The other side of paradise: loving Crete with open eyes

The Crete behind the postcard

Twenty years here has taught me something important: you can love a place deeply and see its struggles clearly. In fact, real love demands that honesty.

I've written before about my affair with Crete—the blue sea that holds my spirit, the mountains that shelter my soul, the people who taught me what belonging means. All of that remains true. Every word.

But there's another Crete I've come to know. The one behind the postcard. The one that wakes up every day and fights against systems that seem designed to exhaust hope.

This is that story.

The bureaucratic maze

The corruption and bureaucratic complexity aren't just inconveniences. They're barriers keeping Greece from becoming what it could be.

Here's what people outside Greece don't always understand: the problem isn't that Greeks don't work hard. It's that the system makes you work hard at the wrong things.

You spend your energy navigating paperwork instead of building your business. You invest time in finding the right person who knows the right person who can help you get the right stamp, instead of innovating. You learn which office to visit on which day at which hour, instead of focusing on creating value.

It's exhausting. Soul-crushing. And it pushes the best and brightest away.

The slow death of potential

I watch talented people hit walls that shouldn't exist—the artist who can't figure out online sales tax, the farmer lost in agritourism permit requirements, the tech-savvy youth who gives up before starting. Meanwhile, other European countries have streamlined and digitized, making it easier to be productive. Greece keeps adding complexity instead of rebuilding from the foundation.

The most complex country in the world

Greece ranks first in the Global Business Complexity Index 2025, the most complex country in the world for doing business.

Read that again. Number one. Out of every country on Earth.

This isn't a distinction to celebrate. It's a warning sign flashing in bright red letters: something is broken here.

It reflects bureaucracy layered upon bureaucracy, inconsistent regulations that change without warning, slow digital adoption that keeps processes stuck in the 1980s, and a system so tangled that even locals who've lived here their entire lives struggle to navigate it.

If you want to start a business in Greece, prepare yourself. What takes hours in other European countries takes months here. What should be straightforward becomes a labyrinth. You'll need patience, local expertise, and a tolerance for absurdity that borders on the philosophical.

Living the complexity

When I decided to restore my cottage and run it as a guest accommodation, I learned quickly what this complexity means in practice. Every permit requires three other permits. Offices are open on alternate Tuesdays between 9am and 11am. Requirements change without notice, and you start over.

Brain drain isn't just a statistic. It's your neighbor's son who studied engineering and now works in Germany. It's brilliant entrepreneurs exhausted by a system that seems designed to grind them down.

The paradox of Crete

Here's what frustrates me most: Crete has everything it needs to thrive.

The soil here is so rich, so generous, that if the world closed its borders tomorrow, Cretans would still eat well. Olive oil pressed from ancient groves. Vegetables that taste like they remember what real flavor means. Cheese made the way it's been made for centuries. Wine from grapes that grow in this particular limestone soil and nowhere else.

The island is essentially self-sufficient when it comes to food. In a world facing climate crisis and supply chain fragility, that's not just impressive—it's a superpower.

And yet.

Tourism: the golden cage

There are almost no factories here. No manufacturing base. No economic diversity. Tourism has become the lifeline, which means the island's prosperity rises and falls with forces completely beyond its control.

Global pandemic? Tourism collapses, and the island struggles.
Economic recession in Northern Europe? Fewer flights, fewer visitors, less income.
Geopolitical tensions? Travel patterns shift, and Crete feels it immediately.

This is a vulnerable position for a place with so much inherent strength.

Don't misunderstand me—tourism isn't bad. I run a guest cottage. I welcome visitors. I believe in the transformative power of travel when it's done thoughtfully.

But an economy dependent on a single industry is fragile. And Crete deserves better than fragility.

What could be

Imagine if Crete could actually use its self-sufficiency. Imagine food processing facilities that turn local produce into exports. Imagine sustainable manufacturing that takes advantage of renewable energy potential—this island has sun and wind in abundance. Imagine tech companies choosing to establish remote offices here, drawn by quality of life and natural beauty.

Imagine young Cretans being able to stay and build careers here, not because they're stuck, but because opportunity actually exists.

It's not a fantasy. The resources are here. The people are here. What's missing is a system that enables instead of obstructs.

The cultural paradox: living in the moment vs. planning for tomorrow

There's something else I've noticed in twenty years here, something that goes beyond bureaucracy and systems. It's cultural, and it's complicated.

Greeks have a phrase they use constantly: "Tha doume" — we'll see.

It's not just an expression. It's a philosophy. A way of approaching life that prioritizes the present moment over future planning. And honestly? There's something beautiful about it.

Greeks have this incredible ability to switch off after work and just enjoy life. To sit for hours over coffee with friends. To prioritize family dinners over career advancement. To value presence over productivity. Coming from Northern Europe's hustle culture, this was revolutionary for me. It taught me that life isn't just about building toward some future goal—it's also about actually living right now.

But, and this is where it gets complicated, this present-oriented mindset sometimes works against economic opportunity.

The contrast with survival thinking

When I grew up in post-communist Poland, we thought differently. We had to. Survival wasn't guaranteed, so we became creative out of necessity. It was normal for us to think of multiple ways to earn money, to figure out side hustles, to spot opportunities and act on them quickly. Making something work despite limitations wasn't just entrepreneurship, it was a game we'd been taught since childhood.

In Greece, I notice a different pattern. People often focus on one thing at a time, one income stream, one approach. When that doesn't work, they might try something else—sequentially, not simultaneously. The creative hustle mentality born from scarcity isn't as present here, perhaps because historically, the land provided. Why stress about five income streams when the olive trees keep producing?

A story from my early days

I'll never forget when I first came to Crete from England, desperate for work in tourism. I did what seemed obvious to me: I printed CVs and went door-to-door to every tourist company I could find. Small agencies, big ones, didn't matter. I'd walk in, CV in hand, and ask in English, "Are you looking for someone to hire?"

Picture this: Maria (there's always a Maria 😊) sitting in her parents' small travel agency—a dusty office with papers stacked everywhere, a calendar from three years ago still on the wall, a fan that barely works. She's doing things the way they've always been done. Customers call, she books, she writes things in a ledger.

And then I walk in. This foreign woman with printed CVs, talking about skills and experience, asking about job openings.

The look on her face. Like I'd arrived from a different planet.

She didn't understand why I was there. In her world, you don't look for jobs this way. Jobs come through family connections, through someone who knows someone, through being from the village. You certainly don't walk into random offices like you're selling something.

And honestly? She probably didn't even think they could hire someone. The idea of expansion, of bringing in new people, of growing the business—it wasn't part of the framework. This was her parents' agency. It would be hers one day. It would stay exactly as it was. Tha doume.

That moment taught me so much about the cultural gap. What seemed like initiative and hustle to me seemed bizarre and uncomfortable to her. Neither of us was wrong—we were just operating from completely different paradigms about how work, opportunity, and business function.

Not seeing the treasure you're holding

Here's the paradox that frustrates me most: living in such a rich culture, surrounded by such natural wealth, sometimes makes it harder to see what treasure you're holding.

Let me give you an example from my childhood. I grew up in Spała, a small village in Poland with a lake—nothing special compared to Cretan beaches. The water was greenish, not blue. Cold in winter, modest in summer. Just a regular lake.

But I remember when an entrepreneur appeared and opened a kayak rental there. People came. They enjoyed it. They paid for it. And I remember thinking: look what someone made from so little. From a basic lake that we all took for granted.

Meanwhile, in Crete, you have paradise. Beaches that could be in magazines. Mountains that make your heart stop. Villages so photogenic they don't look real. Crystal blue water. Three hundred days of sunshine.

And somehow, it's harder to monetize. Harder to build sustainable businesses around it. Harder to see the opportunity because it's always been there.

When you grow up with abundance, you don't develop the same hunger to transform it into something. When you grow up with modest resources, you learn to squeeze value from everything.

The "Tha doume" paradox

"Tha doume" is beautiful when it means not stressing about things beyond your control. It's wisdom when it means being present with loved ones instead of obsessing about quarterly projections.

But it becomes a trap when it means not planning ahead, not preparing for winter when summer is abundant, not building systems that could make life easier tomorrow.

I watch this tension play out constantly. The fisherman who has the best catch but no system for selling beyond local tavernas. The woman making incredible traditional products who never thinks about online sales. The village with stunning hiking trails that has no signage, no promotion, no infrastructure to welcome tourists who would pay to experience it.

It's not laziness. It's not lack of intelligence. It's a cultural orientation toward the present that sometimes sacrifices the future.

And when I try to explain this to Greeks, there's often genuine surprise. "But we have always done it this way." Yes—and the world has changed, but the approach hasn't adapted.

What Poland taught me, what Greece teaches me

Poland taught me to see opportunity everywhere and act on it quickly. To think creatively about survival. To never take resources for granted because we had so few.

Greece is teaching me to actually enjoy the life I'm building. To value relationships over transactions. To understand that not everything needs to be optimized for profit.

The ideal would be somewhere in between: the Greek ability to live fully in the present, combined with the entrepreneurial foresight to build sustainable futures. The cultural richness and quality of life Greece offers, paired with the creative hustle that turns potential into reality.

But culture changes slowly. And maybe that's part of why I stay, because I can see both perspectives. I can appreciate the beauty of "tha doume" while also pushing gently toward "let's also plan ahead."

It's not about making Greeks more like Northern Europeans or post-Soviet survivors. It's about finding a uniquely Greek way forward that honors the present-oriented wisdom while also building for tomorrow.

Because this island, this culture, this people, they deserve a future as abundant as their present could be.

What does it mean to you?

I tell you all this not to discourage you from visiting or from falling in love with Crete the way I did.

I tell you because honesty is part of real hospitality.

When you come here, you're not just visiting paradise. You're witnessing a place in transition, a culture trying to preserve what matters while adapting to a world that won't wait.

You're supporting people who are fighting to build sustainable lives in a system that often works against them. Your tourism euros help, but understanding the complexity helps more.

The Crete I love isn't just the beaches and the mountains and the warm people. It's also the Crete that's struggling to transform itself, caught between its incredible potential and the weight of systems that no longer serve it.

The invitation still stands

Come. Fall in love with this island. Let it change you the way it changed me.

But come with open eyes.

See the beauty and the struggle. Appreciate the resilience it takes to build something here. Understand that when you meet a business owner, an artist, a farmer, a cottage host—you're meeting someone who chose to fight for this place despite everything that makes it hard.

And maybe, just maybe, your understanding will be part of the slow transformation this island needs.

Crete deserves better than being dependent on tourism alone. This island has the resources, the people, the culture to build a more resilient future. It just needs systems that support that future instead of blocking it.

The question isn't whether Greece needs reform—it desperately does.

The question is whether enough people will demand it, whether politics and policy will finally catch up with ambition, whether this incredible country will finally make it easier for its people to thrive.

I'm still here, still believing, still fighting alongside the Cretans who refuse to give up on their island.

That's what real love looks like. Not blind. Not naive. Just determined.

Want to read about why I fell in love with Crete in the first place? Start with my affair with this island.

Tonia ❤️

The real heroes who stay

The people who stay, who build despite the obstacles, who keep trying, they're the real heroes of this place.

Running a cottage rental here means navigating a system that seems designed to discourage you. You learn to work with local experts who've memorized the maze's illogical turns. You invest in technology and compliance because it's the only way to survive. You accept that the rules will change without warning.

And yet, I stay. Because even with the economic uncertainty and bureaucratic absurdity, there's something here worth fighting for. The warmth of people who still believe in community. The land that gives generously. The sea that reminds me why I came.

Greece needs reform—desperately, urgently, fundamentally. But while we wait for transformation, life continues. Businesses open despite obstacles. Families stay and make it work. Outsiders like me choose this complicated paradise and learn to navigate its contradictions.