Ensconced

I am ensconced in a room at The Breakers for a couple of days. I needed something grand. I don't plan to leave the grounds, just to frolic in the sea and to lie by the pool and to wander through the gardens and to sit in the lobbies. I will eat and drink and let the wind blow through my noggin. The money will run out before I'm satiated or even fixed. But that is the way of it.

I am in the company of a young fellow and his mother. I want to show him some things. He was not certain that he wanted to come, but as soon as he saw the grounds, he was impressed. I want him to feel these ocean waters, to swim in these decadent pools and dry off with these enormous, soft towels. I've told him of the labor that went into building the hotel in the early 20th century, of shipping the marble by boat from Italy, of importing artists and artisans to decorate the lobbies. I've taken him to the fishing docks where we've eaten fresh dolphin and watched giant fifty pound jacks swim through the clear water over sponge-covered rocks and pilings where parrot fish and sergeant majors and clown fish flit through crevices. It is the same marina my father took me to when I was young, though much changed now. But there are still many stories about that marina to come.

This is only a brief interlude. One day, it will come back as a dream.

Don't worry. We will not get soft. Next time I will take them to the Bed Bug Inn with its smallish pool and its continental breakfast of Folgers coffee and danishes wrapped in cellophane containers. There is fun in that, too.