The World Tour That Wasn't

Mavis Brennan
6 hours ago
7 min read

Sex After Seventy: Episode 3

An old woman on a camel that is bolting across the desert.

Well, darlings, I’m back. And before you start composing strongly-worded letters about my absence, let me just say: I have been on an adventure.

Some of you wrote asking if I’d died. Others wondered if I’d finally run off with that mailman. A few of you—and you know who you are—asked if I’d been “institutionalized.” The answer to all three is: almost, but not quite.

What actually happened is that I won a cruise.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Mavis, nothing good ever starts with ‘I won a cruise.’” And you’d be absolutely right. But when you’re seventy-plus and a sweepstakes envelope arrives promising “romance on the high seas” and “ports of passion,” you don’t ask questions. You pack your best support garments and your blood pressure medication, and you go.

The brochure called it “The Silver Singles World Romance Voyage: Sixty Days of Love, Laughter, and Liberation.” What it should have been called was “Sixty Days of Questionable Prawns, Mechanical Failures, and Men Who Lie About Their Age Worse Than I Do.”

Let me take you through the highlights. And by highlights, I mean the moments I wasn’t clutching a lifeboat or a toilet.

Port One: Barcelona, Spain

I met a gentleman named Rodrigo at the welcome cocktail hour. Silver hair, excellent posture, said he was a retired bullfighter. Very romantic. We had sangria. We watched the sunset. He invited me back to his cabin to see his “collection of matador capes.”

Now, I’ve been around long enough to know that “come see my etchings” is code for something, but “matador capes” was new territory. I figured: when in Spain.

Turns out, he actually did have matador capes. Seventeen of them. And he wanted to show me every single one while explaining the thread count and historical significance of each. By the time he got to cape number eleven, I was so bored I fell asleep sitting up. He didn’t notice for forty-five minutes because he was too busy demonstrating proper cape-swirling technique.

Lesson learned: Sometimes “come see my capes” just means capes. The disappointment was... confusing.

Port Two: Athens, Greece

The ship’s “Romance Coordinator”—a perky young woman named Brittany who clearly drew the short straw in her hospitality career—paired me with a retired philosophy professor named Theodore for a “sunset couples excursion” to the Acropolis.

Theodore was very interested in discussing the Greeks’ views on love. Specifically, he wanted to explain the difference between eros, philia, agape, and pragma while we climbed approximately nine thousand ancient stairs in the August heat.

By the time we reached the top, I was so dehydrated I was seeing Socrates. Theodore was still talking. Something about how the Greeks believed physical love was the lowest form of connection. I told him that was probably because they hadn’t invented air conditioning or battery-operated devices yet.

He did not find this amusing.

I found it hilarious.

We did not see each other again, which Theodore probably considered a philosophical victory.

Port Three: Istanbul, Turkey

Now, this is where things got interesting.

At the Grand Bazaar, I was approached by a vendor selling “authentic Turkish oils for romance and vitality.” He was about forty, had eyelashes longer than my attention span, and spoke to me like I was Cleopatra returning to claim her throne.

“Madam,” he said, taking my hand, “you have the energy of a woman who has lived fully. Let me show you oils that will... restore your fire.”

Well. I’ve had men try to sell me a lot of things in my life, but never with that much conviction about my “fire.”

I bought six bottles of something called “Sultan’s Passion.” The label promised “increased vigor and awakened senses.” What it actually delivered was a rash that made the ship’s doctor ask if I’d been “intimate with any exotic plant life.”

I had not. Though after three days of hydrocortisone cream, I started to wonder if the Sultan himself had been.

Port Four: Somewhere in the Mediterranean

(The Engine Died)

The ship broke down. For eight days.

Eight days of floating in the Mediterranean with 400 single seniors, no air conditioning, and a buffet that was becoming increasingly “creative” with its protein sources. By day three, the meat at dinner was labeled simply “Chef’s Selection,” which is cruise-ship code for “don’t ask.”

But here’s the thing about being stranded at sea with a bunch of randy septuagenarians: desperation breeds romance. Or at least it breeds something.

A retired dentist named Murray started following me around like a golden retriever with a prostate problem. He kept offering to “check my bite alignment” and telling me I had “excellent enamel for a woman my age.” I didn’t know if he was flirting or conducting a clinical assessment.

On day five, he brought me a flower he’d fashioned from napkins. On day six, he serenaded me with “Fly Me to the Moon” in the ship’s defunct piano lounge. On day seven, he proposed.

I said no, obviously. But I kept the napkin flower. A girl likes to feel wanted, even if the wanting comes with a complimentary teeth-whitening consultation.

Port Five: Cairo, Egypt

We finally limped into Egypt for repairs, and the cruise line—in a gesture of apology—arranged a free excursion to see the pyramids.

I was paired with a gentleman from Milwaukee named Leonard who’d been “in textiles” for forty years. He was nice enough, if you don’t mind hearing about thread tension for six hours straight. I was so done with thread after the matador. But the real problem was the camel.

They put us on camels.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever mounted a camel, but let me tell you: there is nothing dignified about it. The animal lurches forward, then backward, then makes a sound like it’s personally offended by your existence. And the saddle? The saddle is designed by someone who has never seen a human pelvis.

By the time we reached the Sphinx, I couldn’t feel anything below my waist. Leonard asked if I wanted to “rest against something sturdy.” He meant the ancient monument. I think he meant the ancient monument. His hand placement was ambiguous.

The camel, meanwhile, spit on my good sandals. The ones I’d bought specifically for “seduction in exotic locales.”

I have not been seduced since.

Port Six: The Amalfi Coast, Italy

Finally. Finally. We reached Italy, land of romance, wine, and men who appreciate a woman with some mileage.

At a little café in Positano, I met a man named Giuseppe who ran a limoncello distillery. He had hands like a sculptor and eyes like espresso—dark, intense, and promising to keep me up all night.

We had dinner. We had limoncello. We had more limoncello. He walked me back to the ship under the moonlight and whispered, “Mavis, you are like the lemon—beautiful, tart, and full of zest.”

Reader, I have never been so aroused by citrus-based flattery.

He leaned in. The moment was perfect. The stars aligned. My heart rate reached levels my cardiologist would not have approved of.

And then I burped.

Not a small, ladylike burp. A full, limoncello-fueled eruption that echoed off the ancient cliffs of the Amalfi Coast like the call of some digestive foghorn.

Giuseppe blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he said, “Ah. The lemon, she speaks.”

I don’t know if that was an Italian expression or if he was just trying to salvage the moment, but either way, the magic was gone. I excused myself, went back to my cabin, and ate an entire sleeve of antacids while watching the Italian coast disappear.

The Return Home

Sixty days. Seventeen ports. Approximately forty-three romantic near-misses and one very confused ship’s doctor who now has an extensive file on my various allergic reactions.

Did I find love? No.

Did I find adventure? Absolutely.

Did I find out that my libido, while still technically present, now requires a detailed itinerary, proper hydration, and a notarized consent form from my lower back? Unfortunately, yes.

But here’s what I also learned: romance after seventy isn’t about the destination. It’s about the journey. The mishaps. The camels. The men who actually do just want to show you their cape collection.

It’s about saying yes to the Sultan’s Passion oil, even if it gives you a rash. It’s about letting a dentist serenade you, even if he’s off-key. It’s about burping in front of a beautiful Italian man and discovering that true connection might just be someone who doesn’t run away when you do.

I’m home now. Velcrow missed me—he’s been sleeping on my suitcase since I got back, which either means he loves me or he’s claimed my luggage as territory. The mailman asked where I’d been. I told him I’d been searching for love across the seven seas.

He said, “Find any?”

I said, “No, but I found out I’m allergic to Turkish romance oil and camel dander.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense.

Pro Tip: If you’re going to circle the globe looking for passion, bring Benadryl. Bring antacids. Bring realistic expectations and comfortable shoes. And remember: the best stories come from the disasters, not the victories.

Also, never trust a man who describes you as a citrus fruit unless you’re sure your digestive system can handle the pressure.

Next time: I’m staying local. There’s a new widower at the senior center who reportedly makes his own wine in his garage. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything, darling. Absolutely everything.

Limoncello Love Cake

The One That Almost Sealed the Deal

Giuseppe never gave me his recipe, but I’ve been experimenting. This is as close as I’ve gotten to recreating that magical, ill-fated evening—minus the gastrointestinal betrayal.

Think romantic thoughts.

Ingredients

For the cake (la base)

1½ cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
½ cup butter, softened
3 eggs
½ cup limoncello (taste it first, for quality control)
Zest of 2 lemons
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
½ cup whole milk

For the glaze (the seduction)

1 cup powdered sugar
3 tablespoons limoncello
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Instructions

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 9-inch Bundt cake pan. Think romantic thoughts.
Cream butter and sugar until fluffy—about 3 minutes. Add eggs one at a time. Don’t rush it. Good things take time.
Mix in lemon zest and limoncello. Your kitchen will smell like the Italian coast and poor decisions.
In a separate bowl, whisk flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to wet ingredients alternating with milk. Fold gently, like you’re handling a fragile ego.
Pour into prepared pan. Bake 35-40 minutes until golden and a toothpick comes out clean.
Let cool 10 minutes, then turn out onto a serving plate.
Whisk glaze ingredients until smooth. Poke holes in the warm cake with a fork and pour glaze over slowly. Let it soak in like a good compliment.
Serve at room temperature with a small glass of limoncello and absolutely no expectations.

Mavis’s Notes:

This cake is best shared with someone who won’t judge your pronunciation of Italian words
It pairs well with moonlight, regret, and antacids
The limoncello is not optional
If someone calls you a beautiful lemon after eating this, just say thank you

Serves 8, or 1 woman reliving her almost-romance while the dog judges her

Remember: the secret ingredient is always audacity. That, and real lemons.