Christmas Day in Heraklion begins, as many things here do, with a small logistical realization that immediately sets the tone: almost no buses are running. Apart from the airport–PAGNI Hospital route, public transport has decided that Christmas is not the day for effort. Which meant that Phil drove me into town, dropped me off, and promised to come back later — a quiet agreement that already placed the day somewhere between intention and improvisation.
The city itself was operating in fragments. Bakeries were open and busy, doing exactly what they always do, only more so. Flower shops were open too, because grief and affection do not take holidays. Cafés were open because caffeine never negotiates.
The kebab taverna was closed, and food delivery did not exist at all — which felt mildly ironic on the one day when people traditionally eat meat in abundance, as if Heraklion were gently reminding everyone that Christmas, here, still expects participation.
I passed through Plateia Eleftherias first. This square used to host one of the city’s most beautiful Christmas markets, full of light, noise, and people lingering for no particular reason. Now there was nothing there. The cafés around it were open, but the square itself felt strangely hollow. It had been renovated recently: new benches, the statue of the Unknown Soldier moved to a different position, and new lighting installed. The lights are solar and look both boring and slightly cheap, placed under eucalyptus trees where sunlight may or may not reach them. It depends on the day, the angle, and possibly luck. The whole arrangement felt like an improvement on paper rather than in practice.
So I kept walking, assuming that Christmas had not vanished, only relocated.
I noticed a provisional stage set up—clearly intended for concerts, theatre, or other festive programming, though not necessarily happening at that moment. There was also a nativity scene. I took photos. Christmas, it seemed, was present, but scattered, like a conversation happening across several streets instead of one square.
The Christmas stalls eventually appeared on Dikeosinis Street, not on the 25th of August Street but parallel to it, which answered the earlier question of where the market had gone. This, apparently, was it now.
Most of the stalls sold jewelry, small handmade items, and Christmas decorations — slightly late, since by Christmas Day most people have already decorated or given up entirely. One stall sold chestnuts, Christmassy lollipops, and corn. Corn, in December. I did not ask where it came from. Another stall sold toys alongside religious icons, the sacred and the commercial sharing a table without tension or commentary.
Nearby, four Special Forces police officers were stationed beside the market. They were armed, calm, and mostly observant — not performative, not intrusive. At one point, one of them stepped out of formation to interact briefly with a passing family. It was not an official exchange. No directions were being given. They clearly knew each other. A quick greeting, a few words, a shared familiarity, and then he returned to his place. It was a small moment, but it mattered — a reminder that uniforms do not erase local life.
I regretted not having cash with me to buy them coffee. I had left the house in a hurry, and that minor omission stayed with me longer than it should have.
A little further on, I noticed two tiny dogs wearing Christmas outfits. I asked the owner if I could take a photo. She was delighted. One of the dogs was visibly afraid of me, which I later realized was because I smelled like my dog, Mojito. Dog logic is precise and unforgiving.
The bougatsa places offered their own quiet commentary. One was completely full — no empty tables, people waiting, no hesitation. Krikor, the famous one, founded in 1922, had empty tables. It was odd and telling. History does not always win on Christmas Day. Proximity, habit, or timing often do.
On the 25th of August Street, I noticed newly installed benches where you can charge your phone and connect to public Wi-Fi. People were actually using them. I wondered why similar benches had not been installed on nearby streets that had also been recently renovated. Heraklion, it seems, modernizes selectively, like a city that prefers gestures to consistency.
There were not many people on the streets overall. Most Cretans had clearly chosen to stay home. Still, on Dikeosinis Street, a singer was performing—one voice, carrying in an otherwise modest space. I recorded a video.
When I was done, Phil was waiting for me in the parking lot across from the Archaeological Museum of Heraklion, which was closed for Christmas, as expected. We went straight home.
Later, Phil went out to buy bread from Kritikos Fournos and came back with a panettone. That was Christmas Day. Quiet, uneven, full of minor contradictions — and very much Heraklion.
