Tyson Jopson questions the integrity of holiday accommodation brochures.
Image by Pirate Johnny
Thoughts strike when you least expect them. One recently hit me while I was standing on the toilet in a guest house with my bottom pressed firmly against a shower door. I was on a travel assignment and I was trying, unsuccessfully, to get a good photograph of the bathtub. It did not matter which corner I wiggled myself into, I could not fit it in – the bathroom was just too small.
‘When it comes to holiday accommodation, expectation and reality often live on opposite ends of the street.’
It was puzzling because the brochure had hinted at something quite different. In that picture, bath foam flowed suggestively out of the frame and soft lighting, candles and mirrors gave it an aura of infinite bubbly bliss. Even the caption, urging you to ‘unwind in Victorian elegance’, suggested that it was voluminous. In truth, it wasn’t even large enough to unwind a watch in and the only thing Victorian about it was that a girl named Victoria had probably had a bath there once.
That’s when the thought struck me: when it comes to holiday accommodation, expectation and reality often live on opposite ends of the street. And the problem is those bloody brochures. Their photographs are cleverly contrived to give you a glimpse into something bigger and grander – if only there was enough space to show it. There is more, of course, but it’s not bigger, nor grander. It’s a double-lane highway that separates your sea-facing balcony from the beach; a pet-food factory that wafts the delicious smell of freshly baked Bobtail through the hotel window during lunch; a sawmill that operates noisy machinery on Sundays.
All you have left is the words. But the words, dear friends, are even worse. To help quell the scourge of brochure fiction, I’ve taken the liberty of compiling an accommodation lingo code-breaker:
Newly built: unfinished – wear shoes to avoid splinters and rogue nails.
Commanding views: you’re going to have to walk up a really steep hill to get there.
Secluded: you’re not going to find it on the first, or second, go. Be prepared to spend the night in your car and resume the search in the morning.
Courtesy coach: no normal transport goes here – take a bicycle.
Relaxed atmosphere: truly terrible service.
Overlooking: used strictly in the sense of ‘ignoring’. As in, ‘ignore the giant overpass that separates your apartment from the beach’.
Home from home: you’ll be doing the laundry yourself, as you would at home.
Modernised: they’ve turned the bath into shower and you’re going to have to bend over awkwardly to get any water on you.
Close to the airport: practically on the runway – pack earplugs.
Festive atmosphere: the staff will be drunk by the time you arrive.
Accommodation always available: they have a broom cupboard and aren’t afraid to use it.
Informal: the guest next to you at breakfast is eating cereal wearing just his boxer shorts.
Set in a vibey area: the neighbours party until 4 am.
Sun-kissed: flipping hot. Absolutely no shade.
Minimalist decor: there are nails in the wall where art used to be.
Within walking distance: wear running shoes and take lots of liquids.
Column taken from Excess Baggage, Getaway Magazine July 2014
Twitter: @tysonjopson
