I can tell we’re on vacation because of three things:
1. There are cactus outside.
2. The clock says 6:30 am but my body says 9:30.
3. I ate a York Peppermint Patty on a balcony watching the sun come up.
None of these things ever happen on an average day in New York, so I must be in Tucson. Husband and I flew out two days ago on an early morning JetBlue flight that boarded quickly and then sat on the rainy tarmac with me thinking, “This flight is not leaving the ground.” Since it was only ten minutes past boarding and I’m a very negative flyer to begin with, I said nothing aloud to Husband. But if my gut feelings about air travel could be converted to lottery numbers, we’d have been on a private jet to Bali. Finally the pilot came on the speaker and said there was a maintenance issue so we would be delayed. I said out loud, “No way this plane is taking off,” which elicited suspicious looks from the passengers around me and a patient sigh from Husband.
Soon the pilot was back on telling us that we were waiting for a brand new plane to arrive from Orlando and then boarding that one since the one we were on was going nowhere. The woman across the aisle looked at me like I had explosives in my shoe. I gave an innocent shrug, but inside I was shouting, “YES! I knew it, bitches! This plane had ‘turkey’ written all over it.” We de-planed and re-boarded an hour later. I did not feel triumphant.
We landed hours later in rainy Phoenix, a city where it never rains. When the plane touched down, the anti-terrorist woman moaned in a loud voice, “Please tell me we’re in Greece and it didn’t take this long just to get to Arizona.” I looked out the window at the cactus and knew the pilot had hit his mark. Before we de-planed for the final time, the flight attendant brought me a JetBlue voucher as compensation for having been seated in front of the plane’s only broken TV. By that point I’d have walked on broken glass to get out of there.
Ever since then, though, it has been a dream vacation. Husband surprised me by booking a truly exquisite suite at a resort high up in the Tucson foothills with a magnificent view from every window. He made sure there was a separate sitting room so I could blog or watch TV in the middle of the night since my sleep patterns have sucked since menopause. We have a giant Jacuzzi tub in each room, totaling one more than we actually need. When we checked in, the concierge remembered Husband’s request for the oversized jet tub from his phone reservation. She welcomed us to the resort and turned to address Husband.
CONCIERGE: You’re the gentleman who requested the double Jacuzzi. Your suite happens to boast two double jet tubs that are so large they can actually fit three people.
HUSBAND: I can’t see that happening, but thank you. We weren’t planning on having any parties.
We took the opportunity to ask for directions to some shopping spots we always try and visit when we’re in the Southwest. In the past, we have discovered vintage Native American collectibles at area pawn shops, and we hoped Tucson might yield similar treasures.
HUSBAND: Could you supply the names of some good local pawn shops?
CONCIERGE: Porn shops?
HUSBAND: (hurrying to clarify) No, no, pawn shops. Not PORN shops. Absolutely not porn shops.
CONCIERGE: Pawn shops. I see. I don’t judge, you know. I’m here solely to assist our guests.
OSV: No, we really mean pawn shops.
We were so busy trying to explain ourselves that we missed the fact that asking about pawn shops at this luxury resort was probably just a half notch above porn shops. The concierge dutifully wrote down the addresses of several places and handed it to us, no doubt wondering about all the people we’d be cramming into our two giant jet tubs. Since then, every time we pass her she gives us the same weird smile. Some bells you just can’t unring.
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