"I want you to be mine. I can't bear to share you anymore. I would rather not have you at all if you don't belong only to me." The tone was apologetic, the phrase simple and oft-repeated. But no one had dared to say it to him until that moment. But she said it. She. The girl with the snail."

She arrived at the Hellinikon Airport from London on March 26, 1969. She arrived holding a small, injured snail in her palm. And from there, always with the small snail protected in her closed hand, she went to Matala. There, where she had been promised the paradise of nature. And of the hippies. In Matala, the paradise of freedom. And of Joni Mitchell. And of Harry. Especially of Harry. She stayed until May 1969, waiting, along with the flower children from all over the world, for the summer of love. But it never came... Because that May, what happened, happened.

A novel about a girl who believed that the greatest freedom of the heart is to be able to belong, and about a boy who could not fall in love. On the most carefree beach in the world, the famous Matala. Under the unique sun of Crete, with the African wind blowing in the Libyan Sea, driving away the stories of the then proper society.