Tag Archives: Hotels

Non-fiction

Almost Over

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It saddens me to see this vacation come to a close. I’ll be back at work this Monday, and I dread that day when it comes. Until then, I guess I’ll just sit here and enjoy the two days I have left. Isn’t that what everyone thinks when they’ve been away from their jobs? It must depend on how much someone enjoys doing what they’re doing.

I drove back to Palm Springs on Thursday, and I must admit I miss the beach, even though I was never at the beach. I’m not a beach person, although I can lie on my back in the sand on any sunny day. What kind of person am I? I’m not a forest person, nor a desert person. Maybe I’m a lake person. I could sit at the lake and stare at the blue water for hours if it’s, in fact, blue water. Sometimes it’s brown water, which doesn’t much appeal to me. But who does it appeal to?

I checked out of my room in Goleta on Thursday and sat in the coffee shop for several hours before I hit the laundromat to wash my pants and socks. While they were in the washer, I went back to the coffee shop and waited.

When I came back, I saw my wet clothes on the counter and a woman standing near them. She didn’t speak English, but she gestured towards my clothes and asked if they were mine. She’d removed my clothes from the washer. It pissed me off. What kind of rude person does that?

I said, “Thanks,” and I don’t know why I said “Thanks.” She didn’t deserve it. She deserved her clothes to be thrown out of the laundromat.

I grabbed my clothes and hastily threw them in the dryer. I lost one of my socks in the process, always losing socks. What is it about socks where I always lose them? They just get away from me. I constantly need to buy new ones. That lady had put me in a bad mood.

While the clothes were in the dryer, I went back to my room and packed my belongings. I checked out with the concierge, and he asked if I enjoyed my stay. I couldn’t say that I did. It was a funky shower with a detachable showerhead that hung against the wall. The only way for me to wash myself was to hold the showerhead while I applied the soap. And I find it to be a challenge to wash my hair with one hand. So I had to attach the showerhead back onto the thing that holds it so I could rub the shampoo on my head.

But I didn’t complain to the concierge. I didn’t have time.

“Do you need gas?” he asked.

“Not immediately,” I said.

“Well, if you do, there’s a Valero across the street. We have cheaper prices than Santa Barbara. I highly recommend you use that one.”

I wanted to repeat to him that I didn’t need gas. Did he not get the message? I handed him my keycards. They’d charged me fifteen dollars just to park in their precious parking lot. I at least could park right in front of my room. It was a small room with about a seventy-inch flatscreen TV on a wooden drawer. The only way to find the mini fridge was to open the drawer, and it was inside there. I’d stashed my iced espresso and a couple of cookies in it.

And then, I hit the road from Goleta back to Palm Springs. It was a four-hour drive. The traffic slowed down in many parts during the trip, mostly on the 60 freeway heading towards Indio. I didn’t know what the holdup was or if there was anything to hold up for, but there was nowhere to be. I could afford to waste a whole day on the road.

I got home after 6 p.m., unpacked, and decided to take a walk. The street fair on Palm Canyon Road had already begun. They do it every Thursday in Palm Springs. I walked past the vendors, having never bought a thing from them, but I would like to try the food someday.

And now it’s Saturday. I’ll do much of the same thing. It’s routine for me at this point. I write and edit for several hours in the morning, go for a two-hour walk, maybe swim, come back, write and edit some more before I come home, take a shower, make dinner, and go to sleep. I can’t sit still, can’t watch TV. It depresses me too much.

Last night, I watched a movie that was eerily similar to the book I’m putting out next year. It wasn’t exactly like my book. I’d conceived the idea during COVID, four years ago, before this movie was probably even thought about. I won’t get into the movie and what it was, but I will say how strange the collective unconscious is if this has anything to do with it. It’s like our brains are connected, or every idea has been taken. I can write anything, and rest assured, somebody has already done it.

Non-fiction

In Goleta

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I arrived in Goleta last night at about six o’clock. The waves were crawling along the ocean as I drove by with the sun beating my face from the west on the 101. I’d driven four hours from the heat of Palm Springs to the cool of Santa Barbara County. The hotel room was waiting for me.

I checked in with a kid named Chuck, who was probably close to twenty-three. The lobby smelled like peanuts and beer. (It was next to a lounge where folks were laughing and chatting.) Chuck was a nice kid.

He said, “How’s’ your day going so far? It’s hot. At least it’s cool in here.”

It was seventy-two degrees in Goleta. I’d just driven from the hottest part of California, arguably.

“I live in Palm Springs,” I said.

His smile changed. “Oh. Okay. Are you parking here?”

What an odd question. Where was I supposed to park?

“Yes, I am.”

He handed me an air refresher in the shape of an old-fashioned Woody car that I could hang on my mirror. “This will allow you to park here,” he said.

I’d never been given one before, but I took it.

“Thanks, Chuck,” I said.

Chuck told me where to park. Like hotel staff people do, he showed me a map of the complex by drawing a curve to the right building. I thanked him and drove there.

I rolled my suitcase to the second level, which smelled like sanitizer. It was outdoors. My room was 270. It was above the pool.

I saw a few scantily clad women in bikinis at half past six. It was cool outside, and they were lying to get a suntan.

When I entered the room, I noticed the shade was transparent. Everyone could see me in there, but then I saw another shade that was made of bamboo. I rolled that one down so no one could see me.

I dropped everything off before I went to get my favorite pizza in town. Rusty’s Pizza Parlor brought me back to my youth when I used to eat the same pizza up north. I used to drive for them as a delivery boy in college. It’s some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. I ordered it with pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom, the standard pizza I always eat.

And then I took a shower. Whoever designed it needed their head checked. It didn’t have a shower door. When I went to turn it on, the water blasted out and doused my head before I could take my clothes off, so my shirt got wet. What a folly that shower was. At least the shampoo was peppermint, and the soap had the aroma of rum, of all scents.

Anyway, I went to bed at around 9:30 p.m., which is the standard time I go to bed, and I kept waking up in the middle of the night. I’m a bad sleeper.

I awoke to the smell of a dusty air conditioner before the sun rose and brushed my teeth in the shower. I wash myself at night and brush my teeth in the morning—that’s two showers a day. I also shave in the shower. It gets things done quicker and easier.

Then, I drove to my favorite coffee shop, the Old Town Coffee Shop, where the coffee beans lured me in with their distinct smell.

I ordered the iced Americano. The lady behind the counter told me to use a password on the receipt that was case-sensitive to use the internet. I waited about ten minutes for the one guy who was making the drinks.

The iced Americano didn’t taste like espresso. It tasted sour, and I didn’t like it. But I love this place not for its coffee but for its ambiance.

It’s huge, with a large back patio with orange canopies, a wooden fence surrounding it, and violets growing over it.

The white brick wall of the building next to it has a painting of two brown hands holding each other and swirls of green, dark blue, and light blue. It’s ugly, but most paintings these days are ugly anyway. I go to a museum and leave unimpressed. People just don’t have the time to make a good painting anymore.

But anyway, what am I going to do today? Eat. That’s what vacations are all about—nothing else. It doesn’t matter where I vacation—Switzerland.

“What did you do in Switzerland?”

“I ate.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t go on any tours?”

“Nope.”

I’m not the average tourist. I spend my time eating. Eating and writing. What else is there to do in Switzerland, Morocco, or Brussels? What else is there to do domestically in New York, in Key West, in Seattle? To me, that’s what vacations are all about. I’ll spend my time this week just eating, looking forward to the next glutinous meal.