After the year I’ve had—13 weeks of inpatient therapy, moving houses like witness protection, a college graduation, and oh yeah, a ballistic missile war that forced us to cancel my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah in Israel at the last minute—you’d think we’d opt for rest and stability. But no. Faced with the prospect of eating $7,000 in plane tickets, we did what any completely sane, totally rational family would do in late June: booked an 11-day Mediterranean cruise. Because nothing says healing like battling sunburn, overpriced gelato, and crowds that would make Blackadder fake a fainting spell just to get off the tour bus early.
Abroad and brooding. The wine’s cheap, the coffee hits like truth serum, and the food? It’s poetry served on a ceramic plate. But in summer 2025, even paradise is pissed off. Locals from Barcelona to Napoli are waving protest signs instead of menus, fed up with the crush of tourists clogging their streets, tripping over cobblestones in search of “authenticity.” Americans, meanwhile, are busy doing currency math in their heads and realizing that the strong euro means their Aperol Spritz now costs more than their monthly Spotify subscription.
The dream of the European summer—idyllic, slow, sensual—is being trampled by cruise ships, TikTokers, and enough selfie sticks to build a suspension bridge. Cities like Florence, Palma, and Naples are drowning in foot traffic, while Greece and Croatia feel less like postcard escapes and more like Coachella with fewer bathrooms. So yeah, the grass might look greener from afar—but sometimes it’s just been trampled by a million other sandals before you got there.
Before this barely-planned getaway launched, I cranked out nearly 30 articles—partly out of work ethic, but mostly out of fear. Fear that while I was off the grid, the audio news cycle would be hijacked by $80,000 loudspeakers shaped like alien eggs and USB-C dongles being treated like holy relics. And honestly, I wanted a break. I needed time with my kids—real time, not the “just-a-second-I’m-answering-an-email” kind.
This isn’t my first cruise—attempt number 28 at hitting an iceberg, to be exact—which means I’ve lined up on Deck 15 at 5 a.m. with the same wild-eyed people who treat buffet croissants like they’re the last carbs on Earth. I don’t even drink, so I don’t get to waste money on watery cocktails with tiny umbrellas.
Instead, I get fleeced on $12 mocktails, bottled water that costs more than printer ink, and spa treatments that promise “detox” but mostly just remove cash from your wallet. Cruising really is the art of paying too much to watch humanity unravel in flip-flops.
More War in the Med, Travel Nightmares, Scorching Heat, and Everyone Losing Their Damn Minds
Because nothing says “vacation” like dodging missiles, sweating through endless delays, and dealing with locals who’ve officially had enough of your selfie stick. The truth is, I probably would’ve been fine stuck in Israel when the war between Iran and Israel kicked off—surrounded by family, by my people, who are tougher than most.
But the thought of my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah happening under fire, squeezed into a bomb shelter in our family’s Jerusalem apartment? That’s a cruelty too heavy even for me to swallow. Honestly, between that and everything else, I’ve done enough therapy this year for all of us.
After two days of travel hell—courtesy of an airline that decided to kick us off the plane while we were pushing back at 10:35 p.m., all because the pilot spotted a “dent” in the wing—we spent a night in a hotel lobby where they’d already given our room away. Eventually, we made it to Rome, where, shocker, the airport pizza at 7 a.m. beats anything you’ll find in Jersey (and that’s saying something).
So what did I do amid all this chaos? I stayed calm—the kind of calm that lets you breeze through passport control like 007, only with $75 Flint and Tinder shorts and $5 sunglasses instead of a tux. I made sure my kids were fed, kept a sharp ear on any gate changes blurted out in rapid-fire Italian, and did what any sane person would: people-watched my way through the madness, all while listening to my FiiO portable CD player and the Beyerdynamic DT 770 Pro X Headphones I just reviewed. Then I thought. Because sometimes, that’s all you can do.
So while everyone else was melting down over delayed flights and boarding group hierarchies, I was cataloging headphones like a lunatic. Mentally, at least. Apple AirPods were everywhere, like an invasive species. Sony’s endless stream of wireless variants made strong showings—some noise-canceling, some clearly not. Every now and then, a unicorn sighting: a pair of Focals or Bowers & Wilkins hovering on someone’s head like they knew what they were doing.
Meanwhile, I was definitely the only person in Rome’s airport with a full-on headphone entourage: $199 German closed-back cans on my head, Meze 99 Classics in the backpack, and a pair of Bowers & Wilkins Px7 S2s occupying the seat next to me like a very expensive imaginary friend. Judging by the side-eye I was getting from the Albanian couple across from me, I had either overpacked or committed some kind of audiophile war crime. Either way, I wasn’t giving up the extra seat. Priorities.
After a whirlwind of chaos, we boarded our flight to Barcelona and somehow still managed to swagger onto the ship a full two hours before it left. European efficiency? Let’s just say it’s more of a hopeful suggestion than a guarantee.
Crate-Digging in the Hot Mediterranean: Pizza, Tourist Stampedes, and Blasting CDs to Drown Out the Chaos
Right off the top—Spain’s not my bag of fun. Unfriendly, humorless about the Inquisition (which, frankly, seems like fair game), and lacking the kind of warmth that makes Italians feel like your long-lost cousins within five minutes of meeting them. Palma de Mallorca? Sure, it’s gorgeous and the coffee’s strong enough to resurrect the dead. But the people? Somehow manage to make the French seem cuddly—and I say that as someone with a healthy dose of Polish and French Jewish DNA. Trust me, pulling off “colder than a Parisian waiter” is no small feat.
It’s also been a scorching start to the summer—both in Jersey and across the European meltdown zone. And let’s be honest: hot weather makes people a little short. Not Tyrion Lannister short—though fittingly, I did climb that damn castle in Dubrovnik shoulder-to-shoulder with 30,000 sweaty tourists all fighting for the same Instagram angle.
The recent wave of anti-tourist sentiment sweeping across Europe isn’t just about grumbling anymore—it’s turning into policy. In Cannes, they’re going full throttle with a ban on cruise ships carrying more than 1,000 passengers, and it’s going into effect this year. On the surface, it sounds like a financial own-goal—why turn away all that sweet tourist money? But then you find yourself trudging through Pompeii with 50,000 other sweaty humans under a sun that feels personally offended by your existence, and suddenly… yeah, it checks out.
And let’s be honest—foreigners can be fucking annoying. Loud, clueless, selfie-stick-wielding chaos goblins treating ancient ruins like background props for their TikTok content. Europe’s fed up, and after two weeks here, I kind of get it.
If you grew up around Italians—as I did in Toronto—you know the North vs. South thing isn’t just folklore, it’s a full-blown cultural operating system. And while Americans know a thing or two about internal divides, Italy makes you feel it. I love Sicily—partly because my neighbors back in the St. Clair Avenue West part of the 416 all came from Messina, Taormina, and Palermo—but also because it still feels real. That said, the wealth gap between Sicily and places like Milan, Turin, Venice, Bologna, Genoa, and Bergamo is about as subtle as a Ferrari engine in a church.
But putting the class divide aside, Italians are just nicer people. Warm, welcoming, full of life and espresso. Maybe not the TikTok generation—who, let’s be honest, are disrespectful little meatballs more interested in filming themselves or others in distress than understanding where they are—but the average Italian still knows how to be civilized. And after two weeks of dodging eye-rolls and side-eye across Europe, that means something.
The two best parts of the trip for me? Easy. Aside from the pizza—which, let’s be honest, still rocks in France (step it up, Italy)—Corfu, Greece was an absolute gem. Pure fun, shockingly chill, and the beaches? Next level. It’s almost impossible to find bad food in Greece, and coming from someone raised near Toronto’s Danforth, that’s saying something. Corfu made the Danforth look like a sad tzatziki-smeared memory.
And then—oddly enough—a tiny record store in Split, Croatia. I know, I know… it sounds ridiculous to say that a cramped little vinyl shop beat out some of the most culturally rich places in the Mediterranean. But after dealing with the nonstop parade of sweaty Game of Thrones fans choking Dubrovnik and the near-audible ugh that greets American accents right now, that quiet, dusty store felt like a small, perfect rebellion.
A break from the madness. A reminder that travel doesn’t always have to be about checking boxes—it can just be about finding a moment of peace between overpriced gelato and existential despair.
As I type this, I’m slightly sick. Too much sun, too many cobblestones, too many fake smiles from shopkeepers who clearly just want you to move along unless you’re dropping euros. Europe can be magical, yes. The history, the art, the wine-soaked evenings.
But after two weeks grinding through France, Spain, Italy, Sicily, Malta, Greece, and Croatia—I can say with full confidence: this continent is gorgeous, exhausting, and absolutely not where I want to live. Give me a proper AC unit, iced coffee bigger than a thimble, and a little personal space.