Travel used to be for the well-off, then the middle-class discovered it an only do it because they are supposed to like it.
The getaway that's close to home, where you know the restaurants and have some favorite activities, and a nice place to read all those books downloaded on the iPad…now, that's relaxation.
Good word.
I saw my parents deal with that sort of thing when I was young. Someone would say, "Have you eaten at Le Chat Trieste? It's a divine little cafe in Lyons. It over looks the river and has heavenly coq au vin."
My mother would snort and say, "That old place? Oh, dear -- no one goes there any more. Not after Chef Henri left. He told me he was unhappy there, and I pointed him to a little place in Brest that needed a top chef. It doesn't have a name, but it's on a lovely shady lane on the eastside of Brest -- you know: the nice part that overlooks the harbor. And he doesn't cook the coq au vin anymore. He found it tiresome. But he does make a duck confit which is simply scrumptious."
All of this was totally fictional. But not too many people tried to do the status-seeking stories of travel with my mother a second time.