A Subjective List of Infuriating Things

Time for my private Cretan list – a list of things difficult, ridiculous, irritating, and painfully true. All seen from the noble perspective of a two-week tourist, so please, don’t take this too seriously. I’m not competing with the veterans who’ve gnawed their teeth on this island for decades. I wouldn’t dare aim that high.

The text concerns Crete by necessity, but honestly, it could apply to half the Greek islands and a good chunk of mainland Greece. Some things are very Cretan, others are just generically Greek. Let’s not split hairs. This is not a scholarly analysis. This is me, slightly annoyed, slightly amused.

“Technical” matters

Let’s begin with what truly matters: toilets.
And yes, this is absolutely a core component of both conscious and unconscious tourism. A perfect beach loses a lot of its charm when your internal mole starts knocking urgently on its tiny door and there’s not a single WC within a five-kilometre radius. And even if you find one and manage to reach it before ruining another pair of underwear, your problems, dear tourist, are only beginning.

First, the toilet paper. Thin. So thin you can see your own fingers through it. In comparison to our socialist homeland, where toilet paper could double as insulation for winter barns or a bulletproof vest, this is tragicomic.

But before you reach for the throne – usually missing both seat and lid – you must close the door. And here comes Rule Number One: roughly 80% of Cretan toilets do not have locks. No latch. No hook. Nothing. You brace the door with your foot while sitting. If standing, you pray that no other desperate tourist slams the handle into your spine. One hole already brought you here; a second, higher one won’t help anything.

Then the logistics of sitting. If there’s no seat, you must endure the cold porcelain with a stoicism worthy of a Spartan. If there is a seat, it will not be screwed in. Greeks do not attach toilet seats. Why would they? A backside has no eyes and no architectural aesthetic.

Of course, the “ski jumper” position is an option, but if you try it, you will inevitably end up lying like the Venezuelan economy and doing your business involuntarily.

And the grand finale: the famous toilet paper that must go into the bin. I know people who thought this was a practical joke. Sometimes instructions are in English. Sometimes in Greek only. If your linguistic skills are stuck somewhere between “kalimera” and “malaka”, you may miss the memo and cause a small ecological disaster. Nothing catastrophic, don’t worry. Santorini won’t sink, the volcano won’t erupt, and no angry Cretan will show up with a stick. Worst case: the pipes clog, the septic tank overflows — after you’ve left. So… fine.

Now just wash your hands — if you can get out. A doorknob entirely detached from the door is not a rare Cretan phenomenon. If the door opens outward, you’re free. You can rinse your hands in freezing water and call it a day.

Part two: roads, non-roads, and the meanders of the Cretan Highway Code

In theory, Crete—like any civilized European region—has a road code. In practice, it also has its own parallel code, which can be summarised as:

“Maybe messy, but forward.”

Driving in a Cretan city for the first time can be a shock. Patience and restraint are crucial, because the “k”, “p” and “ch” words fly out automatically. Blocking intersections? Normal. Three cars in two lanes, fourth trying to force its way in? Standard. Scooters appear from the left, right, and against traffic.

Don’t trust the famous “siga-siga” on Cretan roads. If you miss the green light by 0.1 seconds, twelve drivers will honk, and “malaka” will fly as low as swallows before rain. Paradoxically, that furious driver who honks at your blasphemous delay will overtake you, only to stop 200 meters later in the middle of the road to talk to his cousin for ten minutes.

Then there’s the BOAK – the northern highway. Wide, fast, and dangerous. Your first thought: why is everyone driving on the shoulder? Well, because the actual lane is the dangerous one. Don’t be fooled by double solid lines – Cretans are born with a visual impairment that prevents them from seeing parallel lines. Overtaking on a curve, at night, uphill? Absolutely. That wide shoulder? It’s there so you can dodge the oncoming daredevils.

Village roads are another adventure. Sometimes asphalt suddenly becomes gravel. Sometimes you drive behind a truck shedding watermelons, forcing you into a surreal obstacle course. Entering certain villages involves squeezing through a street as narrow as a snake’s esophagus. I’ve left enough paint on Cretan walls to prove it. Right-of-way rules? Forget them. Priority goes to whoever is bigger or faster. Keep your eyes open.

Part three: tavernas and food

The first cultural shock: how people occupy tavernas. We come, eat, leave. A Cretan arrives and effectively moves in for half a day. A taverna is a temporary residence. They sit, think, shuffle komboloi beads, chew, talk, and stare at the sea. For hours.

Portions? Gargantuan. Olympian. Designed for a small Somali village for a week. This is a culture of sharing and lingering. We order individual portions; they order many dishes and share them endlessly.

I vividly remember my first Greek salad. The bowl was the size of a baby bathtub. A hundred years ago, a whole family might have used it for washing, then cattle would drink from it. Half the portion already approaches a lethal dose.

Then there’s the question of service. Always kind, always warm, but culturally distant. After you eat like Aunt Krysia at a wedding, the waiter disappears. Plates pile up. You reorganize them into three different architectural compositions. Still no waiter. That’s normal. You must signal that the ritual is complete. No one will come and ask, “Is everything okay?” He knows it is. You call him when you’re done. A bit of Cretan hand-gesture slang helps. Using it elevates you instantly from tourist to “my friend.”

And that concludes my three Cretan horsemen of the apocalypse.

One final note: Crete is astonishing. All of this is exaggerated with affection and humor. Relax. The island is a wonder — even when the toilet seat tries to kill you.