MAGAN'S WORLD: Manchan Magan's tales of a travel addict
Choosing a holiday destination is a game of emotions; that much is clear. The idea of there being a perfect spot suitable for everyone is a myth. It is far too intuitive for that. It's like saying that there's one perfect glass of wine or a perfect religion.
Why is it that, for some, even the mention of "Inca" will have them openly salivating, as images of sacred rituals and soaring Andean peaks flood their minds, while others dismiss the place outright, along with its culture of child-sacrificing gull-poop gatherers?
The same people who loathe South America may well be the ones who go weak-kneed at the sound of an Indian raga or a glimpse of a well-draped sari. Something pulls us in a certain direction, towards a certain culture.
We're fortunate to live in a country that is a destination of desire for many people, so we get an opportunity to see up close the particular oddities of this relationship, especially what happens when a destination fails to live up to the unreasonable expectations placed on it, when it does not respond to suitors' advances in the ways they would like.
Frequently the results are to be found in the letters pages of this newspaper: from Americans, for example, who have come here to consummate their love affair with Ireland but are shocked to find that we mightn't feel the same way about them. They react as any spurned lover would.
They arrive expecting us to be waiting for them dressed in little more than a linen shift and perhaps a bit of báinín, and, after a night of coy dancing and a few glasses of mead at Durty Nelly's, they presume we will invite them back to our thatched cottage and lead them over to the settle bed with a demure smile.
The reality can be disappointing. Ireland's interest in our suitors is fundamentally akin to that of a gigolo to its tricks. We'll send someone out to the airport to greet them, and bring them around Bunratty and Glendalough on a coach - maybe even sing them a verse of Molly Malone along the way - but it's all only for tips. Our principal aim is to get them to the gift shops as often as possible for as long as possible, so we can make our cut.
When they begin to notice this, things turn nasty. Some of them just can't face the rejection, and they come running to Madam Editor, denouncing us all - particularly the waiter who overcharged them for an overcooked steak or the guy who clamped their rental car outside Trinity - on the letters page.
I feel for them, I really do. I've felt cheated myself at times in a country that I had over-romanticised, but I think a lot of the blame lies with Fáilte Ireland. Its international advertising amounts to little less than entrapment. It leads the poor suckers on, tempting them with unreasonable expectations of what we can offer. It is about time it came clean about the fact that we are not a nation of ladyboys, ready to bat our eyelashes and swoon at the first tourist we see. Like any conscientious madam, it needs to be upfront with the punters about the nature of the relationship they can expect from us.
Likewise, it behoves us to bear this in mind next time we fall in love with a foreign country. It's fine to allow our hearts to dictate a holiday destination, but listen to the head as well.
manchan@ireland.com