In Nea Alikarnassos, you can set your watch by the motorbikes. Around midnight, they warm up; by 2:00 a.m., they are in full concert. The noise rolls through the narrow streets — engines revving, horns answering, laughter echoing against apartment walls.
Tourists hear it once and think it is a celebration. Locals know it is simply another night in the city that refuses to whisper.
A cultural machine
Crete’s relationship with the motorbike is old and emotional. It is freedom on two wheels — fast enough for the wind to touch your face, small enough to park on a sidewalk without guilt. In villages, it is the easiest way to deliver bread, fish, or gossip. In towns, it is how young people announce their presence.
Most riders are harmless show-offs. They polish their bikes, talk about exhaust systems the way other people talk about coffee, and wave to everyone they pass. But the few who treat night like a racetrack give the rest a bad name.
City versus sleep
The municipality promises occasional police patrols and stricter controls. Residents smile politely. They have heard it before. Until the laws of physics change, a motorbike will always sound louder at 4 a.m. than it does at 4 p.m.
Still, Heraklion without its motorbikes would feel strangely quiet — and a little less alive. The trick is not to silence them completely, but to teach them the art of the lullaby.
