I was sitting on the lovely and lively Lions Square in Heraklion, the capital of Crete, with my new local friend Elpida. She had found us a prime seat at a pastry café (cleverly called PhylloSophies — a rare pun that works in two languages) and ordered us a bougatsa. This beloved pastry, with filling delicately sandwiched between paper-thin, crispy sheets of phyllo dough, comes in two types: sweet (with semolina cream) and tangy (with local mizithra cheese). Both come generously dusted with cinnamon and sugar.
Thoroughly enjoying this fine view, snack, and wonderful company, I found myself liking Heraklion for the first time.
I was here very briefly about 15 years ago (on a cruise, I’m sheepish to admit) and found the city center congested, chaotic, conventionally quite “ugly” — as unappealing as its archaeological museum is spectacular.
On my current visit, I had already been in Heraklion for 36 hours; in fact, this was my final evening before a morning flight to Athens. I arrived in the city with a chip on my shoulder, and Heraklion did little to dislodge it. While I was again wowed by the museum, and I’d discovered a wonderful spot for dinner, in most other regards I found the six-story city modern, a bit gritty, and far from romantic. (It didn’t help that I had just come from a few days in gorgeous Chania and charming Rethymno, both much smaller Cretan coastal towns with intact historic quarters evoking the Venetian gentility of this island’s complicated past.)
Elpida, with her disarming directness, leveled me with her gaze: “Heraklion does have its problems. Believe me, I know it has its problems. I see them too. But this city also has a fascinating history and some wonderful places and people. Let me show you.”
I was taken aback. I had, of course, been extremely careful not to say anything unkind about her shambolic home city that I’d been exploring for the last day and a half. But I didn’t have to say a word. Elpida is smart. She knows what visitors think when they come here: “Ugh. When’s the next boat/bus/flight out?”
In our age of effortless jetsetting, it’s easy to forget what a privilege it is to visit a place — any place. And the more you travel, the more you run the risk of growing jaded, cynical, picky, even offhandedly cruel when it comes to a destination that doesn’t pass your personal sniff test.
But Elpida’s protectiveness of Heraklion made me realize that even in the most seemingly “unpleasant” place is also a place that many people call home and have plenty of reasons to love, imperfect though it may be.
And it reminded me of a moment from earlier on this same trip, when I was comparing notes about favorite beyond-the-mainstream travels with an American expat friend of mine in Berlin. We began to one-up each other with more and more seemingly miserable places we’d each fallen for. (“If you thought Baku was a pit, you should see Prishtinë! But wait — have you been to Belgrade?”) At one point, he said to me, laughing, “What can I say? I really like sh*tholes!”
That shocking word, so easy to toss around, in this case came with great affection. Extremely seasoned travelers learn that the cities whose obscurity, quirks, and ruggedness keep away the hordes of casual tourists are, in their own way, deeply rewarding. In fact, those very features, when viewed from a different vantage point, become some of its best assets — especially with some help from a local. I thought of some other initially “unlovable” cities that I came to see through new eyes:
On my early visits to the Slovak capital, Bratislava, in the early 2000s, I struggled to find much to like about the place. But Martin Sloboda had a vision for the city’s place in the past, present, and future of Central Europe — and over years of persistent visits, I’ve gained an affinity for the place. (In this case, it helps that the city itself has improved dramatically.)
Bucharest used to leave me cold. But walking through the giant, hulking Romanian capital with guide Ana Adamoae made it personal and human.
Montenegro is famed for its dramatic mountains and glittering coastline; it took until my tenth or twelfth visit to finally get to its often-derided capital, Podgorica. My local guide Rajan acknowledged that his hometown has a reputation as Europe’s ugliest capital. But then he achieved the impossible: With a short and insightful walk through town, he provided me with the context I needed to understand the city’s story on its own terms. By the end of the walk, Rajan and I were conspiring about how to get more travelers to give Podgorica a chance.
That said, I’ll admit that I’ve often been guilty of thoughtlessly dismissing unlovable places. Just like it’s fun to read a movie critic really tear into a film that they hated, hated, hated, there’s also a special schadenfreude as a travel writer in teeing off about that place that drove you nuts. But the more I mature as a traveler, the more I realize that a place isn’t just a punchline — it’s someone’s home.
And sometimes I get a taste of my own medicine: Earlier on this trip, I was chatting with a fellow American (another Berliner expat) who offhandedly insulted Ohio as a stand-in for bland, generic Middle America. (In fact, in Gen Z slang, “Ohio” means “weird and cringeworthy.”) While I didn’t take this personally, I did get a smidge defensive… because I’m very proud that I grew up in Ohio. The Buckeye State isn’t perfect. (What place is?) But there’s a lot to love about it, including a large percentage of the best human beings I’ve ever known.
Every place deserves a chance. You don’t have to personally like everywhere you go. Every traveler has their “favorites” and “least favorites,” and that’s OK. But you should try to respect anyplace. Even unlovable cities like Heraklion.
Still… Elpida had her work cut out for her.
§ § §
Appreciating an “unlovable” city starts with understanding what makes it that way to begin with. Elpida explained that Heraklion has been utterly leveled at least three times in its long history — each time wiping out a dynamic city: First, when the Ottomans laid siege to Venetian-held Crete, Heraklion was the final, lone holdout; after 21 bruising years, the Venetians finally gave up, took their archives and relics, and scrammed back up the Adriatic in 1669. Then, after the Ottomans had rebuilt the city, a devastating 1856 earthquake flattened it all again. (“Locals say only 18 buildings remained standing,” Elpida said, and in fact, two other locals had already told me this exact figure.) And finally, Heraklion again played hero in 1941 as it fended off a massive Nazi paratrooper attack in the Battle of Crete, which again obliterated the city.
If modern Heraklion seems a bit “meh,” this triple-whammy — Ottomans, quake, Nazis — explains why. History punishes heroics, and fluke natural disasters cut many great civilizations short. On my first visit to Warsaw (another unlovable city), my Polish friend said to me — apologetically — “Warsaw is ugly because its history is so beautiful.” This sentiment could easily apply to Heraklion, too.
After we polished off our bougatsa, Elpida led me on a walk past the city’s scant few great monuments. Every single one dates from that 465 years of Venetian rule, though all of them have been shaped by the many twists and turns of history from then until now. For example, St. Mark’s Basilica was turned into a mosque (you can still see the stubby base of its minaret), and now it’s the municipal art gallery.
The finest building in town, by a wide margin, is a pristine reconstruction of the (destroyed) Venetian assembly building — re-created using archives from Venice itself — now the city hall.
And just down the main drag, we came upon a very strange-shaped Orthodox Church, St. Titus, which looks like a box with a very shallow silver dome. “Of course,” Elpida said, “you can see this was not built as a church; it has a classic mosque structure. It was destroyed in that terrible earthquake, and the pasha ordered it rebuilt from scratch.” Stepping into the incense-heavy interior, with its wood-carved iconostasis and chandelier, its present church-ness offers no hint at its previous mosque-ness.
Back out on the street, we saw the Gulf of Heraklion glittering at the end of the wide pedestrian street. While the port here is called the “Venetian Harbor,” that’s misleading; other than the faint brick outlines of a few arsenale buildings and a boxy fortress on the breakwater, Heraklion’s harbor feels entirely modern.
Today the main drag itself is a mishmash of fine old Neoclassical facades and some questionable modern architecture. Still, the overall impression is that it is (or, perhaps, was) the finest street in town.
This idea brough a twinkle to Elpida’s eye: “Ah, but you know what they used to call this? Planis — the Road of Illusion. It was designed to impress visitors arriving at the old port, on their way up to Lions Square. But it was all a sham, because the streets all around are a confusing maze.” Here in Heraklion, even locals — with a world-weary but realistic cynicism — understand that beauty is an illusion… a Potemkin village of lovability.
§ § §
Of course, a city is more than its architecture, and next Elpida took me on “the main event”: a delightful scavenger hunt through the market zone just above Lions Square. She was eager to introduce me to the people who make Heraklion lovable, where architecture and urban planning fail. And she wanted to illustrate how, even in the very heart of this metropolis of a quarter-million people, Crete’s distinctive culture finds vivid and authentic expression — rooted directly in the high-altitude villages of the remote mountain interior.
Walking to an olive-oil shop, she explained: “This island has more than 30 million olive trees, many of them centuries old. Virtually every family owns a small grove here and there. From November through about January, we harvest our olives and take them to a communal press. We get enough for our family’s own use for the year, but if there’s a surplus, we can sell it back to the cooperative to bottle and sell internationally.”
Inside the shop, we’re warmly greeted by Renata, who begins a well-practiced monologue extolling the many virtues of Cretan olive oil — which, thanks to its high levels of polyphenols and other healthy stuff, many Cretans take as a supplement, like cod liver oil or a vitamin supplement. Renata explained that the different types and categories of oils came from the same koroneiki olives; ;the difference was how early or late they’re harvested.
“You have heard of the Blue Zone,” Renata said hopefully, more as a statement than a question.
“Ummm, I don’t think so.” Renata was momentarily speechless, and she and Elpida shot each other a look as if I just said I’d never heard of the Beatles.
“It’s a band of societies around the world where people live a very long time because of healthy diet,” Renata began, and I realized I had heard of this concept… just not the term. It was a reminder that things that are simply common sense in one place can be a piece of remote trivia in another. Of course, Renata is proud of Crete’s status as part of the Blue Zone, where people live well into their 80s, 90s, even 100s.
Elpida and I continued along the market to a sweet shop called Pediaditakis. From the tiny entrance, a giant Willy Wonka world opened up, with bin after bin of candies and other sweets available in bulk. Elpida quickly began to explain the significance of each candy — for example, the white sugar-covered almonds called koufeta, handed out at weddings, baptisms, and other celebrations.
We paused at a large display of candied fruits in syrup. “Ah, these are spoon sweets. Very important. You know, we Greeks have a culture of hospitality. When someone comes for a visit, you must greet them with a treat. We pick fruit in the fall and preserve it in sugar. That way, we always have something special for an unexpected guest.” She winked: “It goes very well with raki.” Sure enough, a few days later at the opposite end of Greece, I paid a visit to a farm… and was greeted with a simple spoonful of candied quince on a tray.
Passing a fragrant coffee roaster, Elpida explained: “You never serve coffee at a wedding.”
“Why not?”
“Because coffee is only for funerals. Same with fish. Only for funerals, not weddings.”
Probing the “why” of it all, I quickly understood the answer. As so with many traditions: Just… because.
Next, we stopped a shop selling miniature deep-fried savory pies filled with Cretan greens and cheeses. She explained, “I remember my Grandma, on the farm, would prepare these and stick them in the pockets of her petticoat so she’d always have a snack while away from home. And these traditions, they continue until today: I often pack some of these very pies for my daughters when they go to school.”
Then Elpida explained the importance of herbs in Cretan cooking and culture. In this mountainous land, with its many microclimates and unique pockets of terrain, locals have mastered the use of each and every plant that springs from the earth.
To prove her point, we stopped by Vasiliki’s herb shop (votanopoleio). He greeted us with a big smile and a pot of herbal tea, offering us a sample. Vasiliki showed us a black-and-white photograph of his grandmother, who taught him everything he knows and still forages herbs for his shop.
But Vasiliki has harnessed this centuries-old practice with modern entrepreneurship, stocking packets of teas, infusions, and tinctures that are neatly labeled in English with what they’re good for, from diabetes to constipation to insomnia. One herb was called malotira— literally “evil goes out.” Another, dictamus, is even sought out by animals with an upset tummy. Another was a mix of forty different healthy herbs.
“Ah, forty is a very symbolic number,” Eplida explained. “Lent has forty days. Forty days after a baby is born, it’s considered ready for interacting with people outside the immediate family. And a memorial service takes place forty days after someone’s death.”
Next up: Maria’s honey shop. Like olive oil, honey is a Greek staple dating back to the ancients. And like olive oil, it comes in countless varieties. Beekeepers take their hives to different vegetation in order to infuse their honey with completely different flavor profiles. I sampled thyme (the classic for all-around-delicious honey), orange blossom, and even the bark of fir trees, each with its own distinct texture and flavor.
The evening went on like this. Each shop and each vendor, no matter how mundane, came with deep insights into Greek and Cretan culture. Jewelers abound, because jewelry is such a popular gift for special occasions — especially between new in-laws at a wedding. Produce stands featured wads of local greens called stamnagathi, an ever-present side dish on Cretan menus. Cretan knives are renowned; many have blades inscribed with a unique form of four-verse, fifteen-syllable poem (called mantinada, sort of the Cretan answer to a haiku) exploring themes of love, loss, and honor.
One thing Elpida never had to explain was the subtext of her tour: Yes, by outward appearances Heraklion is a rough place. But it’s populated by wonderful people — many of whom grew up all over the island, and for various reasons wound up here in this congested urban maze. And each one brings their own threads to the tapestry of Crete.
And another thing happened: The sun had begun to set, the sky was light and soft, and the people of Heraklion were all out enjoying their city… and enjoying it they were! Like Elpida, they know this place isn’t a conventional beauty. But its true majesty is that it’s a fine space, shaped by a hard history, that they all share together.
Circling back to Lions Square to say our goodbyes, we came across a street performer enacting an elaborate puppet show with Cretan folk songs. Everyone present — from toddlers to those Blue Zone octogenarians and nonagenarians — laughed and clapped and cheered and sang along.
I came away from this magical experience feeling something surprising about Heraklion: Suddenly, I was smitten with one of Greece’s most unlovable cities.
§ § §
At the evening’s end, Elpida asked me point-blank for my honest impressions of Heraklion, now that I knew it a little better. And, honestly, I was impressed. But I knew that was largely because I had her help. And it’s a fine needle to thread for a travel writer: Part of my job is sifting through options and giving candid, honest guidance about the relative worthiness of a place.
I told her what I’d advise a Crete-bound traveler: Frankly, if you’re limited on time, you’re better off focusing your trip on Chania or Rethymno, where you’ll find a lot more of the Old World charm and conventional beauty for your money than in Heraklion. This city is a great, brief stopoff — for its museum, nearby Knossos Palace, and yes, for an eye-opening walk through the city center — but not necessarily a place to linger.
That said, thanks to Elpida, Heraklion had jumped up several notches in both my personal estimation and my professional opinion. Travelers often say that they want an “authentic” look at local life. But then they choose to go somewhere that’s heavily skewed toward pleasing tourists. If you really want a look at “the real Crete,” and if you enjoy gritty and fascinating cities as I do, Heraklion deserves a chance. (And you should definitely hire Elpida for a personal tour: +30 69727 20645, elpida.syngelaki@gmail.com.)
In the end, Elpida reminded me of one of the first rules of a seasoned traveler: The more you know about a place — any place — the more you like it. I used to dismiss places I didn’t like without guilt. But these days, while I still try to give clear-eyed advice for those juggling their limited time, it has become harder to simply say: “Skip it.” While there’s a reality that people have limited time and money, the more I travel, the more I realize that no place is truly “skippable” (a favorite word for our guidebooks)… if you have the benefit of a local friend like Elpida to show you around.
Whether it’s Heraklion, Podgorica, or Ohio, every place has a proud local culture, its share of wonderful people, and a story of what makes it special. As a traveler, you don’t have to like the results of that story. But shouldn’t you respect it — and try to understand it?
I was traveling in Crete to research an all-new chapter on the island for the upcoming ninth edition of our Rick Steves Greece guidebook (coming in 2027). In the meantime, the current edition covers the rest of Greece with this same level of TLC and hard opinions.
I’m heading out for my next trip soon, with stops in Austria, Italy, and Slovenia. If you’d like to follow along for more updates and insights like these, join me on Facebook and Instagram.
For more thoughtful takes on European travel, check out my memoir, The Temporary European: Lessons and Confessions from a Professional Traveler.