I Don’t Have To Stay At The Ritz

            I didn’t grow up fancy.  I wasn’t spoiled with extravagant gifts and toys, in fact my father was always saying, “Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.  If you want something you have to earn it.” And I would.

            I landed my first job at fifteen working at the YMCA as a lifeguard.  Luckily, this did not turn out to be my life’s vocation, but it was enough to make me realize I needed to find a better job and one that didn’t require me getting my hair wet every day.

            Soon I progressed to my part-time job at Montgomery Wards working in the TV, Stereo, and Record Department, and there I stayed until college.  I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I wanted one.  And when I got to Baylor University on a sunny August day in 1971, I was quickly struck by the differences in those with money and those without.  I wasn’t smart enough to be on a scholarship, but I needed one.  I was somewhere South of high falootin’ and North of broke.

            Fast forward to spring break 2006 when Boo and I were thinking of a little trip to the beach.  With a nostalgic look on his face, he said, “I know the perfect place.”

            “Florida?” I asked.

            “No, The Flagship Hotel in Galveston.  It’s iconic.  It’s one of a kind.  Magical. It’s the only hotel built right over the water.”

            “Sounds divine,” I said, and by Friday we were driving to Galveston. 

            I was looking for a large, seven-story type mansion hotel, and when we pulled into the parking lot, I said, “This can’t be it.”

            There was a huge FEMA sign strung across the Flagship sign and the parking lot was full of cars and campers.  I’m not going to lie, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but Boo, ever the optimist, said, “Isn’t that cool that The Flagship is helping FEMA and the poor people displaced after Hurricane Katrina?  It looks a little run down, but it used to be the place to stay in Galveston.  I bet it’s still nice inside.”

            Turns out we had one of the few rooms still available for hotel reservations.  The hotel was mainly full of families from the hurricane.  As we cautiously got into the elevator, there in the corner, was a dirty diaper and three chicken bones with a KFC wrapper.

            “Don’t worry, our room will be nice,” Boo whispered.

            But, as we turned the corner from the elevator, I could hear loud music as three doors were wide open, and people were wandering from room to room with beer, babies, and biscuits (from KFC).

            “It’s only for two nights,” Boo said, “We’ll hit the beach in the morning.”

            As we were getting ready for bed that night, the musty smell of bay water, cigarettes, fast food, and marijuana wafted in and out of our room, and as I went to turn out the light, I saw a roach walking across the top of the dresser.

            “I can’t do it,” I told Boo, but it was late and by the next morning before 10:00 a.m., we were checking out.

            I don’t have to stay at the Ritz Carlton, but this was the Ritz Cracker, an old Ritz cracker that was found under a couch cushion.

            Later, in July of 2006, Boo’s mother, Jean, God rest her soul, paid for a trip to Yosemite National Park for our anniversary.  Although Boo and I are not poor, we are educators, which puts us in a certain bracket, if you know what I mean.  Anyway, Jean also got us first-class tickets to California on United.  Boo and I were surprised and yes, neither one of us had ever been in first class before this glorious trip.

            Once upon a time, before my Nikon 3500 digital camera, I sported a disposable camera everywhere I went, and first-class was no exception.  As Dorothy Parker once said, “I’ve never been a millionaire, but I know I’d be just darling at it.” I knew I was meant for first-class the minute we sat down.

            “Get your camera!”  Boo whispered.

            “Let me wait until we take off.  I don’t want to look like we don’t know how to act in first class,” I whispered back.

            Even before all the other passengers were on the plane, the stewardess asked if we would care for a glass of champagne, and we, as casually as possible, said yes!  Then she came back by with a silver tray filled with rolled up, hot, moistened hand towels for us to wipe our hands free of the dredges of travel.  “Ahhhh,” we sighed.

            Since we had no cell phone and our disposable camera had no selfie function, we took turns taking each other’s pictures at various stages of our first-class experience.  Wiping our hands, toasting the air with our glass of champagne, savoring each bite of our hot cashew nuts, and our lunch tray with a choice of red or white wine. We enjoyed every second of our flight!

            Looking back now, I’m sure our first-class neighbors thought we were the Beverly Hillbillies coming home from the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, but at the time we were living the high life.  Fancy to the max.

            The only other time Boo and I surpassed our fanciness was one weekend in New Orleans.  As luck would have it, rain pelted our car as we drove from Houston to New Orleans.  It was raining so hard we could barely see the road.  About twenty minutes outside of New Orleans, a car in the lane to our right hydroplaned in front of us, missing our car by barely an inch, and went across the line into the oncoming lane of traffic.  The only sound in our car was us sucking in our breath for what seemed like an eternity. Boo glanced into the rearview mirror as we slowed and saw that the car missed all traffic and spun around to be back in the right lane.  We were shaken.  It was like a dream.  “Shouldn’t we stop?” I asked.  But we couldn’t and neither could anyone else.  We all slowed down and tried to recover. “Thank you, Jesus,” was all we could say. 

            Still shaken up, we pulled into the Marriott parking lot an hour and a half later than check-in.  When we walked inside and gave them our names, the desk clerk said, “Malcolm?  We weren’t able to keep your reservation due to the weather.”

            “Are you sure?  What are we supposed to do now?”

            The clerk excused himself and returned a few moments later.

            “We’re sorry for the inconvenience.  Although we do not have your room tonight, our sister hotel, right next door does have a room.  Are you interested?”

            “Sure.” We said.

            We drove our car 300 feet to the hotel next door and when we pulled up a doorman greeted us.  “Welcome to the Ritz Carlton,” he said.

            Boo and I just looked at him and then at each other.  It really didn’t sink in until we arrived at our king-bed room and turned on the lights. 

            “Wow,” we said collectively.

            “Hurry and unpack,” Boo said, “So they can’t make us leave.”

            After our stressful drive to NOLA, we showered, donned the fabulous white, fluffy Ritz Carlton robes and slippers, and ordered room service.

            “We’re really fancy, now,”  I said, and with a mouth full of delicious club sandwich Boo nodded a resounding yes.

            Oh sure, I could go into the philosophy of fancy.  The definition, the descriptions, but maybe fancy is in the eye of the beholder.  Maybe fancy is a glittery term I have held in the highest esteem for too long.

            The hummingbirds in my backyard, fancy.  The gorgeous butterflies flitting from flower to flower, fancy.  Huge fluffy snowflakes falling from the sky, while your grandchild tries to catch them on his tongue. Beyond fancy.  And while I value this kind of ‘fanciness’ over the things money can buy, I still like a good hotel.

            I don’t have to stay at the Ritz Carlton, but I know I’d be darling at it.