Greeks are Bad at Remembering Faces

                                    

                                          
Harry wished he were having peaceful, calm and soothing sleep. He  could have said that his senses had been switched off, so he couldn't  feel a thing, the best way to slumber. He could have said that his life  was not at all complicated and that his dreamless, wakeless bouts of  unconsciousness were pleasant ways to rest.
But then, had he said those things, Harry would be lying through his teeth.
He'd  been experiencing a weird dream: a woman with flowing white Greek-style  robes whispered to him in a comforting voice. Her voice was melodic and  caused him to drift further, and he could feel her hand stroke his  soft, messy hair. It was enjoyable, but he didn't remember a word she  was saying. The oddest part was that it felt real – as if he was lying  on a cloud in the middle of the sky.
Then he woke up with a start. Rain lashed relentlessly outside, pouring down the modern windows of the cabin.
Hang on, cabin?  Harry sat up, rubbing his eyes and making sure he wasn't still  dreaming. As his eyes focused, he found himself in a stone grey shack  with large windows that overlooked the sea. The walls, which glowed  eerily like a sea cavern, were lined with seashells and coral, and the  ceiling sparkled with bronze seahorse creatures. A thick perfume of  salty sea air curled into his nose, and swirling patterns of turquoise  coalesced onto the walls from the fountain.
Harry didn't remember a thing. Where he was, who he was... well, he remembered his name, but nothing more.
A  grunt from above stole Harry's attention, and he flicked his head  upwards – someone else slept in the bed above. His snores were like  rumbles of the earth.
Harry gulped. It was still dark out, so he  knew it couldn't have been earlier than two in the morning. How did he  get here? And where was here? No way would he have forgotten falling  asleep in a sea palace.
Maybe he was just dreaming. Harry let  himself fall back on his pillow again, turning to his side and closing  his eyes. Yes, this was all just a very, very bizarre dream. He closed  his eyes and tucked his hands underneath his pillow. Something cold and  sleek stroked his hand, and his eyes shot open. Pulling it free, it  turned out to be a pen. Why on earth was there a  pen underneath his pillow? He placed it on the floor beside the  bed, and out of habit reached to grab his glasses, but his arm ended up  flailing uselessly over the side. There was no side table. His glasses weren't there.
He  bit his lip, his mild confusion turning into alarm. Without his glasses, he couldn't see. He squinted, raking his eyes over the cabin, but they weren't  there.
Dazed, Harry decided to figure more out about his  surroundings, and slid out of bed. A small wardrobe to the side was  filled with rows upon rows of orange t-shirts. Harry threw one on,  hoping whoever owned them wouldn't mind, and quietly snuck outside. The rain had lightened, becoming a faint  pitter-patter against the ground, and the breeze was chilly but stale.  His bare feet bristled at the touch of the wet grass and grains of sand,  but he pressed on, inhaling the smell of his new environment.
He came into the  base of a U-shape formation of differently decorated cabins, totalling  twelve in all. By the ocean past a copse of trees, it appeared he was by  the sea. However he got here.
A hand suddenly slapped him on the back.
"Out of bed, Jackson? Should'a known."
Harry yelped and whirled around – the man was blurry, but Harry could decipher his short stature and baseball cap.
"Don't  worry. I won't tell the nymphs," the man said with an American accent.  "Unless you're going to see your girlfriend – in which case, you better  get your sorry butt back to bed before I make you."