In most countries, a queue is a sacred thing. People line up in straight rows, respecting personal space, following an unspoken social contract. In Greece? A queue is not a line. It’s a theory. A philosophy. A social experiment in organized chaos.
At the bakery, you’ll walk in and see what looks like a small mob. Ten people huddled together, glaring at the bougatsa like it owes them money. No numbers. No rope barriers. No system. And yet—mysteriously—everyone knows the exact order. How? Nobody can explain it. It’s like osmosis. Or maybe divine intervention from Saint Yiayia, the patron saint of bread lines.
The key phrase is always the same: “Ποιος είναι τελευταίος;” (“Who’s last?”). Someone will raise their hand, and now—congratulations—you’ve inherited their position in the metaphysical queue. From then on, it’s your sacred duty to defend that invisible place in the air until it’s your turn. If you fail? A yiayia with an umbrella will appear from behind the koulouria stand and restore cosmic balance.
And this system applies everywhere:
At the bank: There is no queue, only chaos. Five people stand at the counter simultaneously, all insisting they’re “just asking a quick question.” That “quick question” usually involves inheritance law, three missing utility bills, and a complaint about the air conditioning. You’ll be there for an hour. Minimum.
At the pharmacy: The “queue” is basically a neighborhood meeting. One person is picking up antibiotics, another is discussing blood pressure, and a third is loudly recommending which cream works best for hemorrhoids. By the time it’s your turn, you know the entire medical history of everyone within a 5km radius.
At the souvlaki shop: This is where the rules of time and space collapse. You order one pita gyro. The guy behind you orders five pita gyros, three souvlakia, and a salad. Somehow, he gets served first. When you complain, the grill master shrugs and says, “It’s complicated.”
The beauty of the Greek queue is that it somehow works. No one writes down names. No one pulls tickets. And yet, 99% of the time, everyone gets served in the right order. It’s democracy at its finest—messy, loud, full of arguments, but ultimately fair.
Unless, of course, a yiayia cuts the line. In that case, it’s not just allowed. It’s the unspoken Law.
