Every November in Crete, something theatrical happens: the first breeze below 25°C and the locals reach for the down jackets. Nordic puffer jackets appear overnight — thick enough to survive a Finnish blizzard, now marching proudly through Heraklion streets.
For me, a Romanian who thinks 20 degrees is summer weather, it is hilarious. Phil and Paul, who are both American, share the same sentiment. We go out in light windbreakers, already sweating, surrounded by Cretans zipped up to the nose, moving as if they are crossing Siberia.
It is not cold — it is cultural.
The Great Umbrella Mystery
Meanwhile, the umbrellas are missing—every single one. I swear I have bought at least five. They are never where I left them. It rains, of course, and we start the scavenger hunt: under the bed, behind the door, in the car, gone.
Crete seems to eat umbrellas. They vanish like legends — maybe the gods borrow them. When the downpour comes, we end up improvising: newspapers, scarves, sheer denial.
And yet, in the middle of the chaos, one family member never worries.
A Comedy of Layers
By late November, cafés are filled with people who look like they are waiting for snow. Coats puffed, scarves double-wrapped, heaters humming. Then someone opens the door, and a blast of 22-degree “cold” air rushes in — cue collective shivering.
I sip my coffee in short sleeves, pretending to understand the performance. Maybe it is not about temperature at all. Perhaps it is about the joy of pretending, for just a few months, that we live somewhere dramatic — where storms rage, coats matter, and everyone has an excuse for second helpings of moussaka.
And when the sun inevitably breaks through, the same Cretans unzip everything, declare “Εντάξει τώρα, καλοκαίρι πάλι” (“Alright, summer again”), and hang their goose feathers back in the closet.
Until next week’s “cold front.”
