Santorini wasn’t a dream—it was a photo shoot we paid to suffer through

My wife had wanted to see Santorini since she was 30. We finally made it there when she was 67. April, they said, would be quiet. They were wrong. Six cruise ships anchored that week. By 10 a.m., the narrow alleys turned into funnels of bodies and selfie sticks. I saw someone shove an old man just to get a cleaner shot of a blue dome. The hotel was “authentic.” No elevator. No real windows. Just a steep stairwell and a bed pushed into a cave. At 3 a.m., we woke to wedding guests screaming ABBA lyrics next door. My wife cried the next morning. She said she hadn’t slept in three days. One afternoon, we tried to walk to a hidden beach Google suggested. Forty minutes downhill, on loose gravel. No signs. No shade. I slipped. Cut my palm. A teenager in flip-flops passed us without even glancing. It suddenly felt like we weren’t guests anymore—just obstacles. On our last evening, we stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the cliff with two hundred others, all holding up phones. No one actually looked at the sunset. We left the next morning without saying goodbye.