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. It’s nice to know people care, even if some of them express it through mild panic. I type out a quick reply: “Thanks everyone! Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just taking some time to figure things out. And yes, it IS amazing here!”
After thoroughly exploring (and photographing) the Acropolis, I make my way down to the bustling Plaka district. The narrow streets are a maze of shops selling everything from tacky “I ♥ Athens” t-shirts to exquisite gold jewelry that probably costs more than my now non-existent yearly salary.
I pause in front of a small boutique, my eyes drawn to a flowing sundress in the window not unlike the one I’m wearing now. It’s the kind of thing I’d never wear in New York — too impractical, too romantic. But here? I can almost see myself wearing it, strolling through these very streets, maybe with a handsome Greek local on my arm. We’d stop for coffee at that cute little café on the corner, then browse the bookshop next door. I’d have a job I love, maybe writing for a travel magazine or teaching English to adorable Greek kids. Every weekend would be a new adventure — island hopping, exploring ancient ruins, learning to cook traditional Greek dishes…
I shake my head, laughing at myself. “Dream on, Thalia,” I mutter. But I can’t quite shake the image — or the longing it stirs in me.
My stomach growls, reminding me that one cannot live on ancient history alone. I follow my nose to a street vendor selling souvlaki. The smell of grilled meat and warm pita is intoxicating.
“Ena souvlaki, parakalo,” I manage to say, proud of myself for remembering how to order in Greek.
The vendor, a portly man with a bushy mustache, beams at me. “Bravo! Your Greek is very good!”
I’m pretty sure he says this to all the tourists, but I preen anyway. “Efharisto,” I reply, taking my souvlaki.
The warm pita is soft in my hands, a perfect contrast to the crisp, charred edges of the meat. I take a bite — the juicy pork, the tangy tzatziki, the crisp freshness of tomatoes and onions. All delicious. The scent of lemon fills my nostrils, and I sigh as I take another bite. It’s quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted, or maybe that’s just the hunger and heat talking.
As I wander the streets after I finish, I feel a sense of belonging I’ve never experienced before. Not at home, nor college, and definitely not in New York. It’s like every cell in my body is saying, “Yes, this. This is where you’re supposed to be.” Which is ridiculous, of course. I’m about as Greek as a New York pizza, even though my grandma is from this country. But still, the feeling persists.
In the afternoon, I visit the Acropolis Museum. If the Parthenon left me speechless, this place renders me almost catatonic. I lose all track of time, mesmerized by artifacts that speak of a bygone era. Ancient statues with missing noses (what is it with old statues and missing noses?), intricate pottery depicting epic battles and everyday life, delicate jewelry that looks like it could have been made yesterday.
Each piece tells a story, not just of gods and heroes, but of the people who created them. People who loved, laughed, cried, just like us. It’s humbling and exhilarating all at once.
As the day wanes, I find myself in the National Gardens, exhausted but exhilarated. I collapse onto a bench, my feet throbbing but my heart full. The gardens are an oasis of calm in the bustling city, filled with meandering paths, ancient ruins, and the occasional stray cat.
What time is it, anyway? I have a bus to catch, and I’m eager to post some of the eight million photos I’ve taken today.
But as I open my bag, my heart stops.
My wallet is gone. No. And so is my phone.
No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
Panic rises in my throat like bile as I frantically search every pocket of my bag and clothes. Maybe I just put them somewhere else? Maybe they’ve magically transported themselves to a different compartment?
But deep down, I know the truth. I’ve been pickpocketed.
How? When? I think back on my path through the Gardens and realize that I dropped my phone in my bag at the entrance and then there was a group of kids who bumped into me as they raced towards the exit. Shit.
My phone and wallet are long, long gone.
Tears sting my eyes as the implications hit me. My whole life was in that phone — contacts, emails, photos. I was hoping to hear back about job prospects. What if someone’s tried to reach me? And my wallet — all my credit cards, my driver’s license, my pathetic remaining cash.
“Are you all right, miss?” A woman approaches me, and I hurriedly try to hide my tears. I sniff up and swipe at my cheeks.
“Fine, fine,” I say, looking up at her and registering only her close-cropped curly hair and kind smile. “I lost something. That’s all.”
She sighs and pulls a napkin from her pocket. “Here.” She glances at my bag next to me. “Keep your bag close. You never know who’s around.”
I nod as she walks off. No shit. I should have listened to Nikos.
I take a deep, shuddering breath. Okay, Thalia. Think. What do you still have?
I do a mental inventory. I had stashed some extra cash in a separate zipped pocket — thank you, paranoid New Yorker instincts. And my passport is in the safe back at the hotel.
So I’m not completely screwed.
Just mostly screwed.
I still have my return bus ticket, too. The bus back to Heliosmari suddenly seems like a lifeline to safety.
I hurry to the bus station, constantly looking over my shoulder. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Is everyone looking at me? Do they know I’m an easy target now?
On the bus ride back, as the sun sets and the city lights fade behind me, I try to figure out my next steps. Should I cut my trip short? How will I manage without my phone and cards? The magical day in Athens now feels tainted, like a beautiful painting that someone’s thrown mud at.
I close my eyes, leaning my head against the cool window. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should just go home and face reality. Get a new phone, cancel my cards, start job hunting in earnest. Be a responsible adult.
My stupid eyes begin to water with tears. Stupid tears. Why am I like this? I open my bag, and my hand brushes against something as I’m rummaging around for a tissue, a napkin, anything to stem the flow of snot coming from my nose.
The compass. I’d forgotten all about it.
I pull it out, studying it in the dim light of the bus. The needle spins wildly, never settling on a direction. Kind of like me, I think wryly.
For some reason, holding the compass makes me feel… better.
Calmer.
I sigh as I set it in my lap and wipe my tears with the back of my hand.
Take a deep breath, Thalia.
Get back to Heliosmari and figure the rest out.
That’s the best I can do.
As the bus rumbles on through the darkening Greek countryside, I find myself tracing the intricate engravings on the compass with my finger. There’s something comforting about its weight in my hand, like it’s anchoring me in this moment of chaos.
Maybe it’s just exhaustion or the emotional rollercoaster of the day, but I swear the compass feels almost alive. My spinning thoughts straighten out, and the weight in my chest lightens a fraction as I stare at it. The needle slows too, and I look around to see if something is affecting it — our location, the people around me? I’m not sure.
I sigh as I tuck it back into my bag. I need to think about what to do next.
Think, Thalia.
Think.
You have been reading The Crossroads Compass...
When I flipped off my CEO and went viral, a trip to Greece was supposed to help me find myself. I never expected to find a god instead.
I’m Thalia Moretti, and my life was perfectly mundane until I met Asher—a mysterious stranger with killer looks and an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient Greek history. Our whirlwind romance across the islands feels too good to be true.
Turns out, it is.
Asher isn’t just devastatingly charming—he’s Hermes, the immortal messenger god moonlighting as a world-famous rock star. And that antique compass I bought on impulse? It’s a divine artifact that every power-hungry minor god wants to get their hands on.
Now I’m caught between jealous ex-goddesses, mythological conspiracies, and my own awakening powers as we race to rally the scattered gods of Olympus. Because when divine politics threaten both worlds, apparently a sarcastic social media manager from Brooklyn is exactly what the universe ordered.
Sometimes the best way to find yourself is to lose yourself completely—preferably with a god who looks incredible in tight jeans.
The Crossroads Compass is “Mamma Mia!” meets Greek mythology with a rock star god romance.
