The Sugar Spoon Caper

I nonchalantly glanced over at the small breakfast area of the Hotel Nostos as I shuffled past the front desk. The Hotel Nostos is a charming bed-and-breakfast tucked away in a side alley of the Venetian Quarter in Chania, on the island of Crete. Its interior is quintessentially Venetian, with sand-colored stone masonry and royal blue painted tables and chairs. But I wasn’t admiring the decor—I was focused on the gleaming silver sugar pots resting on each of the five tables.

Inside those pots were pristine mounds of white sugar. Each metal lid had a semicircle cut out, designed for a tiny silver spoon to be used for scooping sugar into tea or coffee (or directly into the hands of children desperate for a sugar fix).

Except, in this case, there were no tiny silver spoons resting in those semicircle slots. Instead, I could feel them clinking in the pocket of my shorts. As I glided past, I saw a small army of hotel staff scurrying about, preparing for guests to arrive for breakfast. My heart sank. The jig was up.

My plan had been simple: wake up early, return the spoons to their rightful place before the staff appeared, and no one would be the wiser. But thanks to my ongoing bout of chronic jet lag, I overslept. Now, the staff were patrolling back and forth like the Winkie guards from The Wizard of Oz. How had it come to this? Let’s rewind a bit.

The Crime

First, I should clarify that we didn’t set out on this world-schooling adventure with unlimited funds. While we’d patched together a financial plan—including renting out our house in Sonoma and earning some income as digital nomads—our goal was always to stick to a strict budget. This wasn’t a year-long vacation of extravagant meals and pricey attractions. I don’t mention this to elicit sympathy—so please, no GoFundMe campaigns on our behalf!—but rather to provide context for what happened next.

After spectacularly blowing through our budget during our London layover and our first day in Greece, we decided to rein things in. On our second day, we bought groceries from a supermarket outside the touristy old city and planned to eat our next few meals at the hotel. The roof deck had tables and chairs—it would be fun.

But when I returned with the groceries, triumphant in my budgeting prowess, the kids poured themselves bowls of cereal and immediately pointed out my fatal flaw: I had forgotten to buy spoons.

(As a side note, they made sure to point this out with a particular enthusiasm, as if they lived for moments when their dad did something stupid. Is that a universal kid thing, or just with mine?)

I had two options: trek back through the sweltering heat to buy plastic (environment killing) spoons or find another solution. Given that we’d only need them for one meal before moving to a fully stocked Airbnb, spending more money seemed wasteful. Then inspiration struck. The hotel kitchen surely had extra spoons. I’d just borrow a few.

It was still early (see: jet lag), so I crept down to the breakfast area. But the kitchen door was locked. Dagnabbit! Scanning the room, I spotted the tiny silver sugar spoons poking out of the sugar bowls. They were barely big enough to hold a single piece of Kit Kat cereal (which, yes, is a real thing), and as the kids later complained, there was only room for cereal or milk, not both. But beggars can’t be choosers. I swiped five of them and scurried back upstairs.

The plan was for the kids to eat quickly so I could clean the spoons and return them before anyone noticed. But then I got distracted, laced up my running shoes, and started downstairs for a jog before the heat became unbearable. Halfway through my lunges (hey, you gotta warm up at my age), I glanced at the breakfast area and froze. Staff bustled about.

“Oh crap,” I muttered. The spoons!

I sprinted back upstairs.

The Heist

And that brings us back to the present moment: me, staring at the breakfast room, five tiny metal spoons jingling in my pocket like stolen loot.

The first thought that crossed my mind was to come clean. Just turn myself in, confess my spoon-related sins, and hope for leniency. But where’s the fun in that? The thrill of pulling off the perfect sugar spoon caper was too much of a temptation.

Of course, every good heist requires a backup plan. If I got caught, I needed an excuse. Playing the language barrier card felt cheap (and also ineffective, as the staff spoke excellent English). I preferred something more… creative.

Just as I was concocting a cover story, I reached the bottom stair and realized I had a golden opportunity. The breakfast room was empty. I silently thanked the patron god of thieves and speed-walked inside.

Pausing for a moment, I listened. The staff were in the kitchen—close enough to hear, but not see, me. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the washed silver spoons from my pocket and, one by one, slid them back into their semicircle slots on the sugar pots. The whole operation took about fifteen seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

The moment the last spoon was in place, I knew I was safe. But I didn’t linger. I slipped out a side door, unobserved, and jogged down the cobblestone alley toward the harbor.

The Aftermath

As I ran, I replayed my many rookie mistakes. I hadn’t worn gloves. What if the staff found something amiss and dusted for fingerprints? But I consoled myself—purchasing gloves would have defeated the whole point of not buying plastic spoons in the first place.

In a final ironic twist, we later discovered that breakfast was actually included with our stay. Francesca, our go-to travel logistics expert (who is usually ironclad on these things), had given us incorrect information. Meaning the real budgetary mistake wasn’t borrowing the spoons, but buying breakfast cereal in the first place.

The following morning, we returned to the scene of the crime and enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast—fresh-squeezed orange juice, eggs, pastries, and, of course, Greek yogurt.

None of us dared touch the sugar bowl.