Why five stars aren’t the highest compliment.
The midsummer sun blistered the asphalt of Parkway Plaza Mall as I wedged the 5×7-inch flyers beneath the windshield wipers of every car in the lot.
Each flyer announced the birth of my first business: Paul Barnett Photography.
Weddings, portraits, babies, team photos, family reunions, commercial work… anything! If you needed a photo, I was your man. At least, if you could call a 19-year-old a man.
My guerrilla marketing budget was $20, enough for 500 sheets, each cut in half at four cents a copy.
I began my advertising blitz at 11:00 a.m. By 1:00, I was sunburned, parched, and had barely made a dent in the pile. Still, I pressed on. Three hours later, my hands were raw and filthy. Every last flyer was tucked beneath the wipers of 1,000 cars.
I raced back to my apartment, determined not to miss the flood of calls that was surely coming. The prospect of new clients and the potential dollars thrilled me. I could taste success.
But there was no blinking light on the answering machine.
“Is it on?” I wondered.
It was on.
No one had called.
Hours passed as I sat beside the phone, waiting. The only activity in that tiny, one-room El Cajon apartment was a cockroach staring at me from the kitchen table.
Early the next morning, still without a single call, I drove back to the mall. I walked up and down the empty parking lot, occasionally spotting one of my flyers. Some had been run over and pressed into the pavement. Others were just tossed away, half-crumpled on the ground.
“I just don’t understand,” I thought. “Don’t these people know who I am?”
More than forty years later, I can still picture that sunbaked parking lot.
The tools have changed. Search-optimized websites, email blasts, social media posts, and Google searches have replaced the windshield flyer. But every business is still chasing the same thing: trust from someone they have never met.
Riviera has many Google reviews, all five-star. Each one means a great deal to me, and the 19-year-old beside that silent answering machine could never have imagined so many people praising his work for the world to see.
But the recommendations that mean the most rarely appear online. They happen quietly, in brief conversations between friends.
“You’re going to San Diego? You should spend an afternoon sailing.”
“Do you know anyone?”
“I’ve got a guy.”
A five-star review tells a stranger, “Other people enjoyed this.”
“I’ve got a guy,” says, “I know him. Trust me.”
A personal recommendation carries the weight of the friendship behind it. When someone gives you a name, they are putting some of their own reputation on the line.
Over time, Riviera has become one of those discoveries people like to keep in their back pocket: the restaurant with no sign, the contractor who answers the phone, the mechanic who tells the truth. Or the sailing captain who creates a beautiful afternoon without making it feel like a scripted tour.
There is a quiet pleasure in knowing the right person. The point is not to keep the secret hidden, but to share it with someone you care about. To give them an experience you already know they will love. Some guests tell their friends. Others come back, bringing new friends, family, or another occasion worth celebrating. That quiet cycle of returning and referring has become one of the most meaningful parts of Riviera’s success.
At 19, I thought the road to success meant getting my name beneath as many windshield wipers as possible.
Now I know better.
As a Stanford Business School professor put it, “Authenticity doesn’t scale.”
Rather, it travels from one person to another through a recommendation quietly made between friends. No algorithm can manufacture it, and no advertising campaign can demand it. It has to be earned. It must be authentic.
A thousand flyers brought no calls. Five-star reviews may help someone find Riviera.
But when a former guest says, “You’re going to San Diego? I’ve got a guy,” I know we’ve earned something more valuable than five stars.
Fair Winds and Following Seas,
Paul & Victoria