The Reality: A High-Seas Catastrophe

The trip started promisingly. That is, until we actually boarded the ship. The check-in process had all the efficiency of a sinking lifeboat, and by the time we found our cabin — strategically located next to what must have been the ship’s industrial laundry facility — we were already questioning our life choices.

Day one’s "welcome dinner" was a lesson in gastro-adventure. The buffet, described as "world-class cuisine," featured mysterious meat options of questionable origin and a seafood section that smelled suspiciously like regret. A fellow passenger confidently identified one of the dishes as "probably still alive."

The seasickness kicked in by nightfall. What was meant to be a gentle voyage through calm waters felt more like a theme park ride designed by someone with a grudge against humanity. As we attempted to sleep, the ship creaked in a way that suggested it was either haunted or about to split in half.

Day three was Santorini — or rather, it was meant to be. High winds and "safety concerns" meant we had to stay onboard, watching the stunning coastline from the window of the ship’s casino, where a man named Jerry had been losing at blackjack for seven consecutive hours.

Our first actual excursion happened on day five in Naples, where we were herded into a tour bus driven by a man who had clearly studied the "Fast & Furious" films as part of his training. The "authentic cultural experience" consisted of an overpriced coffee, a visit to a souvenir shop selling t-shirts that read "I Survived Naples," and an accidental detour into what appeared to be someone’s driveway.

By day seven, the ship had developed what the captain referred to as "minor technical difficulties." The reality? We were drifting aimlessly near the Greek coast while engineers tried to persuade the engine to do its job. The onboard entertainment — now stretched to its limits — featured a magician whose best trick was making the audience disappear before his act was over.

The final night’s "farewell gala" was, fittingly, a disaster in itself. A rogue wave sent an entire dessert cart sliding across the dining hall, an enthusiastic cruise director attempted to lead a conga line through the chaos, and an elderly gentleman mistook the emergency alarm test for a real evacuation and fled the scene with remarkable agility.

As we disembarked — sunburnt, exhausted, and haunted by the lingering scent of the ship’s buffet — one thing was clear: this was, indeed, a Mediterranean cruise to remember. Mostly because we would never set foot on a ship again.