Grump Groans

One of the challenges with Grump Goes Grand is that people often assume I am reviewing individual components of an experience.

I am not.

I am reviewing the experience.

The distinction is important.

To explain why, I need to tell you about Paris.

In 2022, Grump & Co travelled to France.

It was my first visit.

Like many Australians, I had spent years seeing Paris in movies, television shows, travel magazines and advertisements.

Paris was supposed to be romantic.

Paris was supposed to be beautiful.

Paris was supposed to be magical.

Nobody mentioned the plumbing.

We stayed in a small apartment overlooking the Louvre.

Not figuratively.

Not “within walking distance”.

Actually overlooking the Louvre.

Our tiny Juliette balcony opened onto a view that looked like a postcard had escaped and attached itself to the building.

The view was magnificent.

The apartment itself appeared to have been designed by somebody with a deep and abiding hatred of available floor space.

The room was small.

The hallways were smaller.

The lift was largely symbolic.

The bathroom was accessed via a ladder that climbed above the bed into a tiny loft space.

As somebody carrying a few extra kilograms and operating on a hip that was already considering early retirement, this arrangement was less “Parisian charm” and more “workplace health and safety incident”.

The shower required sitting in the bath.

Using the toilet required good aim and an optimistic attitude.

The plumbing appeared to predate several major European conflicts.

Navigating the hallway while the cleaners were working required a combination of gymnastics, diplomacy and controlled breathing.

Objectively speaking, there were very few parts of the accommodation I actually liked.

And yet.

I would stay there again tomorrow.

This tends to confuse people.

“How can you recommend something when you spent ten minutes complaining about it?”

Because the complaints and the experience are not the same thing.

The apartment was awkward.

The apartment was impractical.

The apartment occasionally felt like a puzzle designed by an architect with unresolved anger issues.

But every morning I opened those doors and looked across at the Louvre.

Every evening I sat on that tiny balcony and watched Paris happen around me.

The experience was bigger than the inconveniences.

Which brings me to one of the core philosophies behind Grump Goes Grand.

I may not like the dishes.

But I can enjoy the dinner.

I may not like the pillows.

But I can enjoy the room.

I may not like every individual component of an experience.

But the question I am ultimately trying to answer is much simpler.

Would I do it again?

For Paris, the answer is easy.

Immediately.

Though I might pack a head torch this time.

For those of you new to Grump Goes Grand, and considering this is the first post, that includes me, so I should point out that I don’t necessarily hate everything.

Likewise, while I may come across like it, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s a by-product of a bullshit bypass and an inability to read between the lines of social constructs I clearly missed the memo on.

Let me illustrate the concept behind Grump Goes Grand.

Often, in the travels of Grump & Co, the “& Co” is represented by my long-suffering partner of ten years.

Those ten years have taught us both important lessons.

• Do not ask Grump for an opinion before the second coffee of the day, regardless of timezone, altitude, or how recently the previous coffee occurred.

• Do not expect Grump to notice a haircut. He has a blind spot for fashion, styling, and personal appearance in general.

• Do not ask Grump, “What do you think?”
  He will answer.
  Honestly.
  The honest part seems to be the primary cause of the issue, but more importantly, the basis of this publication.

• “It needs garlic” is a compliment.
  More than that, it is actually the second-highest praise Grump can give.
  To the untrained ear, it means he doesn’t like it.
  To the trained ear, it means he is invested, interested, and can see how to make it better.
  That may seem rude, but it is intended as a love language lost somewhere in Google Translate.
  

• “It was good” is the highest praise available.
  This is the theatrical equivalent of “No notes.”
  Everything worked.
  Nothing requires fixing.
  No action items have been raised.

• “It was… good” is reserved for the particularly bad.

For the sake of ongoing domestic peace, I should clarify that this has never been applied to any of & Co’s clothing or cooking.

This rating falls under the general principle of:

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

The ellipsis does a lot of heavy lifting.

It is the sound of a man politely trying not to say anything, while his face quietly prepares a sandwich for later.

So when Grump says something needs garlic, better lighting, quieter music, clearer signage, a softer pillow, less ceremony, more seating, fewer QR codes, or a portion size visible without specialist equipment, it does not necessarily mean the thing was bad.

It means there was something there worth saving.

The things I truly dislike rarely receive detailed notes. They receive silence.

And silence, from Grump, is not approval.

It is the place bad experiences go when even complaining feels like effort.