Raki, Bougatsa, and the art of being present: my morning in Chania

If you’d told me a few months ago that the most profound lesson of my year would come to me over a sticky square of bougatsa and a glass of raki before noon, I’d have laughed. But life has its surprises—and Crete, even more.

I landed in Chania thinking I’d seen Greece before. I’d done the islands, the sunsets, the ruins. But I hadn’t tasted it. Not really. Not the way the locals live it. This time, I was looking for something more than scenery. I wanted to understand what makes Greek life so rich, beyond the postcards. So, I signed up for the Delicious Chania Street Food Tour, hoping for a few bites and maybe some local color. I got both—and something deeper.

It started in Splantzia Square, a shaded little plaza that feels like it belongs to another century. Cafés spilling out onto cobblestones, old men playing backgammon, the smell of roasted coffee beans hanging thick in the morning air. We were a small group, led by a local guide named Manolis, who spoke with the kind of warm confidence that instantly made you feel less like a tourist and more like a guest. We ordered Greek coffee—strong, dark, unfiltered. Manolis insisted we let it settle before drinking, and as we waited, he shared the story of the square. This was once the heart of Chania’s Ottoman quarter. You could see the layers of history in the architecture—Byzantine, Venetian, Turkish—all still standing, none erased.

Then came the bougatsa. A delicate parcel of crispy phyllo filled with custard, sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon. The kind of thing that dissolves in your mouth and lingers in your memory. “This,” Manolis said with a grin, “is how you start the day in Chania—sweet, slow, and satisfied.”

From there, we wound our way through the old town, past pastel-colored Venetian buildings, narrow alleys bursting with flowers, and a harbor that seemed to cradle time itself. The lighthouse stood tall at the end of the breakwater like a watchful old friend. We stopped at the Hassan Pascha Mosque—now an exhibition hall—and talked about how Chania never chose sides between East and West. It just took in whatever came and made it its own. There’s a lesson in that.

But the heart of the experience? The market.

The Municipal Market of Chania isn’t glamorous. It’s not curated or polished for Instagram. It’s loud, lively, and real. But there, amid the hanging herbs, fish stalls, and barrels of olives, I saw what food really means in Crete. It’s not just nourishment. It’s identity. It’s history passed from hand to hand, plate to plate. We tried goat cheese, tangy and creamy, made just outside the city by a farmer who still uses traditional methods. Then came the raki—clear, fiery, and strangely gentle. Made from grape pomace, distilled in copper stills, it’s a drink that carries centuries in a shot glass. And you don’t knock it back. You sip it. Talk. Sip again.

By lunch, I wasn’t just full. I was changed.

Because what started as a food tour became something more. A window into a different pace of life. In Chania, people don’t multitask their meals or rush from one thing to the next. They stop. They sit. They look you in the eye. Every bite has context. Every meal is a moment.

I’ve taken that home with me. I find myself putting my phone away when I eat now. Taking the time to taste, to talk. To be there. I’ve started visiting our local market more often. I ask where the cheese comes from. I buy seasonal. I cook slower. I’ve even tried making bougatsa once—badly, but with heart.

More than anything, I’ve begun to see food not as a task, but as a ritual. A daily expression of gratitude and care. Something worth celebrating.

Chania gave me that. A city where Venetian elegance meets Cretan earthiness. Where the sea feels like a neighbor, and the streets feel like old stories waiting to be retold. Where history isn’t confined to museums, but lives in the rhythm of daily life—in the clinking of raki glasses, the cracking of phyllo, the aroma of roasted coffee drifting through the breeze.

So if you find yourself in Crete, start in Chania. Start with an empty stomach and an open heart. You’ll be amazed what you can learn over a simple breakfast and a walk through time.

Here’s what I took away:

• Start the day slow and sweet—preferably with bougatsa and coffee

• Ask questions, even if you’re just buying cheese—stories live in every stall

• Let food be more than fuel; let it be a celebration of place and people

• Don’t rush through a meal or a moment—sit, sip, stay a while

• Culture isn’t in the monuments alone—it’s in the taste of things, the way people share, and the quiet pauses in between

In Chania, I didn’t just taste Crete. I tasted life, the way it’s meant to be lived.