Do This. Do That. Be Banal

Sunday, 24 August 2025

Mike White is a senior writer and columnist specialising in feature writing, including criminal justice investigations.

OPINION: It had been a long day.

We were tired, my partner was stressed, I was sick, and the dog had just about wandered off a small cliff in the dark as we unpacked the car.

But as we entered the Airbnb, the decor decided we needed to see the bigger picture.

“Dream”, “Smile”, two cushions screamed at us from a sofa, as if we were just being glum grumps with petty concerns.

This was no place for self-indulgent funks, this was a place of enforced jollity and bold horizon thinking, the accessories instructed us, as I stood there, weighed by the chilly-bin and wondering where to put the dog’s bed.

I lit the fire, put the jug on for a cup of tea, and then turned the cushions around, letting their smiley dreams suffocate for a while in the sofa’s far reaches.

It always amazes me how people with Airbnbs love to put instructional mantras and life lessonry on their walls, as if this was some re-education camp for mopey malcontents whose moods were threatening national prosperity.

These pearls, these gems of wit and wisdom, are hung on walls with such certitude and hubris.

There can only be three reasons for this:

1. The owners really, truly believe in these trite framed phrases.

2. There was an annoying gap on the wall that they felt needed filling, like some awkward intercession in a dying conversation where it all falls silent and nobody can think of anything to say.

3. There was a huge sale on tacky homeware shit when they were decorating their holiday home.

I don’t know, but when I go on holiday, I just want to crash and relax, not be lectured, or confronted with eat-pray-love bullshittery.

I want to read a good book, not someone’s half-haiku on life’s solutions.

I want to make up my own mind about what I do today, not be told what paradise constitutes.

But no, it seems many in the Airbnb-hosting world have other, better ideas.

They think I’m obviously an empty vacationing vessel that needs filling with mid-life motivation.

They assume I’m an enervated weekend sadsack who is so sad, the only remedy is an infusion with cheap greeting-card sentiment.

Or they reckon that for a few hundred bucks a night, they can give me not just moderately comfortable pillows, and toilet rolls with the leading edge folded into an arrowhead, but a roadmap to nirvana.

These precious secrets are nailed just above a bedside lamp, whose switch is always somewhere out of reach and tangled with the electric blanket controls.

Some are trite and twee:

“If friends were flowers, I’d pick you.”

Some are plain mystifying:

“Yesterday I really wanted tacos. Now I’m eating tacos. Follow your dreams.”

Others are just bollocky banality.

“Living the dream at the beach.”

Enough with the bloody dreaming. All I want is a wonderful nap after lunch on the couch. Do I have to be constantly thinking of fulfilling my potential?

At one place, there was this pennant thing that had the word “STAY” on it, and underneath, “Awesome”.

Ooooh, nifty double meaning, I thought to myself for a second. But one of them needs punctuation to make sense, the other sweats nauseating positivity, and together they’re plain dreadful.

Then there are the ho ho ho punnery ones, like the tea and coffee set at one place:

“Beau Tea Ful.” “Espresso yourself.” “Give me some sugar.” They really ran out of inspiration on that last one.

And who thought it was a really amazing idea to etch “Hello Gorgeous” on the bathroom mirror?

Find me one person who wakes up, goes into the bathroom to rummage for some Panadol, catches themselves in the mirror, notices the “Hello Gorgeous” homily, and suddenly thinks, whoa, that’s right, I’m not hungover, I’m Brad Pitt.

One day, I swear I’ll walk into a bach and there’ll be a sign exhorting me to “Be more broccoli.” And I’ll go, oh yeah, you’re so right, I must live a healthier, greener life.

Even the most benign implements are vehicles for sloganeering, it seems.

On the kitchen cloth at one place was inscribed, “Happy Dish”. I mean, I’m not even going to start to try to understand how that got from idiotic concept to finished product, presumably through umpteen sensible people who all said, yep, that’s a winner - that’ll make the world a better place.

The whole idea of a holiday is to put distance from normality, and temporarily forget any woes or foes. To not have people in your ear, telling you what to do, or how to act or feel.

Not to unlock the door and be faced with some written kombucha on the wall.

An empty space is fine, really.

Let me stare at it, use my imagination, and fill in the blank myself.

What do you think? Email sundayletters@stuff.co.nz. Please include your full name and address.