When Instinct Fail

Evolution has blessed creatures with many different kinds of protective gear.

Tigers have claws. Bulls have horns. Porcupines have sharp quills. Scorpions have poison. Each creature has something that keeps it safe from harm.

And humans? Humans have brains.

I like to think that the human brain is our finest piece of protective equipment, the one that allows us to assess risk, avoid danger, escape tricky situations, and decide when to fight or flee. Our brains keep us safe, ensuring our survival not through brute strength or venom, but through intuition and reason.

A fascinating feature of the human brain is its ability to sense danger long before it reaches us. It lets us read intentions, sense hostility, and know (somehow) when something or someone isn’t quite what they seem. It’s an extraordinary kind of radar, built from experience, instinct, and subtle cues we can’t even name.

But what happens when that radar fails us?

What happens when the very thing we rely on to keep us safe misfires?

That’s what happened to me in the past four years. I met two people at work whom I trusted, admired even. They seemed kind, supportive, and genuine, the sort of people you think, finally, someone who gets me. I let my guard down. I believed their words, their gestures, their friendship. And for a while, everything felt easy and warm.

But then, almost imperceptibly at first, little cracks began to appear. Words didn’t match actions. Kindness felt conditional. I started to feel used: not valued, not seen, but handled.

When the mask finally slipped, I was shocked by how wrong I had been. Not just about them, but about myself. I began to question everything: my intuition, my judgement, even my ability to read people, something I’ve always taken pride in. How could my instincts, usually so sharp, have failed me this badly?

Maybe that’s the hardest part – not just losing trust in others, but losing trust in yourself.

I keep replaying conversations in my head, wondering what signs I missed, what clues I ignored. Did I want to believe in them so much that I overrode my own discomfort? Or had I simply become too comfortable with the idea that I could always “tell” who someone truly was?

And I shudder to think what would happen if I’m wrong about the next person – when I am all alone, in a foreign country yet again. That thought terrifies me more than the betrayal itself. Because trust, once shaken, doesn’t just rebuild itself. It hides, it hesitates, it second-guesses every smile, every kind word, every invitation.

Perhaps that’s the real lesson here. Trust is not a science. It’s not foolproof. People are complex, and so are we. Sometimes, we meet versions of ourselves that are tired, lonely, or simply too hopeful. And those versions can make mistakes.

But maybe – and I’m still learning this the hard way – being wrong about people doesn’t make us foolish. It just makes us human.

 

Athens - Day 7

19 July 2025

Today I go home! 😔

Breakfast at 7 am with Silvia. Then I quickly packed up my remaining stuff, and all too soon it was time to say goodbye to my good friend Silvia. I have no idea when or where I will see her again, but I do know that I will see her again.

And then I was off to the airport, and before I knew it I was back home on 20 July 2025 morning, welcomed by my three faithful girls who announced my arrival back home to the whole of Petaling Jaya with their enthusiastic barks and (I suspect) complaints for temporarily abandoning them.

And then back to face another dreary day of life as usual back home. As if Greece never happened. As if all good things never happened.

Athens - Day 6 (Part 2)

18 July 2025

The theatre is grander, carved into the slope, a place where tragedy and comedy once unfolded beneath an open sky. How strange, I thought, that in this place both gladiators and poets performed for the same applause.

Then to the museum, which houses the excavation finds from all periods, including from Prehistoric settlements, Roman statues, mosaic floors and murals.

And then we were dropped off at Plaka, to wait for our next bus which would take us to Cape Sounion. There was time enough for lunch, so I walked around and finally settled on a restaurant that was serving fish, as I was in the mood for seafood (as always). Here the waiter asked, “What do you want?” – like I said, very direct, but they do not mean to be rude, it is just the way they are! I ordered grilled salmon and rice, which was so good! I complimented the waiter after I had finished eating, and he was so pleased he gave me a hug. There you go!

And then off to Cape Sounion! The road from Athens winds along the coast like a ribbon unspooling beside the Aegean, each bend offering glimpses of blue so bright it almost stings. The sea here isn’t gentle – it glitters like a blade. It is Poseidon's sea.

And then you see it: the Temple of Poseidon, perched high on the cliffs, white marble against the sky like a beacon or a warning. Even half-ruined, it commands the horizon. It stands where land ends, where myth begins, and where the gods (if they ever walked the earth) might still pause to look out.

Built in the 5^th century BCE, the temple once welcomed sailors home and saw them off again to war and trade and storm. Now, it welcomes us, travellers seeking something quieter. I walked slowly among the columns, worn smooth by wind and salt. Some still rise tall, fluted and noble; others lie broken at their feet. The names of 19^th century romantics are said to be carved into the stone – Byron among them, though I suspect the ancient wind pays them no mind as I could find no such carvings. Or perhaps I just wasn’t looking hard enough.

There was very little sound. Just the wind, and the sea below, endlessly folding itself into the rocks. I found a spot at the edge of the cliff and sat down, the temple behind me, the sky a clear, brilliant blue, and the sea shimmering as if a thousand stars were dancing upon the sunlight.

There’s a story, of course, about King Aegeus, who threw himself from this very cliff when he saw the black sails of his son Theseus’s ship and believed the worst. The sea still carries his name. I thought of that as I sat there – the grief of fathers, the weight of stories, the way Greece never separates myth from place. Here, the story is the landscape.

And then back to the hotel, a quick shower and down to meet Silvia and Kiyasha for dinner. We went to the same place we were at on Wednesday, as the food was really good, and more importantly, it was frequented by locals which means it had to be authentic. Unfortunately, we had a bit of a tiff about (of all things) communism! 🙄. But back at the hotel I gave Silvia a hug and asked her to be patient with me, as I truly did love her. I think we are ok.

Athens - Day 6 (Part 1)

18 July 2025

Today I have a trip to Corinth, and then to Sounion in the afternoon. I was alone, as Silvia wanted to walk around Athens especially to the Acropolis, and Kiyasha wanted to do more shopping and just walking around.

First stop (again) – the Corinth Canal. There is something strangely humbling about standing on the bridge above the Corinth Canal, between the Aegean and Ionian Seas. It’s not its size, though the vertical walls of limestone drop away so sharply they almost make you dizzy – but its boldness. A manmade wound in the land, dug through centuries of dreaming and delay. Periander imagined it in ancient times, Nero tried to begin it with spade and spectacle, and finally, long after emperors had turned to dust, 19^th century engineers completed the cut. Today, as ships creep slowly through the impossibly narrow passage, you feel the old ambition still pulsing there: to connect worlds, to force nature to yield to purpose.

And then we were on the road again to Corinth. On the way, we passed the ruins of an ancient Christian basilica, which had originally stood as a temple dedicated to Isis, the Egyptian goddess. Nearby, remnants of a medieval wall could still be seen – once part of a fortification built to protect the narrow isthmus of Corinth. The landscape was dotted with pine groves, once considered sacred to Poseidon and prized for shipbuilding, their tall, resin-scented trees swaying gently in the sea breeze.

A short drive away lies Ancient Corinth, scattered in sun and silence across a dry plain beneath the brooding heights of Acrocorinth, one of the largest and oldest fortresses in the Peloponnese. It was one of the greatest powers of ancient Greece, continuously inhabited from Neolithic to Byzantine times and founded important colonies like Kerkyra (Corfu) and Syracuse. Its imposing walls belong almost entirely to the medieval period. The fortress was connected with the history of Leo Sgouros, said to have committed suicide by jumping on horseback from the walls in 1210 in order to avoid surrendering to the Franks, who held the fortress until 1460, when it passed into the control of the Turks.

The Temple of Apollo rises first into view, stark and defiant with its seven Doric columns, their edges worn by time yet still upright, as though refusing to forget the gods. This Temple was never buried, it stood as always, where it is standing now, some 2,600 years old! I walked slowly through the ruins, the air buzzing with cicadas and history, my feet brushing against stone laid by Romans, by Greeks, by slaves and emperors alike. The craft here is Doric, Ionic and Corinthian. There was also what was left of the Temple of Hera (wife of Zeus) and remnants of the Temple of Octavia (sister of Augustus).

The agora, or marketplace, is vast, uneven, and alive with absence. In its day, it would have been deafening – merchants bartering, philosophers disputing, children chasing stray dogs through colonnades. I paused at the Bema, where the apostle Paul once stood to address the Corinthians. The judge was Gallius, who acquitted Paul for allegedly preaching Christianity to the locals. Gallius’ brother was Seneca, the Roman philosopher who was Nero’s tutor. The ruins are just stones now, but somehow they hold the shape of speech, of human urgency and divine doubt.

To my surprise, one of the most unforgettable spots was the public latrine. Smooth benches carved with tidy keyhole-shaped openings still sit in a row over a trench once flushed with water. I smiled, imagining the ancient chatter that must have filled that space – daily gossip, politics, maybe a bit of poetry or scandal, all discussed as friends shared a communal moment of relief. Civilization, after all, is built as much on shared bathrooms as on temples.

At the edge of the site, the path climbs toward the remnants of a stadium and theatre. The stadium is barely visible now, its contours softened by earth and time, but I imagined the pounding of feet, the cheers, the pride of competition. You can still see the stone starting blocks, with shallow footprint-shaped grooves carved into them to mark where runners were to place their feet before a race  an ancient version of the starting line (it used to be that you stood ready to run, not sitting down like nowadays).

Though the track itself is no longer intact, standing there offers a vivid glimpse into the athletic traditions of classical Greece, where speed and skill were celebrated alongside strength and strategy. Here I placed my feet on the marker just the ancient athletes used to do, and asked the guide to take my picture while I pretended that I was starting a race. But the monkey made me lose my poise when right before taking my picture, he commented that “Of course, in those days, athletes ran naked.”

Athens - Day 5 (Part 2)

17 July 2025

Above the temple, carved into the mountain, is the ancient theatre, one of the best-preserved in Greece. It could seat 5,000 and offered music and drama against a jaw-dropping backdrop. Even higher lies the stadium, once host to the Pythian Games, second in importance only to the Olympics.

Kings came here before battle. Cities sent ambassadors. Even Socrates is said to have received a message from the oracle declaring him the wisest of men. She never gave simple answers – her gift was to provoke reflection, often with double meanings.

Example:

“You will go, you will return, never in war will you perish” – depending on how you read the punctuation, it could mean exactly the opposite.

To stand at Delphi is to feel as though the air still hums with possibility. The mountain holds its breath, the stones lean in to listen. It is a place where time folds, and where mystery, rare in our world, still lingers in the wind.

Silvia and I stood near where the Oracle’s chambers would have been all those years ago (underground, we were not) and asked her our futures. We were both greeted with SILENCE. Silvia said the Oracle had gone on vacation. Just my luck.

Before leaving Delphi, we visited the museum, nestled just below the ancient sanctuary of Apollo, which houses some of the most remarkable treasures of classical Greece. Its collection brings to life the sacred site’s long history, from early votive offerings to masterpieces of ancient sculpture. Among its most celebrated pieces is the Charioteer of Delphi, a life-sized bronze statue famed for its serene expression and exquisite detail. There are also fragments of friezes, columns, and inscriptions, as well as offerings from cities across the Greek world, testament to Delphi’s role as a spiritual and cultural centre. With its elegant layout and breathtaking mountain views, the museum offers a powerful sense of connection to the ancient past.

Perhaps the most fascinating thing that I saw here was an ancient piece of music sheet – lines of ancient Greek (I presume) with what looked like chords above, just like how modern guitar sheets look like – you have the lyrics, and the chords above the lines. This is one of the reasons I like music so much – every time I play a classic on the piano, I am fully aware that the same song was played, or created, centuries ago by someone real, someone who had feelings, and thoughts, and dreams, and through his music, those emotions continue to live today. As if the composer is still communication with us today through his music, across plains.

Then finally we sat down to lunch, almost at 3 pm – we were all properly starving! Luckily the food was good this time around – bread with tzatziki, salad, pasta and chicken, and coffee and orange cake with ice-cream. Just nice for a very hot day outside, and with very good friends inside.

Athens - Day 5 (Part 1)

17 July 2025

“Know thyself.” – Inscribed at the Temple of Apollo.

Today we go to Delphi!

I met Silvia at 7 am, and we got ourselves a baguette and coffee from a nearby patisserie, and ate it just outside our hotel. Then we walked to the conference venue where the bus was picking us up. Kiyasha was there too, and I made the introductions. This would be a typical girls trip – how fun!

In ancient times, Delphi was believed to be the navel of the world – the omphalos, the very centre of the earth. According to myth, Zeus released two eagles from opposite ends of the world, and they met here, on the rocky heights of Phocis. It was here that Apollo, god of light, music, and prophecy, slew the great python and claimed the site for his oracle.

For over a thousand years, rulers, generals, and ordinary people made pilgrimages to consult the Oracle of Apollo, whose voice was channelled through a woman known as the Pythia.

Set against the cliffs of Mount Parnassus, the ruins of Apollo’s temple still command reverence. Six weathered Doric columns rise from a platform like the ribs of a sleeping god.

Inside, once, the Pythia sat on a tripod over a cleft in the earth, inhaling sweet, noxious vapours from the depths. In trance, she uttered riddling prophecies that priests interpreted for pilgrims. The guidance she gave – ambiguous, poetic, sometimes maddening – shaped wars, dynasties, and destinies.

The winding path that leads to the temple is called the Sacred Way, and as you walk it, you pass the remains of treasuries, votive statues, and inscribed stones left by grateful cities. Most famous among them is the Athenian Treasury, a jewel-box of Parian marble built to thank Apollo after the Battle of Marathon.

The path is steep, but the views and atmosphere are otherworldly. It is a pilgrimage in stone, winding through centuries.

Athens - Day 4 (Part 3)

16 July 2025

Inside the citadel, the path winds through Cyclopean walls, each stone massive, fitted without mortar. The ancient Greeks believed only giants could have built them – and honestly, I believed it too. Everything felt oversized: the ambition, the strength, the sorrow.

Then I stood before the shaft graves of Grave Circle A, where Schliemann unearthed golden masks and called one of them Agamemnon. Even though modern archaeology doubts that claim, the feeling remains: that you are standing above the dead who once ruled legends. There’s no gold here now; only dust, and ghosts. This reminded me of Percy Shelley’s poem, “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings!”

I walked around the entire complex, and came across underground cisterns used for water all those years ago. I walked the ridge in silence. The wind picked up. In the distance, I could see the whole Argive plain: olive trees, roads, villages, lives being lived.

Below the citadel, I entered the Treasury of Atreus, the so-called Tomb of Agamemnon. The entrance is long, dramatic, like a ceremonial throat leading into the earth. Inside, the great beehive-shaped chamber swallowed me in shadow. No carvings, no words. Just perfect symmetry and silence. A place where someone powerful was buried, and everyone else was meant to remember. A cicada, now coming alive in Greece (after 17 years?) flew out of the tomb, almost like an omen of doom.

I stood there a long time. The coolness of the stone, the hush of the air; it didn’t feel like a tomb. It felt like a heartbeat, paused in time. I didn’t take many photos. Mycenae isn’t a place to capture. It’s a place to feel. And to leave, a little changed.

Then back to the hotel, and to await my dear friend Silvia who will be arriving from Slovakia today!

We met with much fanfare and warmth. I really missed her – my really good friend from across the globe, where we don’t always meet, don’t always talk and exchange weeks or months of woe that is life, but when we do meet, it’s like picking up where we left off. We walked nowhere, in search of authentic local food, and finally we found it – quite a hidden place in a corridor of the busy streets of central Athens, in Omonoia Square, a stone’s throw away from our hotel. A true gem, frequented by locals, with reasonable prices.

Here we had Greek salad, tzatziki, fried squid and fried spry. It was too much, we couldn’t finish. But we had a good chat, full of warmth, familiarity, friendship and love. She said she would join me tomorrow for my expedition to the Oracle of Delphi, and I was simply elated. To have a friend on the trip – a true blessing!