I don’t like to be negative about marketing (because it’s so damn easy), but I just have to point this one out:
A whole wall in my local supermarket -of Easter Eggs! What about all the Valentines and St Patrick’s Day chachkis? And surely there must be some way to market the hell out of Australia day in the meantime.
This cracked me up. It’s a sign in the window of an Indian restaurant in Coffs Harbour:
If you don’t like the strange foreign food, we’ll give you a big slab of beef for dessert.
My Dad and I just got back from a trip to New Zealand. He’s a vegan so we cooked most of our meals and chose hostels for their kitchens and their homey environments. We had great luck finding places -except for one particular night…
As we pulled into this town, we realized that this was perhaps the one time we should have booked ahead. Hostel after hostel was totally full. Occupied. Jam-packed. No room at the inn. By the time we reached the last one on the last page, panic had set in and we were merely going through the motions of asking. Yes, she said, they had one last room. I tell you this, because I want you to understand that the following description includes a large dose of gratitude, gratefulness and relief.
The rooms weren’t just stark, they were shabby and sterile. At the same time. The light was a bare bulb. The bed a set of cheap metal bunks. Two plastic chairs sat beside the window and the light above the sink a mere hole in the wall filled with a clump of plastic wrapping. How far we had fallen from the charming hostel we had just left.
But it wasn’t the state of the furnishings that got me. The amount of money invested in this place vs the one the night before was not that big of a gap. The experience, though, was night and day.
The first place had several little areas for people to talk, while the lounge room in this one was dominated by a large TV, all chairs turned toward it alone. The last place had colourful plates and cups while this had restaurant-style tableware –plain and durable.
vs
I’m sure there would be frustrations running a hostel, not all of your visitors would be conscientious. But a sign in the kitchen of the first place said, “We don’t ask for a deposit, we didn’t install a video monitor and we don’t have someone looking over your shoulder as you cook; please keep things clean.” While the other one said:
And what a different atmosphere that creates.
This kitchen felt like a stainless-steel assemble line, everyone competing for one of the sinks or unmarked cubbies to store their food (the first place had assigned spaces by room and colourful baskets for the fridge).
Compare this to the night before in the first hostel: I was in the kitchen cooking (stir frying veggies) at the same time as two other people –a French guy who was heating up a large piece of Salmon on the stove next to me and a German woman chopping onions behind us on the island –when I realized that we were all singing along to the same song on the radio: Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You. The world united by cheesy music.
Shall I go on? The toilet roll holders in these bathrooms were locked down so nothing could be stolen –but nor did it roll. In the middle of Dad’s shower at night, the lights went out –no switches to be found. The rungs on the bunk were round so that when Dad climbed up to his bed that night, they dug in and hurt his feet. So much so that when he reached over to the wall to turn off the light (no reading lamps), he didn’t bother climbing down to retrieve his pillow that had fallen in the lean and he spent the entire night pillowless. And they were, of course, the most uncomfortable mattresses we had the entire trip.
And this is what I’m interested in – the details that make the difference between good and bad. And I think it comes down to someone caring. A single individual (or small group of people) who genuinely pay attention. This is what I mean by personal.
The first place was owned by a young couple who popped in each day to make little adjustments. In the second place, it was just another facility in their travel camp. Another way to make money. And I’m sure they do. But I’d imagine they make less than the idyllic Wanaka oasis. And they don’t have the books of page after page of guest raves to brows thru.
Wait for it. Wait for it…
Someone finally did it.
I am sitting at a cafe in Newtown, writing this blog on the fly. Elated before I’ve even taken my first sip of caffeine, because I’ve just discovered they have free wifi courtesy of Unwired.
Big deal, you say sitting smugly in your UK or US local funky art house coffee shop, bar, gas station or free-standing Chinese take-out booth. For you wifi is like air -free, everywhere and taken for granted.
Not so in Sydney.
This is a true moment for celebration. The place is Gloria Jeans on King Street. And while they may be a chain, while they may top up their long blacks with hot water, and while they may have Beyonce’s greatest hits on 10 minute rotation, they have just found a new loyal customer.