I haven't done an ocean cruise. I'm wary of group tourism and not that keen to join some boat's B Deck shuffleboard team.
However, the Duchess and I have signed up for one. It sounded too tempting.
We will shortly board the Insignia in Athens, lay waste to lunches, dinners, Greek islands, and Turkish bazaars, and get off in Istanbul.
All this having not once lugged a bag or changed a hotel room. I think you understand what appeals.
It sounds fun but frankly, I'm a bit concerned about the Greeks. We will be seeing a lot of Greeks, and the Greeks and I have a history of misunderstanding. Things keep going wrong.
It all started when flying from Moscow to Athens on an aircraft whose passengers were myself, sundry odds and sods, and the entire crew and cast of the Greek National Theatre.
They'd been performing a 2000-year-old play, orating it to their Russian audiences in purest ancient Greek. It may have been one of The Parthenon's greatest hits, but I was quite chuffed I'd missed it.
On tour, the Greek players were uniformed in smart navy blazers. They were perfectly pleasant people trying to drink the plane dry as any decent team would, and I made in-flight friendships with the thespians sitting either side of me.
Then we got to Athens airport. The Greek Chorus pulled their bags from the carousel, and I was left staring at a last circling bag which was identical to mine, but belonged to someone else. Fortunately, one of the troop's administrators was still nearby.
I collared him and, speaking slowly in my best Queen's English, told him one of his nincompoop mates had taken my bag.
Their administrator was a Frenchman. He stared at me coolly, looked at the remaining bag, and turned green.
''Merde! C'est Le Directeur. Quelle Horreur!'' I thought about this a moment, then realised he was telling me the idiot who'd taken my bag was the Big Cheese of Greek Theatre.
A very large black Mercedes was summonsed, and we sped to a smart apartment building. As we took the lift to the penthouse, I toned down my temper, and prepared myself to graciously accept a cultured apology. Le Directeur opened the door himself.
The Grand Man flung my bag out, grabbed his own, and slammed the door in my face. Huh? I'd grown a moustache, but honestly it wasn't that bad.
My next misunderstanding came aboard the Athens metro, standing beside a greying gentleman in a respectable suit - probably somebody's family solicitor.
Thirty seconds after the gent solemnly alighted from the carriage, I realised he had my wallet. Emptied of cash, it was mailed to me a month later, with a hint I should also reward its virtuous finder. Full marks for trying for two bites.
Another time, in a club in Athens' Plaka area, several persistent young men pestered three American girls attached to our group.
These blokes wouldn't give up. The girls were from some snooty ladies' college and terribly proper, but eventually one lost her cool.
''Would you please P-SS OFF,'' she hissed.
A very good thought.
''Yes, P-ss off,'' I told them helpfully. More misunderstanding with the Greeks followed.
And then there was the island of Mykonos. Checking into the hotel I bumped into Sydney neighbours at reception.
Young, and cheerfully single, I set out on a taverna crawl and wound up in a bar tended by Judy, a girl I'd worked with in television. Mykonos felt like home.
On the dance floor 30 blokes performed an elaborate Greek dance, in which they held each other's hankies daintily, making a chain of wistful love.
''They're a bit odd,'' I said to Judy.
''You misunderstand,'' she said.
''They're not odd, just gay.''
Judy looked at me curiously.
''Didn't you know Mykonos is the Gay Capital of Europe? I thought you must have come here because.''
After that, I pretty much kept to myself on Mykonos.
We're not putting down the gangplank in Mykonos. But there's Rhodes, Crete and then, let's see, Lesbos.
Hmmm. I shall report back.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
