If I can give you one strong piece of advice, when you go away

In the words of Gordon Ramsay, spoken with both humor and the sharp edge of truth, we hear a warning cloaked in jest: “If I can give you one strong piece of advice, when you go away for that romantic weekend, whatever you do, do not accept or take the upgrade to the honeymoon suite.” Though at first it sounds like a playful aside, within these words is hidden the wisdom of expectations, of simplicity, and of how love flourishes not in grandeur, but in authenticity.

The ancients knew well the danger of excess. They told of Icarus, who in his arrogance flew too close to the sun, and of kings who, in gilding their palaces, forgot the humble virtues that sustain the heart. So too does Ramsay warn us that what seems like an upgrade—the lavish, the indulgent, the ostentatious—can sometimes destroy the intimacy of the moment. For the honeymoon suite, with all its grandeur, carries with it the heavy weight of expectation, the demand that the weekend must now rise to meet the height of its surroundings.

To seek a romantic weekend is to desire closeness, laughter, and memory. Yet when luxury overwhelms, the spirit may shrink, and the lovers may feel trapped beneath the burden of what “should” be magical. Ramsay, in his blunt wisdom, reminds us that love needs no gilded frame to shine. The simple room, the quiet dinner, the unadorned time together—these often hold more joy than the perfumed, candle-stuffed chambers of excess.

History too gives us proof. Consider the marriage of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI. Their union was celebrated with staggering opulence—feasts, jewels, and endless finery. Yet beneath the surface of this glittering honeymoon suite of empire, there was emptiness, disconnection, and a chasm that no luxury could bridge. Contrast this with the humble affection of common folk, who, though they had little, often forged bonds of enduring strength. It is not abundance but sincerity that makes love endure.

The deeper meaning of Ramsay’s advice is not that the honeymoon suite itself is cursed, but that love is fragile when burdened by too much spectacle. It thrives best in spaces where hearts are free to laugh at small things, to stumble without shame, to be themselves without pressure. When the stage is too grand, the actors may falter; but when the stage is simple, the truth of the play shines through.

The lesson is clear: when seeking romance, choose presence over presentation. Do not believe that bigger, brighter, or fancier will guarantee happiness. Instead, look to the substance: the shared glances, the honest words, the comfort of being together without performance. A humble inn may hold more beauty than the most extravagant suite, if it is filled with authenticity.

Therefore, O listener, carry this counsel into your life: when offered the chance to “upgrade,” pause and ask whether it truly serves the heart, or only the eye. Remember Ramsay’s wisdom—that love is not strengthened by marble bathtubs or gilded ceilings, but by the living fire between two souls. For the true romantic weekend is not measured in splendor, but in sincerity.