I was told that there were tons of things to do here and that it was beautiful. Beautiful, yes it is.
The drive up from Marble Falls alternated between no traffic at all and harrowing. It’s going to take me a while to get over the harrowing segments. Eighteen wheelers wove in and out of lanes like they thought they were Ferraris. And once, when the speed limit was sixty-five, I looked at the dash and saw that I was going ninety, and cars were passing me! Seriously! (Seriously is a throw-away word. I tried taking it out, but I like the emphasis it brings. Seriously, try it without. You’ll see, seriously.)
Like the driving, the place where we’re staying is a study in contrasts. The lobby is elegant and the amenities sounded great on the website—four golf courses, several restaurants, the most highly rated spa in the state—also among the top twenty in the nation. But three of the golf courses aren’t open, the only food available is from the bar because the restaurants are closed, and the spa is fully booked for the whole week. The spa is my error. I didn’t think to book ahead. Oh, and no cleaning service. If we want fresh towels we must put in a request. The people at reception explain apologetically that they’re shorthanded, that they can’t find people who want to work. I’ve been hearing this everywhere, but I’m not sure I believe it. I think businesses suffered horrible financial damage during the shutdown and at this point nobody can afford to hire more than a bare-bones staff.
The room itself is good-sized, comfortable. But this place is old and shows it—the door sticks and is splintery, and the carpet, light fixtures, and paneled walls and ceiling are from a previous era. And there’s one of those horrendous loud fans that roars at you when you pee. Also, ants.
Right now David’s playing golf. I intend to go shopping while he smacks the small ball. When I travel somewhere the first thing I like to do is shop. Looking at what’s on the shelves is the way I come to know the local soul. I’ve always heard that there’re tons of antique shops and unique boutiques in the Ozarks. So I look up shopping on the E-cierge in the lobby. Kohls and Target, Mattress Firm and Harley-Davidson. No thanks.
I hear the pool area has a twenty-person hot tub. On the way to check that out, I stop by the spa and ask the receptionist to put me on their waiting list. I see they’ve got swimming suits, and I didn’t bring mine, so if I want to do the hot tub thing I’ll need to buy one. I slide the suits along the rack, inspecting the tags. Three styles, four of each style. They’re all size four or six.
“Are these all the sizes you have?” I ask the spastress.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I haven’t been a size six since I was ten.”
“Yeah, the realistic sizes sell out first.”
So, no suit. Now there’s no point, really, in checking out the pool. But I’ll do that anyway. Sometimes there’s a steam room in the dressing room and if that’s the case I can get by with wrapping up in a towel. I love a good sweat. But my key card doesn’t unlock the door to the pool deck, so I must go get it reset at the front desk.
“This wouldn’t work at the pool so I assume it won’t work on the door to my room,” I tell the guy behind the counter as I hand it over.
“Reasonable to assume,” he tells me. He tests the key, looks puzzled, and says, “It’s working.”
“The green light came on but the door wouldn’t budge.”
“So it must be that no one ever opened the pool today.”
Well that’s just dumb. He seems unfazed and gives no indication that he’s going to take steps to open the pool. I turn away.
There are a few things going on in my life that’ve got me depressed, so I figure I might as well go back to the room and drink.
But it’s the most beautiful kind of day—clear skies, no wind, warm but not too hot. And the way the trees come right down to the water is intriguing—no beaches here, just thick woods right to the water line. So I change directions, circle the building, and descend the two-hundred-step staircase to the marina.
A girl looks up from her phone when I enter the office on the dock—beautiful, blond, probably nineteen. A size four.
“I’m thinking about renting a boat,” I tell her.
“It’s half price right now because the season’s basically over.”
How wonderfully hunky-dory.
“How far in advance do I need to make a reservation?”
“Oh, no notice needed. We haven’t been busy since Labor Day.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I don’t know anything about boats. The one she shows me is blue with a shade over the top and a motor. It’s in good shape, looks pretty new.
I tell her I’d like to take it out and that I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I go back to the room and drop my big bottle of vodka, a few cans of tonic, and my plastic Wahlburgers glass into David’s A&M cooler. Grabbing a jacket on the way out, I return to the marina, pay for the boat and, with the cooler for company, reverse out of the slip.
From the boat. Going out on the lake to drink.
