“A 5-star sleeping experience at a 1-star price.” That’s what Malaysia’s Tune Hotels aim to offer. But do they succeed?
Like its parent company, Air Asia, has done for commercial air travel, Tune rethinks the traditional hotel business model, allowing guests to tailor their stay by selecting (and paying for) amenities à la carte. If you want a budget room with minimal creature comforts, that’s what you’ll get. If you want more flash, you pull more cash.
The basic Tune room, which can be had for as little as RM9.99 ($3) plus tax if you play your advance-online-booking cards right, consists of a bed, a hot shower, an electronic safe, and a ceiling fan. That means no extravagances like a/c, tv, towels, or soap. But unlike comparably priced hostel and motel rooms tend to be, Tune’s pared-down digs are stylish and comfortable spaces that the magical Ikea elves might have designed in their spare time. That is, if they even experience time.
The rooms are compact and angular, to a somnambulator’s chagrin; the bathrooms are chic and clean; and the bedding is pristine, with “King Koil®spring mattress beds with pillows, pillowcases, bed sheets and 250-thread count duvets.” For a small incremental fee each — ranging from $2 to $5 — you can upgrade your stay with a towel and toiletries, a/c, wi-fi (though they have a free internet cafe in the lobby), and travel insurance. I recommend this last one from personal experience, especially if your itinerary is subject to change; without insurance, if you have to cancel a reservation, your prepayment might as well have been a donation.
Another interesting Tune touch: Instead of mawkish, Bob-Ross-clone hotel paintings, the walls of a Tune room are adorned with concept art of its own — advertisements for hotel services, Air Asia promotions, and nearby restaurants. Hey, if it helps keep room rates low, I don’t mind the odd dash of corporate propaganda. I might even pay a little extra to avoid another picture of a solitary eagle, looking all pensive and forlorn.
You might be thinking, “If room rates are so low, the hotels must be in awful locations or have some sort of poltergiest they’re not telling us about, right?” As for locations, Tune takes pride in setting up shop where people want to be, i.e. in safe areas near the downtown bustle and major shopping areas. And as for the poltergeist, isn’t it possible that it’s just looking for high-quality accommodation at a reasonable price, too?
But Tune does go off pitch in places. They certainly haven’t made a huge investment in soundproofing, for one thing. During one of my nights in the Kuala Lumpur hotel, the adjacent room to mine held a family of four, from the sound of it. One of the children so enjoyed the peals of his own squealing and the relentless patter of his flip-flops down the (acoustically brilliant) tile hallway, that he continued for an adolescent’s eternity, until he either ran out of batteries or into a wall.
Currently only the Kuala Lumpur and Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, hotels are open for business, but there are five others in Malaysia scheduled to open soon. Plus, as the major airlines have had to adjust to the success of low-cost carriers, I wouldn’t be surprised if struggling hotels and startups around the world adopt the Tune model if Air Asia’s hotel experiment takes off. And that sounds just right to me.
Determined not to be thwarted by the weather — or sucked into the vortex of must-see TV — the next morning I rode ten miles (and a couple extra, thanks to some illegible kilometer markers) out of town to see two guidebook-recommended caves. Due to the unrelenting rain, however, the river was too swollen and the current too powerful to safely cross. So back I rode, soaking and cold, to my guesthouse, where I retired with a book until dinner.
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The climbing left me hungry and in a lather, so I wandered over to 
Tourists weave through the narrow lanes between them, browsing and bargaining for handmade jewelry, silk scarves and tapestries, wood carvings, handbags, and of course, the ubiquitous “Same Same But Different” T-shirts and hats peddled all over Laos and Thailand. After an excellent dinner at Tum Tum Bamboo Restaurant — a perfect tomato salad followed by catfish stewed in coconut milk, a dish formerly prepared for the Lao royal family — I headed back to my guesthouse for a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I was bound for Vang Vieng.
Ten hours after my bus left Vientiane, and with Luang Prabang mercifully near, there was an explosion in the undercarriage directly beneath my seat. “Was that a sniper?” begged the girl in the row ahead of me. Unless we’re all unwitting extras in a forthcoming Tomb Raider movie, it was probably just a tire blowout, I thought.
After a short tuk-tuk ride from the bus station, I set off on foot with my guidebook in hand to find a room for the night. The first three places I tried were full, and as the last traces of daylight disappeared, the rain started to fall. In another minute it was coming down with vigor. Getting doused and desperate, I ducked under the arch of the next guesthouse I found, sprinted up its open-air stairs, and put my name on its only available room, a triple that would cost me $30 for the night. More than I wanted to pay, yes, but worth it to escape the monsoon.
I found and crossed the gapped pedestrian bridge that straddles the mud-colored Nam Khan river, then pedaled out to a tiny village past the airport. The paved road gave way to a dirt path cratered with puddles and serrated with rocks. Fearing another tire puncture and a long walk back, I got down and pushed the bike on foot. A half dozen incredibly cute kids followed me down the road for a few meters, shouting “Sabaidee!” and giggling amongst themselves when I tried to reply in kind. I kept walking until the path narrowed and became thick with growth on both sides, when tomorrow’s newspaper headline flashed through my head: “Disoriented tourist, inexplicably pushing perfectly sound bike, gobbled up by jungle cat previously thought extinct. Town celebrates jungle cat.” So I turned back.
As I approached the Nam Khan again, I caught sight of a gleaming, golden-spired pagoda up in the hills and decided to pay it a visit. The sign spanning the entrance read ‘Wat Pa Phon Phao’. I rode up the driveway, parked and locked my bike, and removed my shoes before entering the wat’s Peace Pagoda. Inside I met a few Buddhist nuns who invited me to have a look around. The octagonal pagoda has four levels, each one smaller than the last as you climb, with walls covered 360° with vibrantly painted panels
see if it’s available for the dates you need. Shown above is a renovated 
If you’re still on the fence about the privately owned vacation rental, perhaps it will help to know that VRBO®’s 
Sometimes flashpacking isn’t an option. Perhaps the economy’s got you down and you can only afford budget accommodations for this year’s vacation. Maybe you’re planning on going far off the beaten track and there’re slim pickings. The question du jour is can you fake flashpacking?
Avoid that mildew smell - The best way to trick your brain is through scent. You will not be able to pretend you are anywhere but a dingy, dirty place if that’s what it smells like. Even decent dwellings can smell damp and dank during the rainy season, so I always try to pack scented travel candles. Now crawl under your net in your silk sheets, light some candles, and grab a good book. Pretend it’s luxury and a relief to be staying in a place without internet…
lather and rinse. I tend to travel with wet wipes because you can avoid gross guesthouse showers (or freezing cold water) for a few days and stay perfectly clean. And now I’ve found this 
Arctic Pathfinder arranges a wide variety of trips — this is the 
If you’d prefer to tailor a trip for yourself, check out 
For a detailed explanation of the phenomenon of the Northern Lights, or Aurora Borealis, check out 
1. 
2. Kakslauttanen, Finland — The 
I arrived in Shanghai six days ago, and armed with a Lonely Planet guide/phrasebook, I set out to see and do as much as possible in a week-long stay. I spent the first full day in Shanghai plotting an itinerary, walking the Huangpu River (pictured above) and Renmin Square, and figuring out the combination of buses, trains, planes, and taxis that would get me where I wanted to go. The next morning I boarded a bus for Huangshan (the Yellow Mountain — more on that later) five-and-a-half-hours west of Shanghai, and thought things were going along splendidly.