Why are we obsessed with “the Maldives of Milan”?

“The Maldives are just a stone’s throw from Milan!” “Europe’s little Thailand”. “The Santorini of the South”. “The Italian Bali”. The seasons change, as do trendy destinations, but the pattern remains the same: take a place – often beautiful, sometimes unknown and almost always underrated – and present it as a more affordable, accessible alternative to somewhere more famous and distant.

It’s such a widespread habit that it has become almost invisible, like certain linguistic tics that we use without realising. Yet it’s worth pausing to consider this seemingly innocuous phrase, because behind it lies a mental map of how we think about travel, desire, geography and lifestyle journalism.

The “X is like Y” formula is one of the oldest communication tools. It works because it takes advantage of cognitive economy: rather than constructing a mental image of an unfamiliar place from scratch, it links the new concept to something that already exists. This requires less effort from the brain. The reader understands immediately.

This mechanism is particularly powerful in tourism. The Maldives are more than just an archipelago in the Indian Ocean; they represent a shared vision. Turquoise waters, coral reefs, overwater bungalows and luxury come to mind. When a headline promises that the Maldives are just a stone’s throw from Milan, it isn’t describing a geographical feature; it’s triggering a whole host of emotions and expectations.

Depending on your point of view, the problem – or the appeal – is that this emotional framework almost never fits perfectly with the place it’s supposed to describe. The waters of Lake Como may be beautiful, but they are not the Maldives. Puglia has its own unique charm, but it’s not Thailand. Making comparisons creates a disconnect: it promises one thing and delivers another. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes it’s worse, but it’s always different.

Not all comparisons work in the same way or serve the same purpose. At least two broad categories are worth distinguishing. The first is comparison as elevation. In this case, you take a place that does not yet have an established tourist identity – one that does not appear in guidebooks and is unknown to the general public – and pair it with something famous in order to give it a place in the collective imagination. Referring to a place as the “little Cinque Terre of the South”, for example, allows the reader to immediately envision colourful villages, rocky coastlines, the sea and steep cliffs, even if they don’t know exactly where it is. In this sense, the comparison can be a tool for discovery, lowering the barrier to entry for destinations that would otherwise remain invisible.

On the other hand, the second category is comparison as simplification, or as fiction in certain cases. Here, the purpose of the comparison is to sell, not to reveal. It creates an expectation that the place itself might not generate. In this sense, the comparison becomes a form of misleading advertising: the reader starts out imagining one thing and finds another.

The difference between the two approaches is subtle yet significant. In the first instance, the comparison is an honest narrative tool that uses a familiar reference point to provide context. In the second, however, it is a rhetorical trick that exploits people’s desires in order to attract attention, traffic and clicks.

To understand why this formula is so successful, we need to consider what motivates people to travel. Tourists, at least those drawn to such headlines, aren’t necessarily looking for a particular destination. Often, they’re looking for an experience, atmosphere or emotion. They want the exotic without the long flight, luxury without the full price tag and adventure without too much risk. This comparison meets that need perfectly: it offers the fantasy of a faraway place with the convenience of something nearby.

All of this has a deeply contemporary feel to it. We live in an age where aspirations have been democratised, but resources have not. While intercontinental travel is technically within the reach of many, it is not always accessible to everyone. Comparisons such as “the Maldives are just around the corner” exploit this tension: they imply that you can have the most with the least, that the dream is within reach and that you don’t have to travel far to feel as if you’re somewhere else.

This isn’t just an Italian quirk. The mechanism is universal and plays out in every country, with local variations that are equally revealing. For decades, Bodrum has been known as the Turkish Saint-Tropez. This comparison is telling: it takes a city with a thousand-year history, its own culture and cuisine, and reduces it to a stereotype of French Mediterranean high society. Bodrum is not Saint-Tropez, not least because overtourism has not worn it down in the same way.

Tbilisi has long been called “the new Berlin” thanks to its underground techno and electronic music scenes, as well as its vibrant artistic community. Batumi, another Georgian city located on the Black Sea coast, has been described as a “mini Dubai” due to its rapid urban transformation, which is characterised by skyscrapers, eccentric architecture and futuristic ambitions. Annecy, like many other cities crisscrossed by canals, is known as the “Little Venice of the French Alps”.

Every comparison seems innocent enough, but it reveals a hierarchy. One place always serves as a model, while another is expected to resemble it.

These comparisons impose a cost on the places they describe, and it is not negligible. When a place is redefined through the lens of another, it risks losing its distinctiveness – its ability to be recognised for what it is rather than what it resembles.

Let's take a look at a specific example. The Tremiti Islands, located in the Adriatic Sea, are a stunning archipelago with crystal-clear waters, abundant marine life and a rich history. For years, articles have been circulating that describe them as the “Maldives of Southern Italy”. The problem with this label is that it attracts a certain type of tourist – those who are looking for a picture-perfect experience – and inevitably disappoints them. The Tremiti Islands don’t have overwater resorts or that kind of beach, nor are they as accessible as tropical islands. Conversely, those who might appreciate the islands for their rugged authenticity and fascinating history may not visit because the comparison doesn’t apply to them.

Not only does a misleading comparison promise what a place cannot deliver, it also attracts the wrong kind of tourist and drives away the right kind. This can have practical consequences for the local economy and infrastructure development, as well as affecting how residents perceive their own region.

There is also a second, more subtle set of problems. Constant exposure to comparisons of this kind creates an implicit hierarchy of places. There are original places, which have value in their own right, and imitations, which only have value as copies. A place that is constantly referred to as “little X” begins to embody this inferior status in its public image. It becomes harder to develop an independent narrative – an identity that is not based on comparison.

Perhaps the point isn’t to stop using comparisons altogether. That would be impossible—and perhaps even pointless: culture also thrives on analogies, similarities, and shortcuts. The point is to understand when a comparison opens a door and when it closes one. When it helps us see a place and when it replaces it with a ready-made image. Because traveling should also serve this purpose: to encounter something we didn’t yet have the words to describe, not just to find elsewhere what we already knew.

Featured image: Verzasca Valley, Ticino Canton, by olyasolod on Adobe Stock (detail).