Before you see the mountains, before you taste the wine, before you even put down your suitcase, you will hear them. The tzitziki—the cicadas of Crete—start their chorus at sunrise and refuse to stop until the stars come out. Loud, relentless, and unapologetic, they are the unofficial anthem of a Cretan summer.
Tourists often describe them as “atmospheric,” at least for the first twenty-four hours. After a week, they are less poetic. Earplugs suddenly feel like a wise investment. Locals, of course, smile at visitors’ complaints. “They’re just singing,” they say, as if the noise is as natural as the sea breeze.
The tzitziki is not new to Crete. Aristophanes joked about them. Ancient poets praised their music. Even now, children catch them in cupped hands, fascinated by the strange buzzing body that creates such volume. The male cicada vibrates its abdomen like a drum, announcing its availability to the world. The result is a wall of sound that can make a quiet olive grove feel like a rock concert.
Every summer, the same ritual unfolds. The soil warms, the insects emerge, and by June, the air begins to pulse. They are not polite about it. Unlike birds, which sing and pause, cicadas keep going until the heat finally drops. Silence is not their strong suit.
A Test of Patience
For tourists seeking tranquility, tzitziki can be a rude awakening. Imagine arriving at a mountain village expecting peace, only to find the air vibrating at a volume that competes with scooters on the main street. Some guests complain to hoteliers, asking if “something can be done.” The answer, invariably, is no. Cicadas cannot be switched off like air conditioning.
Locals have developed immunity. Ask a Cretan, and he might shrug: “I don’t even hear them anymore.” This is not entirely true. He does hear them, but his brain has learned the trick of ignoring the sound—much like ignoring goats bleating, neighbors shouting, or the clatter of dishes in a kafeneio.
Strangely, the very noise that drives visitors mad is also part of Crete’s allure. Travel writers wax lyrical about the “chorus of cicadas” as if it were a gift. Postcards feature lazy summer scenes with captions about “singing tzitziki.” The contradiction is striking: what tourists complain about privately is marketed publicly as charm.
Somewhere between nuisance and nostalgia, the cicada has become branding. A glass of raki on a shaded terrace without the background drone would feel incomplete. Silence, on Crete, would be suspicious.
Survivors of the Heat
There is also a kind of respect for their stamina. Cicadas thrive where the sun is most punishing. Their song peaks at midday, exactly when humans retreat indoors. It is as if they remind us: this is their island too, and they handle heat better than we ever will.
Scientists explain that the sound is not random but a survival strategy—males sing to attract mates, louder and longer than rivals. To human ears, it feels like overkill. But in the logic of nature, the noisiest bug wins.
For Cretans abroad, tzitziki are one of the most missed details of summer. People who once cursed the noise find themselves longing for it years later. It becomes memory made audible: afternoons spent under grape arbors, long naps behind shuttered windows, conversations slowed by heat. The cicada chorus is not just sound; it is time travel.
Tourists, too, carry the memory home. In September, the noise fades. Winter arrives. And suddenly, the unbearable drone is remembered with fondness, wrapped into the myth of “that summer in Crete.”
So why call tzitziki part of Crete’s heritage? Because they shape the sensory identity of the island as much as olives, wine, or stone villages. They are not museum pieces but a living soundtrack, linking generations and seasons. Their persistence embodies the island’s own stubbornness—Crete does not whisper; it announces itself loudly.
A Summer Without Them?
It is almost impossible to imagine. Without cicadas, Crete would lose part of its rhythm. The island would still have beaches and ruins, but it would feel strangely muted, like a play missing its background music. Tourists would complain about the silence, and locals would find it eerie. In a place where even goats seem to make commentary, quiet is suspicious.
Love them or loathe them, tzitziki are unavoidable. They test patience, disrupt naps, and force everyone to accept that paradise is rarely quiet. Yet they also remind us of what summer truly is: hot, overwhelming, alive with sound. The cicada sings because the world is burning with heat, and in that song, Crete is revealed exactly as it is—loud, proud, and impossible to ignore.
