It’s taken me a long time to type the following sentence and here it is: my butler is drawing my bath. “Would Ms Yasa like the bath salts, the bubble bath or a combination?” she asks as she lays out a loofah and settles my bath pillow into place. I’m so mortified by the experience I can barely speak except to apologise over and over.
“I’m so sorry, Kathy. I’m perfectly capable of running my own bath, but since this is a key experience at [this luxury hotel] and I’m writing about it, here we are…” Kathy thinks over what I’m saying and responds that this is a common request at the hotel and I shouldn’t give it a second thought. As I die a little inside, I keep the following thought to myself: yes, but you have no idea how I grew up.
I’ve often expressed publicly that growing up a in Sydney’s western suburbs was the best thing that could have happened to me. Thanks to my loving and supportive family, I grew up to be hardworking, ambitious and empathetic with ninja financial skills second to none.
It’s taken me a long time to type the following sentence: my butler is drawing my bath
Happily, I also grew up in the 1980s long before the internet was a thing, and I didn’t have any real way of comparing our financial situation to anyone else’s. Our neighbours and friends were no different; it was the kind of place where someone would mow your lawn in exchange for a cup of sugar or a couple of cigarettes. Community was strong.
Kids growing up in similar situations today, of course, are under no illusions on what they’re missing out on. All they have to do is go online and see their cohorts enjoying exotic holidays, showing off their expensive birthday presents and wearing designer clothes, and they know exactly where they sit on the socio-economic scale and what it could mean for them as they grow older. My 12-year-old self weeps at the idea.
Because of my background, I’m not usually a fan of public boasts; you’ll never see me posting an image of a gift given to me by a loved one, and I’ll never wear jewellery when I’m travelling overseas. I’m also not a fan of social media, but I have to be on it for my job as a travel writer – a role that sees me travelling the world and enjoying many first-class experiences I would never be able to afford to do myself.
When you’re out on a trip for a publication, there is an expectation from brands that you will post about the properties you’re reviewing and the experiences you’re undertaking and, from a business point of view, this makes sense. For a significant portion of your followers, this is the content they want to see because they’re interested in your recommendations as a trusted travel professional and of course, I comply.
… growing up a “scrappy houso kid” in Sydney’s western suburbs was the best thing that could have happened to me
When you come from a family that falls firmly within the lower socio-economic group category, however, posting a simple photo of a resort pool can lead to a mixed bag of emotions, and for me, an enormous amount of guilt. You’re aware you’re showcasing luxuries out of reach for many and you’re aware that your posts will provide further validation from various family members that you have indeed “grown up to become a real d—head”.
The cruel irony? Those posts are integral (in 2022, anyway) to keeping a roof over my own family’s head so that my children don’t have to grow up overhearing me muttering about how I’m going to make rent. I’ve yet to work out what the solution is, but regularly disclosing the background to what I put out there publicly is something I’m getting better at.
If there’s anything I know, it’s this: despite the butler baths, seaplane shots and luxury travel hashtags, you never really change from who you were as a kid. Underneath it all, I’m still that same kid bewildered at the idea that you would even think to pay someone else to fill up your bath. Most importantly, I’m glad I remain bewildered.
