WHEN you're on vacation, staying in ritzy hotels is most definitely the bomb.
But given the choice between shelling out for the sort of middle-of-the-road hostelry that my family can afford and renting a real, if modest, home from its owner, I'm in the latter camp.
There's something fabulous about staying in another family's domicile or holiday home when the people who ordinarily live there are absent. You get inside the brain of another householder and see, just a little, how that person ticks. In my opinion, there's a back-story to that experience that is far more stimulating than the wall-to-wall blandness for which ordinary hotels seem to strive.
This is true even if you spend much of your time in the rental gazing at the owners' collectibles, wondering why she is so entranced by pugs, or why he considers "Hang in there, baby" to be a witty enough phrase that he's posted it prominently in his living room since its heyday 40 years ago.
You may also ponder why some people who rent out their places to strangers stuff them with fragile bric-abrac and ungainly furnishings that are guaranteed to physically collide. Why put a lacy coverlet over the bed's duvet and then leave a note demanding that renters take it off immediately to preserve it for the next guest? People are odd, and they are odd in infinitely different ways that I find strangely gripping.
So whenever we're considering a vacation, I comb websites like Vacation Rental By Owner for hours, trying to imagine myself in the photographs of the rentable spots on offer there.
We like to cook for ourselves as much as possible when we're away, so a decent kitchen is a must. If it's smartly laid out and properly supplied with knives and pots, it provides a luxurious contrast to the hellish mess of our own cooking space. For Stanley and me, that perk is almost as good as the king-sized bed in a posh hotel.
When you travel as a family, there has to be room to sprawl, and renting a home rather than a hotel room allows for a thoroughly relaxing time. I once spent days on VRBO searching for L.A. addresses that were suitably priced in safe-sounding neighbourhoods. We wound up with a fantastic yet affordable walkout basement in Malibu, right up the hill from a beachfront mansion reputedly owned by Brangelina, with a spectacular view of Zuma Beach and the coastline. We could lie in the hammock stretched between trees on "our" lawn and watch the waves dance half a mile below. It was heavenly, much better than advertised.
That said, you really ought to pay attention to the comments of previous renters on vacation rental sites. One March break, we booked a condo in Oahu that other people had already strenuously complained about, just because it was the only one in our price range. When we arrived, we found that the foldout bed collapsed when folded out, that there were large holes in the faded drapes and that our fellow tenants staggered around the building like zombies.
One pale, thin, talkative woman we met at the swimming pool had a black eye and volunteered an unlikely yarn about how she got it. The place was a complete dive, but in Hawaii, it hardly mattered: It's not like snow was going to come whistling through chinks in the wall, and the neighbourhood was mercifully free of gunfire.
One house we booked in the States, however, actually did feature gunfire up the street one night in 2011. According to the TV news the next day, however, there were no actual murders or injuries, so we were game enough to rent it again this year. You couldn't beat the deck, hot tub and barbecue setup and the price was certainly right.
It wasn't as perfect as the place I stayed recently, though. Calgary friends were on vacation out of town during the week in which we suddenly decided to visit, and they said we could get their key from a caretaker and make ourselves comfortable. What bliss it was to be in a family home with acres of room and lashings of light, not to mention a regular housekeeper to tidy in our wake.
On the day we arrived, I went on a cooking spree for our absent hosts, who don't adore cooking but happen to have the kitchen of my dreams. There was plenty of counter space, but even better, the place was a triumph of organization. In the pantry, everything was neatly and logically stored and clearly marked. I felt as though I were living in a domestic fantasy. Sunshine, cleanliness, extreme organization and silence. I hadn't realized how much I love those things.
Maybe I should book myself into a monastery next.
