We leave Istanbul in February, which, at this price, felt like an easy decision.
Seven days, five ports. The Mediterranean in winter is a different proposition: fewer crowds, colder light, the same ancient stones. İzmir, where the ruins of Smyrna sit beneath a modern city that has no time to be precious about its 8,500 years of history. Corfu's Venetian alleyways without the August heat. Bari, where focaccia comes out of ovens that have been running since before anyone thought to write it down. Athens, where the Acropolis earns its reputation more in grey skies than in any postcard. And Istanbul again at the end, which never quite feels like a simple return.
Between ports, the ship. Open water, nowhere to be. Also: more noise than we expected, sleep that never quite arrived, and the particular madness that takes hold when a few hundred people are loose on the Mediterranean with nowhere to be until morning.
This is what seven days at sea in winter actually looks like.
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