There are two reasons why Texans run up to Colorado now and then. One is the surroundings. Though at times our part of Texas is lovely, the Rockies are majestic and stunning all the time. A different landscape can be uplifting when your own backyard is flat and brown, and the air is so hot and heavy and full of allergens that breathing isn’t pleasant. During a Colorado summer the mountains rise dramatically and are covered with green; and the air is crisp and cold and clean.
The second attraction is something we don’t discuss with our neighbors or even our friends because sometimes it’s prudent to be blind to what others are getting up to. Yet, considering that eighty percent of the people I know from this area have run up to Colorado this summer, well, the conclusion is undeniable. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, ask a Texan.
We stay in Avon, a square half-mile composed of a few streets broken by three traffic circles. Condominiums border every street and round-about. Each traffic circle looks the same. Each condo complex looks the same. At one point we travel from circle to circle, driving around and around for what seems like hours, confused about which exit off of which circle will lead us to the grocery store. We were given instructions and it should be simple. It’s preposterous that we’re lost in this tiny town and I find it so funny that I laugh until tears flow.
The resort we stay in is quite posh, with a floral aroma wafting through that is, upon entry, so inviting that it makes me long to bathe in their signature scent. Our place has two bedrooms, both with king-sized beds, a huge kitchen, and two living areas. Seriously, though, who decorates these things? The pictures on the walls are so deliberately inoffensive that I’m offended. And a misguided designer has deduced that the place will feel more like home if impractical items are placed about. A three-foot tall tree sculpted from dry reeds stands beside a fireplace. Two shiny vases with womanly shapes tower from one of the mantles. There’s so much fake greenery in straw baskets that it makes me think someone bought out a Tuesday Morning. The first thing I do upon entering is gather the tchotchkes and tuck them in the back of a closet.
What effect has Covid had on our getaway? Well, the first noticeable difference is that our comfort is no longer paramount. For instance, maid service is no longer provided. This means that people who used to be cleaners now no longer have jobs—and I can’t see how having a masked and gloved maid come in to change the sheets, resupply towels, and clean counters puts them or us in any danger. The onsite restaurant is closed, as are the spa, pool, lounge areas, and rec rooms. Also, if you want to use the workout facility you must make an appointment.
While we’re told by the front counter, and then at the concierge’s desk, that the changes are about safety, it’s mostly about dollars. Because people haven’t been traveling, the industry has taken a hit. I understand that; but I resent being told that the cutbacks are about one thing when they’re really about something else. Also, my life experience has taught me that once an amenity is removed it most often isn’t restored.
Another absurd Covid consequence is the elevator rule. No sharing. Only a single person or family is allowed in the elevator at the same time. This makes for some awkward encounters. We’re on the top floor, so when we take the elevator down anybody below us who wants to get to the garage or lobby steps forward expectantly when the doors open; but, seeing that it’s occupied, they reverse rapidly, as though the elevator’s flooded with Covid; then, squinting over their masks and with forced good cheer, they say they’ll grab the next one—which may not happen for a while, depending on how many folks from the top are descending.
I have a hard time not taking these refusals to enter my space personally. I give people reasons not to like me all the time and I’m okay with that, but I don’t like it when strangers reject me for no reason. In fact, this makes me reject the people who reject me; and I find myself feeling hostile toward every one of those people who shrink from the elevator because I’m on it. And by the way, this elevator rule is a dictum that I’ve not seen written or heard spoken. Someone at some point made it up and it became a thing people did—a baseless, self-perpetuating, and inexplicable reaction to inaudible whispers.
When I get back to Marble Falls, I go to a building—masks required—where I must take an elevator. After I step in, two other people enter behind me. They’re not concerned that they’re joining someone else. Why, they don’t seem to be afraid of me at all. No one’s cowering. No one’s eyes are accusing me of carrying and passing a disease. And then, on the way down, another couple of people come in after me—and then a man holds the doors for a fourth person to enter.
Bizarrely, incongruently, this takes place in a hospital—a hospital, where you should be able to trust their safety protocols. And this makes me think—and I must be a genius because it’s obvious no one’s thought of this before—that there should be a sensible standard for what’s safe and what’s not, and that it would be helpful for places like a resort to receive accurate information about what’s appropriate to our current situation and what’s unnecessary and, frankly, just plain stupid.
Always lovely.
Why? It’s ugly. And I don't even know what to call it.
Evening dresses on invisible bodies.
Independence Pass. David has his hat string in his mouth because the icy wind’s blowing hard and he doesn’t want to lose his adventure hat. Our ten minutes there gave me enough winter to last the rest of my life.
