Spoiler: this skybridge will get you NOWHERE.

-

This WTF Weds takes us back to London. But I start out with a little anecdote about Portland. It’s cool if you get confused. That’s how I spend most of my life.

Last weekend I was in Portland, and despite being a city that I know and can navigate quite well, the following happened:

• I walked four blocks in the exact opposite direction that I needed to go, and didn’t realize it until I literally collided with a posted map of the city and saw that I was no where close to where I needed to be.
  -
• Despite Rand telling me to “Keep going straight”, I kept asking him if I should take every single turn that we passed. At one point he just stared at me and said, “You are joking, right?” I wasn’t.
  -
• We’d been to our hotel so many times that the valets recognized us. I still required directions to get there.
  -
• Even while in possession of a map on which directions had been traced out for me in black ink, I got lost.
  -
• I forgot where I parked the car and so our friend Matt had to drive us around for 20 minutes in the middle of the night trying to find it. Even though I knew the name of the street where I’d left it, I still couldn’t figure it out.
  -

The point is that I have zero sense of direction. I would like to note that mine is far better than my mother’s or my beloved auntie’s (it is a miracle that they haven’t gotten permanently lost while walking to the mailbox and back), but still manages to be absolutely abysmal. I have an excellent memory, but my spacial awareness, my ability to envision how a city is laid out, to get my bearings and understand where things are in relation to each other are virtually non-existent.

You’d assume then, that if we stayed at a hotel with a ridiculously and non-intuitive layout that I’d get ridiculously lost, right? Especially if that hotel were in a foreign country where jet lag and exhaustion were clouding my senses even more, right? But amazingly, quite the opposite was true.

When we were in London last month, we stayed at the The Montcalm Hotel at the Brewery. It is like an M.C. Escher painting come to life. There are staircases that wind up to nothing. The numbers on the rooms – hell, even the numbers on floors – seem to be assigned rather randomly. Room 323 is several long hallways and three flights of stairs (2 up, one down) away from Room 324.

Notice that certain consecutively numbered rooms are nowhere NEAR each other.

-

As best as I can understand, this is how the hotel came to be:

• An old brewery was purchased, along with three other nearby buildings, which together form a sort of square O-shape when seen from above.
  -
• Whoever purchased the brewery started devising a way to link all of these structures together, presumably after imbibing whatever beer had been left in the building (for it could not have been a sober endeavor). A few skybridges and walkways were incorporated, but the original structure of each of the buildings wasn’t touched. Unfortunately, the different floors of each of the buildings don’t line up.
  -
• Nor do the elevator shafts.
  -
• And come to think of it, the skybridges don’t really line up properly to any of the floors either.
  -
• Whoever assigned the numbers to the doors of the suites may have done so under duress. I assume they were being chased by a pack of wild animals.
  -
• Meth-amphetamines may have been involved.

The result is a building that feels a little bit like Frankenstein’s monster. Disparate pieces have come together to create a sheer abomination. A cautionary reminder that just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should.

I don’t mean to suggest that the hotel lacks any redeeming characteristics. Like the crudely stitched monster, it most certainly does. But they are often hard to find – literally. The restaurant was excellent; we spent 20 minutes looking for it every morning. Eventually we found it was easier to just walk outside of the building, head down the block, and enter through a different doorway.

Actually, come to think of it, that might not have been the same restaurant each time. Whatever. They still fed us.

We found that it was virtually impossible to get to any room in the hotel without taking at least one elevator and one flight of stairs. Most rooms required two different elevators and numerous flights of stairs.

Rand and I took an elevator …

-

Walked down a flight of stairs …

-

Crossed this skybridge …

-

Walked up another flight of stairs …

-

And headed down this hallway, before finding our room, which was on the 1st floor above the lobby.

-

This is one of those situations where my explanation of it will do absolutely no justice, so here’s a video that Rand snapped of the entire thing.

-

Watch carefully for the following: (also, have you noticed how many lists are in this post? I’m really into lists lately. This next one is even numbered!)

1. I tell Rand to calm down when he starts to panic that we’ll never find our room again.
   -
2. A brief discussion about the size of my butt.
   -
3. I seem to sort of know where we’re going!

You’d think, in a scenario like this, where left is right and up is down and there are at least 14 ways to get from your room to lobby (and 57 ways to get lost in between), that my sense of direction would doom me to wander the halls for the rest of my days. Blissfully, that didn’t happen.

Everyone else got lost or really confused, but I was okay. Why? Because that building is my life. My hopeless sense of direction means that my entire world looks like that, all the time. So while everyone else was thrown for a loop because the hotel had rendered reference points and logical layouts useless, I was totally fine because I’ve managed to forge an existence without those things.

I just obeyed the signs, even when they defied logic. I even followed the signs that seemed to be fighting with themselves.

Okay. Sure. Whatever you say, crazy sign.

-

Don’t get me wrong: it’s not like I knew where I was going. I was hopelessly lost; we all were. I’ve just had more practice.

The pools at Hayman Island resort.

In my continued efforts to keep it real, I would like to share yet another mortifying revelation about my younger years.

Are you ready to abandon whatever lingering sliver of respect for me you had? Because here we go: for a longer time than is reasonable, I’ve wanted to be a Bond girl.

Fear not: I am acutely aware of the fact that I would probably be the worst Bond girl, ever (rightfully stealing the crown from Denise Richards). I’m short, I look comically uncomfortable in a bikini, and I don’t do sexy all that well.

Wait, is neurotic sexy? No? Okay, then yeah: I don’t do it well at all.

Plus, I can tell you right now, I would not be down with Bond treating me like a gadget purchased from a late-night infomercial (you know, where it seems really great at first, and just look at all the things it can do! But then you lose your enthusiasm for it after ten minutes). After which he’ll probably get me killed somehow and not even taking time to FRIGGIN MOURN ME before bedding some other girl.

Seriously. What. In. The. Hell. James.

I can’t even think of a clever Bond girl name. The best I could come up with was Eatsa Lottacake. Plenty O’Thighs could work, too.

Lady Badonkadonk? No. Never mind. See? I told you I was bad at this.

But the thing is, for the short time that they’re actually on screen (before they are killed off or simply don’t appear again, because their storylines weren’t even interesting enough to merit closure) Bond girls seem to be having a really nice time. They get to travel to some pretty fantastic places, and do exciting things, while eating canapes and enjoying a nice drink or three in the company of someone dishy.

Hmmm. You know what I just realized? The same could be said of Bond.

So maybe I don’t actually want to be a Bond girl. They are all a little bit forgettable, often interchangeable, and frequently vapid (there are exceptions, of course).

Screw that. I don’t want to sleep with James Bond. I want to be James Bond. Except, you know, I don’t have nearly the same phobia of commitment or the proclivity towards promiscuity (and what I can only assume is a correlating risk of STDs) that 007 does.

Or maybe I could be a super villain. That might be nice, too.

The closest I will get to any of this is Hayman Island. It’s a privately owned island that’s home to a rather ridiculously opulent resort. It is part of the Whitsunday chain of islands, which run along the northern part of the Great Barrier Reef. It would be the perfect lair for an evil villain, or perhaps the sort of place where Bond would bring one of his expendable ladies.

Like all good lairs, it is remote. From Seattle, we first flew to Los Angeles, and then to Sydney, and then to Hamilton Island (one of the main islands in and the commercial hub of the Whitsundays). When we boarded the flight for the final leg of our journey, I had strange and momentary freak out. I did not want to be on another plane. I took a deep breath, and remembered that you can’t control the world’s petroleum reserves or block out the sun (or whatever it is that supervillains do) with an attitude like that.

The landing strip on Hamilton Island is straight out of a movie. It extends out like a sand spit into turquoise water.

-

-

-

After we landed, we stood, dazed, as people headed out towards their respective boats. Then we headed up the dock towards ours. It was … um …

Okay, I’m kind of embarrassed by the opulence of this, but WE HEADED OUT TOWARDS A FRIGGING YACHT.

-

I suppose a real supervillain would have come in by seaplane or helicopter, and, for the record, a lot of people do choose to arrive at Hayman Island via those modes of transportation (and also, one can safely assume, via some sort of stealth underwater submersible captained by international spies with chiseled jaws. But that’s not in the brochure).

During the hour long boat ride we drank fizzy water and ate snacks and watched the islands pass us by, until we came to ours.

-

-

Rand’s face really says it all:

I love it when he smiles like this.

-

We climbed aboard a tiny little tram, which took us to the main entrance of the resort where – I kid you not – the staff was waiting at attention for new guests to arrive. I eyed them all closely to see if any appeared to have a strange talent (or some sort of murderous accessory) that would make them perfect henchmen/women. They didn’t seem to, but I’m sure it just wasn’t obvious to us.

Hopping on the tram. They did not honor my request to drive.

-

The staff waits at attention as guests arrive.

-

The resort was stunningly beautiful.

-

-
It sent me into the same fit of giggles that plagued me in the Kloof. I tried to pretend that I was fine, but the opulence of the place was absurd. I snickered and my eyes widened and when the gal who was showing us to our room had her back turned, I looked at Rand and mouthed the words: WHAT THE WHAT?

He nodded. What the what, indeed.

I mean, there are pools that wind around half the resort, with walkways that crisscross over them.

-

-

Servers head down these pathways, carrying cocktails or lunch to those sitting poolside. And the balconies of the suites in this part of the resort go right into the friggin pools. Look! There’s a ladder off the balcony so you can hop out of bed, put on a bathing suit, and WALK INTO A POOL without really leaving your room.

THE LADDER GOES STRAIGHT FROM THE BALCONY TO THE POOL. I mean, seriously. What. The. What.

-

Rand had opted to get us a bungalow instead, which was in a much quieter and calmer part of the resort. It was no less gorgeous.

-

-

We walked around a bit, explored the grounds. We unpacked, had dinner, and watched the sunset.

-

And realized we were very, very tired.

-

I don’t think supervillains get tired, do they? I bet they don’t.

It’s probably best that I didn’t go into that line of work, because I’m fairly certain I’d suck at it. Plus, I have an overdeveloped sense of guilt, coupled with a complete lack of ambition. I just don’t have what it takes to be a successful evil-doer.

I don’t think I could cut it as 007, either: I don’t possess the suaveness or sexual fortitude required be an international spy. Lord knows I can barely drink a martini (I mostly just eat the olives and then ask the bartender for another round … of olives).

But maybe there’s some line of work that could be right for me. Perhaps I could be a super villain who doesn’t actually do any villainy. Who just travels the world and drinks cocktails and eats teeny tiny hamburgers in the company of her handsome husband. Together, they make out and hold hands and don’t try to conquer anyone or take over the nation’s gold reserves (is that even something we still have? I need to watch more current Bond movies. Seriously). They just sit around, and think about how damn lucky they are, and sip fruity drinks.

-

And maybe, every now and then, they let out an evil-sounding, maniacal laugh. But that’s just because they realize that sometimes life is so magical, so absurdly grand, that all you can do is laugh at it. Maniacally.

It would make for a terrible Bond movie, I’m sure. But it makes for a pretty wonderful life.

Vicky’s BB, Khayetlisha.

-

In writing about South Africa, I wanted to finish on a high note. I really did. But I’m at the end now, and this last post about our trip deals with stuff that is, in no uncertain terms, heartbreaking and tragic.

I’m sorry. In the wake of the last few weeks, I really wanted to talk about something lighthearted. And I promise, I will. I’ll tell you about the crazy London hotel in which we got hopelessly lost, about the wonderful bagels we had there and the markets we went to with friends. I will tell you about Australia and the damn birds that kept stealing our breakfast, and the day I swam with sea turtles, and how my husband kept telling me, in spite of how self conscious I was in a bathing suit, that I was beautiful.

I can’t wait, actually – I think talking about all of that would be really, really good for my heart and my soul and my long-suffering brain. Just thinking about those trips makes me smile and realize how damn charmed my life is.

But right now, in the wake of all of the tragedies of the last few weeks, I have to tell you one last story from South Africa: it’s about Vicky Ntozini. As sad as it is, she deserves to have her story told.

Thandis, our guide and driver for our township tour, told us about Vicky as we drove towards the popular bed and breakfast that she owned in Khayelitsha in the Cape Flats.

Many people were forced to move here under the Group Areas Act (one of the many segregationist laws of apartheid, this act pushed people out of their homes, and into townships according to race). The name of the town – Khayetlisha – comes from the Xhosa word for “new home”.

Today, Khayetlisha is one of the largest townships in South Africa: its population is nearly half a million. Life there is by no means easy.

Two little girls walk down a dirt road in the Cape Flats.

-

70% of the population live in shacks of wood and corrugated metal. One in three has to walk more than 200 meters to get to a fresh water supply. Roughly a quarter of the population under the age of 35 is HIV-positive. Less than 10% of the homes there are “food secure” – a term used to describe when people are getting a proper amount of food and nutrients (this report on the topic of food insecurity is pretty fascinating, but please note that it is a PDF). About half the population is unemployed.

Crime is rampant, and police officers have refused to investigate certain cases out of fear for their own safety.

While we enjoyed our visit there, and the people we encountered were very friendly, I don’t want to sugar coat it: it’s a rough place to live.

Some horses graze on the outskirts of Khayetlisha.

-

But Vicky was determined to make this township a better place for her and her five children. In the late 90s, (when she only in her mid-twenties), the roots of her B&B began to form when she opened up her home to tourists and students, in hopes of helping them understand township life a little better.

By 2012, the year of Vicky’s death, her B&B had six rooms (including two master suites) and had amassed a great deal of positive press. It was mentioned in Lonely Planet, and the reviews on Trip Advisor are stellar. Guests noted Vicky’s amazing hospitality, her delicious cooking, and how welcomed they felt by her and her family.

Vicky was intent on teaching foreigners what life was like in her town, and led numerous tours throughout Khayetlisha, including trips to schools and traditional Xhosa ceremonies. She helped arrange volunteer programs for a number of guests who were interested in helping out, and worked closely with many NGOs. Through connections she’d made, Vicky solicited donations for food, supplies, and equipment to the township. She even helped organize gifts deliveries for children during Christmas.

We listened intently to Thandis’ story. Listening to all that Vicky had accomplished was comforting in light of everything we’d seen in the last few hours. It started to seem like there was a chance for real change in the townships.

“So,” asked one of the English sisters on our tour, sensing something was amiss in our guide’s tone, “what happened to her?”

Thandis’ reply was blunt.

“Two months ago, she was murdered.”

We collectively gasped. He explained that Vicky had been stabbed to death (apparently in front of several of her children. One of the older ones who was home at the time begged him to stop.), allegedly by her husband, in the B&B that she had built. After the struggle, he ran into another room and tried to kill himself.

“Was he jealous of her success?” one of the sisters asked.

“Yes,” Thandis said. “How did you know?”

To us outsiders, this was the obvious motive. But to those who knew Vicky and her husband (who is often mentioned in many of the reviews as being a kind and gracious host, seemingly supportive of his wife’s endeavors) this was unfathomable.

We pulled onto the side of a dusty dirt road in Khayetlisha.

“Here is Vicky’s Bed & Breakfast,” Thandis said, pointing to a brightly colored two-story building in front of us. It was a step up from the shacks we’d seen lining the streets, but it had the same corrugated metal exterior. It looked welcoming and comfortable, but not entirely out of place in its surroundings.

-

“And that was where she planning the restaurant,” he said, gesturing to a pile of cinder blocks not far away, “before she was murdered.”

The pile of blocks was heartbreaking. I have no doubts that Vicky had moved a number of them there herself. This was a woman who had literally built her business from the ground up.

Thandis opened the driver side door.

“Now we’ll go inside,” he said.

We sat, stunned.

“What? Inside the building where she was murdered?” gasped one of the sisters. Thandis calmly nodded. His intention was not, I think, to shock or upset us. Rather, I think he simply wanted to show us the reality of what was happening in the townships.

So we went inside.

Have you ever been in someone’s home right after they’ve died? The loss in the air is almost tangible – you feel like you could reach out and touch it. It hangs over everything, settling on tabletops and window sills and even on people. And you feel like if someone doesn’t open a window, the weight of it might crush you.

That was what it was like inside Vicky’s B&B. Apart from the patina of sadness and shattered dreams, it wasn’t an unpleasant place. The interior was slightly worn, but very clean. There were wood panels on the walls, and a mishmash of bright paint everywhere else. It was like a 70s rumpus room crossed with a cheesy Mexican-themed restaurant.

“This is Vicky’s daughter,” Thandis said, gesturing to a previously unseen teenager in cut-off shorts. “She will tell you about the bed and breakfast.”

I don’t actually know if I can properly articulate how heartbreaking it was. This was a kid – a friggin kid – who had just lost her mother six weeks ago. She’d seen it happen (at the hands of her own dad, no less) and was suitably shell-shocked. Her eyes had a faraway look, and her expression wasn’t so much sad as it was resigned. This was her life. This was how things were.

She walked us upstairs and showed us around. It was bright and slightly crowded with furniture.

The two English sisters sit in Vicky’s B&B. They’d brought colored pens for the kids.

-

There was a communal sitting area with a few couches arranged around a coffee table, and the occasional lounging house cat (they went almost unnoticed amidst the scattering of stuffed animals throughout the room).

A TVand DVR player took prominence in one corner of the room (the B&B rose to prominence during South Africa’s World Cup, after all) and the guest rooms and bathroom were off of this main living area. On the walls were dozens of framed newspaper clippings about Vicky and the B&B, thank you letters and awards, and a handful of photos, including one of Vicky and her husband that I kept sneaking glances at.

Vicky’s daughter stood, staring fixedly at a spot on the ground just off to left, and told us the history of the B&B and of her mother. She obviously didn’t go into detail about her mother’s death, saying only that “In November, Vicky passed, and now her children run the B&B.”

I wanted to say something to her – in hindsight, I really, really wish I had – but chickened out. I mean, what the hell do you say to a kid who’s lost both parents to the violence of the townships? Who had witnessed it with her own eyes? Someone who had three younger siblings (one as little as 5) that she would now have to raise with the help of her oldest sister?

“I’m sorry for your loss”? Really? Would that cut it? Or would it just sound ridiculous coming from a privileged American? It probably would have been better than nothing, but I opted for the latter and said not a word.

The kid deserved better from me. And from life.

The English women were more forthcoming, asking questions and offering words of consolation.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” one of them asked.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of light in the kid’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. She explained that she wanted to be a nurse, but it sounded hollow. What had once seemed attainable with her mother around was now an impossibility.

When Vicky died, another victim of the domestic violence that plagues the townships, she seemed to take hope for a better future with her.

“You’ll all have to take care of each other now, won’t you?” one of them ventured, delicately. Vicky’s daughter didn’t reply.

She invited us to take a look around, and then retreated. I don’t remember if she went downstairs, or simply stood in the corner of the room, staring at the floor. Either way, she was both there and not. (Not unlike her mother, whose presence and absence could be acutely felt.)

One of the many ads and clippings around the room. From every angle, Vicky was looking down at us.

-

We poked our heads into a few of the rooms.  I hope you’ll forgive me for not taking too many photos, but given what had happened here, I thought it would be rude to do so.

The suites were nice, clean and cozy. They reminded me of a guest bedroom at my aunt’s house.

-

-

One of the master suites.

-

The immaculate bathroom in one of the master suites.

-

This keychain was particularly heartbreaking:

-

We stood about in an uncomfortable silence. Rand’s face captures it well.

-

We tucked a few rand into a donation box, thanked Vicky’s daughter (who was downstairs, looking more comfortable in the company of several older women and a few children – I assumed all were relations of Vicky’s.) and walked back to our van in silence.

After a few minutes of driving, we began to talk, at first in clipped observations …

“That was so sad.”

“She accomplished so much in such a short time.”

“What is going to happen to those kids?”

… eventually leading to a long discussion with Thandis about domestic violence in the townships. It is a growing problem, but one that goes largely unreported. Thandis revealed himself to be incredibly progressive, noting that if the townships were ever going to thrive, men needed to start regarding women as their equals.

He noted that even in tribal life, women worked, so the notion that they couldn’t do so now wasn’t just antiquated – it was flat out wrong.

One of the English women said that what the townships needed were women’s organizations that help the abused. I nodded, mutely, but felt that the problems were far more entrenched than that. Some sort of women’s help center would be wonderful, sure, but it would be akin to trying to put a new coat of paint on a burning house. The first thing that you need to do is put out the damn fire.

I stared out the window, at the dusty landscape, and thought about how extraordinary Vicky was, but how her tragic death was all too common. She was another woman who had met a violent end in the townships. I thought about her children, and her grieving teenager. 

I tried to tell myself that there was hope for them. That their mother could still serve as an inspiration to them, even in her death. That they could triumph over all of it, and continue Vicky’s legacy.

I had no basis for any of it. It was just a pipe dream that entered my head as we passed mile after mile of shack-filled townships, my mind’s way of putting a coat of paint on a house that was already engulfed in flames.

Rand and Justin check to make sure that the water in the pool is actually wet.

-

When Rand first told me that Bushman’s Kloof had not one, but several infinity pools, I promptly freaked out.

“How is that even possible?” I squealed.

“It’s a luxury resort,” Rand explained.

“That still doesn’t make sense. They are messing with THE VERY FABRIC OF SPACE TIME.”

With that statement, my husband paused, and took a long look at me.

“Sweetie,” he said, gently patting my hand, “you realize that infinity pools aren’t actually infinite, right?”

And that’s how one of the bigger disappointments of my life came to pass:

I specified Earth because I hold out hope that there’s an advanced race out there that has figured out how to make an infinite swimming pool.

-

(I have other sad news, too: the Burger King is merely the titular head of the Burger Kingdom. He has virtually no authority is the passing of Burger Laws. The entire Burger monarchy is pretty much a shill, and the real governing entity is the Burger Parliament.

I will obviously be writing a letter to my Burger Congressperson about this.)

Turns out that infinity pools are simply pools that don’t have a raised lip on them. If they are placed near the ocean, or along a flat horizon, the pools can appear to extend into the sea or the sky (neither of which are *technically* infinite, but the name makes slightly more sense in that context.)

There are three infinity pools at the main lodge of the Kloof (rumor has it there is even one more), as well as a smaller pool at the Koro lodge. And while none of them are infinite, they are all quite lovely.

-

-

-

Interestingly, they weren’t chlorinated, but were instead treated with some sort of natural mineral. Consequently, the water wasn’t the color of mouthwash, and you could spend long hours in it without burning your eyes or frying your hair.

And as you sat there, floating around in the water, someone would come by from the kitchen and ask if you wanted a drink. And moments later you’d be drinking strawberry daiquiris in the pool, and quietly whispering to one another than you are the luckiest people on earth.

This is an awful picture of me but I posted it because I love the look on Rand’s face.

-

All of the pools ended in a sort of waterfall over an edge, where there was a small reservoir that pumped the water back into the pool. The water kept moving like that, over the edge and back into the pool in a never-ending loop. So I guess it’s okay to call them infinite, though really something like a “looper pool” would be just as accurate.

(Note: in was at this point during the drafting of this post that I started thinking about the movie Looper, and how a lot of the holes in the plot really annoyed me. That led me to think about Joseph Gordon Levitt, and eventually, my brain became consumed with the mental picture of him, Bruce Willis, and Jeff Daniels hanging out in a pool together. Several long minutes were lost to that rather delightful fantasy.)

Naturally, I spent a while examining this mechanism:

-

-

After I was thoroughly convinced that the pool was not infinite, and didn’t lead to some sort of singularity  or the edge of the world, I made Rand take this series of photos in which I am pretending to fall into the abyss:

SEXAAAAY!

 -

All the while I was saying, in a sing-song voice, “Oooooohhhhh noooooooooo.”

–

You know, sometimes I have to admire my commitment to a bit.

-

We took a look at those photos later, and agreed that they were delightfully unflattering.

“You are such a huge dork,” Rand said, kissing my head. And I laughed, because my poor husband is stuck with me. Forever and ever and ever.

-

I don’t really know how to begin telling you about Bushman’s Kloof.

Words don’t usually fail me. In fact, I often have them in excess. They dribble out of my mouth at particularly inopportune times. Like when I’m telling a story at noisy party, and I find myself shouting the gory details in order to be heard (my stories always have gory details, you see), and at that precise moment because of what I can only assume is a decades-old-curse that was placed on my head, the entire room sort of goes silent.

I, of course, am still yelling.

“AND THERE WAS POOP EVERYWHERE, YOU KNOW? LIKE THE PLACE HAD BEEN HIT BY A CRAP TSUNA- … mi. Yeah … It just got quiet in here all of a sudden, huh? ”

Many a time has my husband grabbed me in a tender embrace and whispered into my ear, “Please, please, PLEASE stop talking. Just stop.”

And yet, despite the deluge that spills from my mouth on a regular basis, when I try to describe the kloof and the days we stayed there, my brain struggles to offer up some words. None of them quite seem to fit, though.

Just one of the three infinity pools at the main lodge at Bushman’s. Whatever. No biggie.

-

“Stunning” comes to mind. And “incredible”. “Life-changing” and “opulent” and “paradise” are all pretty good, too. Still, they seem to fall short of the mark.

Mostly, when I think of Bushman’s Kloof, I just start laughing, somewhat maniacally.

Courtney, Kurtis, and Justin during one of our evening nature drives. Notice that Court is holding a champagne flute. Because that’s just how you roll in the kloof.

-

Have you seen the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightly? Normally, I’m not a fan of Ms. Knightly. She’s thin and lovely and wounded looking, and I try to steer clear of people like that (I mean, they obviously don’t have any tips for where a gal can get a decent dessert, you know?) But I positively adore that movie.

There’s one scene in particular that slays me. It’s when Lizzie Bennett (Knightly) has just turned down Darcy’s offer of marriage, which is kind of a brave move, considering that her family is flat broke.

Anyway, Lizzie and her aunt and uncle happen upon Mr. Darcy’s estate. And there’s a scene where Lizzie is stepping out of the carriage, and she sees Darcy’s palatial home – which she, obviously, turned down along with him. Her response is to just sputter out a somewhat hysterical laugh. It’s the perfect reaction.

It’s how I felt when we got to the kloof. I had trouble containing my giggles. At one point, the gentleman who managed one of the lodges was giving us a brief tour of the place, but I kept interrupting him with my snickering. A few folks turned to look at me.

“Are you okay?”

“What me?” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna be fine. I’m just gonna stand over in the corner for a bit. Ignore me.”

I put my feet up and relax in the back of the jeep. In the distance, you can see a dazzle of zebra.

-

We ended up at Bushman’s Kloof because of Rand. I tend to run screaming from anything too opulent, too lavish. I’ll take a Nestle Tollhouse cookie over one of those undercooked chocolate lava cakes that are all the rage. In fact, I’ll take a dozen of them. Right now, please.

But Rand loves to take a peek at those things which I’ve deemed too fancy for the likes of me. He does so fearlessly, with a mix of curiosity and cynicism, because things can’t be as great as everyone claims they are, right?

So when he heard that Bushman’s Kloof was – I kid you not – listed as one of the world’s best hotels (by Travel and Leisure, in 2009, among others), Rand’s initial reaction was to check it out and see if the hubbub was warranted, while mine was to laugh crazily and see if there was a nearby hostel where I could crash. But Rand has a phobia about leaving his wife around young bearded Australian backpackers (and rightly so), which means NO HOSTELS, EVER. So I went with him to the kloof.

For the next few days, I’ll be writing about our time there, in one of the world’s best hotels. I’m hoping that I’ll find words to do the place justice.

And if I don’t find the right words? Well, this photo of Rand pretty much sums the place up.

-

But as I wax on about how incredible it was, I want to be clear: lavish things still make me squirm. I was out of my element and often uncomfortable, and there were days that I would wander around with my mouth half open wondering precisely what the hell I was doing there.

Then I’d remember. I was following him:

-

And just like that, I’d start having a ball.

I wonder if that’s how Lizzie felt. If she realized that all that fanciness wasn’t necessarily her thing. But she wandered into that world because of Darcy, and when she found herself there?

–

All she could do was laugh.

-

No matter how much I travel, I find that there are things that still surprise me about Europe.

Like universal health care. Or the ubiquity of nutella. Or the fact that you can drive for a few hours and find yourself in a radically different country that isn’t Canada or Mexico.

And let’s not forget castles. It’s crazy to me that castles are actually a real thing over there, and not merely the stuff of fairy tales.

But there are indeed castles in Europe, and plenty of them. There is one in the village where my aunt and uncle live in southern Italy. There seems to be one on every other ausfahrt in Germany. And last month, our friend Ciaran had his wedding reception in a castle.

The white canopied back lawn, where the party was held.

-

That kind of boggles my poor American mind. That castles dot the countryside, and you can not only spend the night in one, but have your wedding there, to boot.

Castle Leslie, where Ciaran and Cathy had their reception, is located just across the border from Northern Ireland in the Republic of Ireland. There wasn’t so much as a sign to let us know that we’d crossed over from the U.K. into Europe. (I did mark the passing of the border in my own special way. I threw up … thrice. The last time, I narrowly missed Rand’s shoes as he rushed around to my side of the car in a vain attempt to hold back my hair.)

A not-so-winding road on Castle Leslie estate.

-

The existing structure was built back in the late 1800s, but an earlier castle stood on the same grounds for centuries before then. The Leslies took ownership of the grounds back in the 1600s, and the history as recounted on the website is absolutely delightful, full of characters with names like “Vinegar Jane” and a duke who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.

-

The Leslies still own the castle (which they’ve turned into a hotel, with a restaurant, tea room, and stables), and you can see Sir John Leslie, who is nearly 100, walking around the grounds. Rand and I found ourselves behind him while heading up some stairs in the castle, and while I didn’t realize it at the time, it was somewhat of a celebrity sighting.

Apparently, a few days before Paul McCartney married Heather Mills at Castle Leslie, Sir John accidentally spilled, on live television, the following:

“It’s on Tuesday,” he said of the wedding, “but it’s a secret.”

Seeing as how he was nearly 90 at the time, and seems like a rather delightful gentleman, no one seemed to get all that upset about it.

The atrium at Castle Leslie.

-

In the U.S., if we had anything so old as Castle Leslie, you likely wouldn’t be able to walk through it, and you absolutely wouldn’t be allowed to get drunk and eat cake in any part of it. But Europe seems to be a bit less stodgy about their historical spots – I suspect because they have significantly more of them.

We had a bit of time to explore the castle before the reception, but some of us were still nursing sour stomachs, which required us to sit for long periods of time, gently sipping on soda water, only to make a miraculous recovery just as dessert was being served.

I lova, you lova, we all lova PAVLOVA. (Sorry.)

-

Thank goodness for the healing power of sugar.

I did take note of a few things, though. Like this ginormous baby dress, which once belonged to Winston Churchill when he was a toddler. This is surprisingly easy for me to visualize, since I’ve always kind of thought that a fully-grown Churchill resembled a ginormous baby.

Apparently the Churchills and the Leslies were related.

-

And let’s not forget the crappers.

Yup. Crappers. I’d actually heard about them on the Seattle Underground Tour. A plumber by the name of Thomas Crapper had gone about improving the flush toilet with a variety of innovations, and he put insisted on putting his name on the bowls.

You pull the handle up to flush the toilet.

-

Later, during World War I, American soldiers in the U.K. read the name on toilets, and started referring to the lavatory as “the crapper.”

Castle Leslie is full of such crappers. They are actually rather lovely.

Forgive me for the extreme close-up of a toilet bowl. Sigh. This is how I am using my journalism degree.

-

There was even a double toilet in the ladies’ room, which everyone got a good kick out of.

Forgive me for the blurriness of these photos. Stephen took clearer ones, but he neglected to flush the toilet beforehand, so I’ve opted not to use them, much to his disappointment.

-

And the day after the wedding, those of us who were not painfully hungover walked into the gray morning and explored the grounds a little more.

-

Then this happened:

Though to be honest, I can’t really say what’s going on here. I think Stephen just really, really wanted to be in the photo.

-

And this …

Nor can I say definitively what’s happening here.

-

-

And also this:

-

We had a great time – so much so, that when Ciaran asked us to stay one more day so we could have dinner with him and his family, we didn’t think twice before saying yes.

I mean, how could we say no to that face?

-

Because while they may be commonplace in Europe, for us, castles are still sort of magical.

-

They’re still the stuff of fairy tales.

-

The Duke at Queens in Belfast is both homey and palatial – a kind of interesting balance. We were only there for one night, but it was, as the Irish would say, just grand, and the staff was exceedingly kind and helpful.

There were six of us in our group, three couples in three rooms, and by luck of the draw Rand and I managed to score the suite.

-

This elicited a mixed reaction from our friends:

Stephen does not look amused, but I let him borrow our iron and stand in our room without charging him, so I don’t see what he’s so fussy about.

-

Our suite was huge, and considering we were there for a little over 16 hours, it felt like a bit of a waste. I still took some time to enjoy the view, though. This corner of Belfast – known as the Queen’s University Quarter – looks all cottage-y and pastoral. (And we were right next door to a restaurant called Molly’s Yard, which was excellent and, more importantly, makes a mean sticky toffee pudding.)

-

I took nary a photo of the hotel’s breakfast buffet, which was par-for-the-course for a European hotel, but seemed rather lavish by our American standards: yogurts and fresh fruit and breads and pastries, plus made-to-order hot breakfasts and bottomless cups of tea and coffee.

Oh, and I forget to photograph the exterior of the hotel, too (some travel writer I am). Instead, here’s a fuzzy picture of the toilet!

Don’t question my shitty photographic skills. I’m an artist, damn it.

-

And, almost as if they knew we were coming, we found complimentary packages of cookies near the coffee pot, and chocolate mints on the nightstand.

“My lord,” I said, biting into one of the chocolates. “These are amazing.” Dark and glossy chocolate on the outside shattered underneath my teeth to reveal a creamy minty center.

“We should stay here again just to get more mints,” Rand said.

“Or, you know,” I said, “we could just buy -”

“WE COULD JUST BUY A HOTEL AND GET ALL THE CHOCOLATE MINTS WE WANT!” Rand shrieked, triumphantly.

Boy, do I love the way that kid thinks.

-

Every time that Rand and I stay in an old hotel, we have a similar exchange:

Me: This place is nice. Too bad it’s haunted.

Rand: Baby, this place isn’t haunted.

Me: You’d like for me to think that, wouldn’t you?

Rand: Yes. Yes, I would. I would very much like for you to believe that this place isn’t haunted, because it isn’t.

Me: Whose side are you on, anyway?

Rand: Um … logic’s?

Me: SO NOT MY SIDE, THEN.

Or something like that. The point is, I’m rather steadily convinced that every time we stay at an old, remodeled hotel, we’re going to be haunted right out of there, and Rand’s convinced we aren’t.

We’re like a couple at the beginning of a horror movie. Or, at least, I assume we’re like a couple in a horror movie. I actually can’t bring myself to watch any, so I wouldn’t know. But my understanding is that they all begin sort of peacefully and idyllically. There’s a couple, and one of them is a pure skeptic, and the other is more concerned about ghosts and the supernatural (because she is clearly the more intelligent of the two).

They enter an old, creepy house/hotel/ski lodge and … well, it usually goes downhill from there. But there are a few blissful minutes where everything is wonderful, and the couple is running around their spooky old lodgings and having the time of their lives, before walls start bleeding and someone’s head starts spinning around on their neck.

So when I say that the Peerless Hotel in Ashland, Oregon, is like something out of a horror movie, I’m referring to those first few wonderful minutes. Because the Peerless is lovely and idyllic and old and we had a wonderful time there. Even if it was kind of creepy, and even though we might have had four or five fights about whether or not it was haunted.

-

The history of the hotel is fairly innocuous. Back in the early 1900s, the railroad brought a lot of business through Ashland. The Peerless Boarding House was built so that workers on the Southern Pacific line would have an economical place to stay while they were in town. There were 14 rooms, and one shared bathroom (we will discuss the sheer terror of this momentarily). A few years later, the railroad line was rerouted to go through Klamath Falls instead, and the number of workers (and need for lodgings) in Ashland decreased dramatically. Over the better part of the next century, the Peerless felt into neglect and disrepair. When it was purchased by its current owner in the 90s, it had a few interior walls standing, and that was pretty much it.

The current owners re-configured and remodeled the 14 original rooms to include four guest rooms and two suites – the Peerless Hotel. Oh, and all the rooms now have their own bathroom. That’s a pretty nice upgrade from having to share with 13 other grizzled railroad workers. Dear god. Just imagine the cleanliness of that toilet. It could not have been good.

But here’s the thing I’ve found with old buildings: no matter how much you remodel them, they still hang on to a creepy aura. The lobby and the hallways of the Peerless were lovely and decorated in a Victorian-style fashion. But there was no way in hell I was going to get caught in either of them alone. And certainly not with a Ouija board.

The lovely lobby, complete with creepy rocking horse.

-

I told Rand that if we rounded a corner and saw twin little girls, a la The Shining, we were going home immediately.

-

Since it was our anniversary, and my husband is a wreckless and impulsive romantic, he booked us one of the suites. It was huge. Apparently three of the original rooms from the boarding house had been combined to create it. The crazy thing was that we could still see the footprints of the original rooms, including the boarded-up doorways.

Guess what? Boarded up doorways are kind of creepy. Especially when you are staring at one from your bed.

-

Or from the toilet.

-

I kept expecting one of the not-doors to slowly start creaking open in the middle of the night and I’m-not-even-going-to-imagine-what was going to step through the threshold and devour us whole.

Ahem. Sorry.

Our suite had a bedroom …

-

That’s me, obviously. I’m glad when I later looked at this photo I didn’t see the specter of some old guest of the hotel in the reflection, too.

-

A sitting room …

-

And a bathroom which rivaled my first apartment in size. It even had two – TWO – bathtubs.

Despite my declaration of “OH HELL YES WE ARE USING THESE,” we did not.

-

Now, some of you may be looking at these photos and thinking, “Holy shit-crackers, that’s a lot of flowers.” And to those folks, I will say the following:

1.) Watch your mouth, buddy.

2.) You have no idea. I mean, you really have no idea.

Our suite was covered in flowers. They were absolutely everywhere. It was like Mother’s Day had exploded inside of there. I found three different types of floral wallpaper in our room (two types in the bedroom alone).

-

After a while, I started seeing flowers everywhere. On my clothes, on the surface of my skin. In my food.

-

-

And let’s not forget the floral runner along the ceiling …

-

And some floral curtains, too.

-

At some point, it was clear the flowers were taking over:

The had encroached onto the ceiling. Our souls would be next.

-

I found this more than a little alarming. Isn’t there an inevitable scene in most horror movies where the house starts taking over and wrapping itself around people? I’m guessing here – like I said, I only have a limited bit of knowledge on this subject, derived from the few scenes I watched, terrified, through my fingers at slumber parties. But I’m fairly sure I recall a part in Poltergeist II (I think that was the movie) where the kid’s braces start growing like mad and extending towards the electrical socket so that he’ll get electrocuted.

Okay, fine. I guess that’s more a case of dental appliances taking over, but still. You see my point. Flowers are terrifying.

And though I was expecting it each and every night, we never encountered any ghosts. The building never tried to kill us. We woke up each morning happy and refreshed, and treated to an amazing breakfast that was included with our bill.

Yup. Every. Single. Morning.

Rand and I had eaten at the Peerless Restaurant before on previous trips down to Southern Oregon and really enjoyed it. I asked him if he thought that the breakfast included with our room would be on par with the dinners we’d had there. He said that he didn’t know how they could possibly be.

And he later admitted that he was wrong.

Lemon poppy seed muffins and a pot of tea.

-

-

-

Every morning, we had an entree, juice, fruit, and some sort of baked good (guess what my favorite part was? DAMN STRAIGHT IT WAS THE BAKED GOODS). Peach french toast. Poached eggs over sauteed spinach. Lemon poppy seed waffles. Raspberry scones. Banana bread. Scrambled eggs with herbs and asparagus. I had post-surgery steroids coursing through me at the time, and I still found the portions to be generous.

-

Honestly, the place could have been haunted and I wouldn’t have even minded that much, provided they kept bringing me those damn muffins.

After we got home, we received a call from one of the folks running the hotel, explaining that we had forgotten a small notebook in our room. They promptly mailed it back to us. The staff was, in every estimation, unbelievably friendly.

Our stay was idyllic. No ghosts. No creepy voices. No shadowy specters lurking in the corners. It was like something out of a horror movie. Or at least, the first ten minutes of a horror movie – when everything is happy and perfect. And a little bit spooky.

-

Have you ever found yourself doing something and had the stunning realization that you are, in fact, a grown-up?

Like the first time you get behind the wheel of a car by yourself. Or when you put down the safety deposit on your very own apartment. Or when the D.A. tells you that you’re going to be tried as an adult.

The swift punch of adulthood is both terrifying and wonderful, isn’t it? Every now and then it still hits me.

It happened again just the other week, during our annual trip down to Ashland. Because of a hotel mishap (that is well documented on this site) we decided to spend one night in Jacksonville, at the Touvelle House Bed and Breakfast.

It was a travel first for both me and Rand. Despite the fact that we’re a married couple in our 30s, we had never visited a B&B – even though I’m pretty sure B&Bs were invented specifically for married couples in their 30s. They won’t even let you in unless you can remember a time before Madonna spoke with an English accent.

Which makes sense, because prior to the ripe old age that I now am, I never understood the appeal of such a place. I first heard about the concept of a B&B when I was 11 or so, and was suitably horrified.

They give you a bed, I thought, and breakfast, and nothing else?

Dear GOD, people, WHAT IF YOU NEED A SNACK?

Compared to the cushy situation I had at home (bed, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and the unofficial title of Despot of the Fridge) a B&B seemed like a terrible deal. But the passing of the years have given me a great number of gifts: itsy bitsy wrinkles around my eyes, the habit of wandering into a room and forgetting why I went there in the first place, a love of Jeopardy!, and, most importantly of all, perspective. I now realize that B&Bs are glorious … if somewhat strange.

You are, essentially, staying in someone’s house. They give you your own room and bathroom, and a key. You can come and go as you please, but you should be on time for breakfast. It’s sort of like staying with a very fastidious aunt who respects your privacy, but also expects you to pay for every night you are in her home.

And true to this metaphor, I felt guilty for leaving clothing lying around the room. I felt like I should offer to help with the dishes. I wanted to apologize that we couldn’t stay longer. B&Bs are clearly not for the neurotic at heart. But despite my psychoses, our stay was really pleasant.

Judge Frank Touvelle had the house built in 1916 as a wedding present for his wife. It is gorgeous and positively massive:

-

And the gardens were lovely.

-

-

It’s downright idyllic.

Yup. There are even baby deer frolicking about. No, I’m not kidding.

–

I wasn’t so sure about the neighbors, though.

-

That’s right: the Touvelle House is right next door to A CEMETERY. And I know I just went on and on about how I felt so grown-up staying at a B&B, but let’s be honest: I’m a 9-year-old at heart. Consequently, I found the proximity to the Jacksonville Cemetery to be both exciting and creepy beyond words. Rand comforted me with the fact that I had just undergone brain surgery, so zombies would probably be far less interested in me than they would be anyone else. (I appreciate that he no longer tries the “zombies don’t exist” line of reasoning, because he’s realized that doesn’t work.)

We stayed in the Crater Lake Room, high up at the top of the stairs. Hiking all the way up there with all our luggage is as close as my pear-shaped form will ever come to reaching the summit of Kilimanjaro. Or, for that matter, reaching the summit of anything. Fortunately, Gary, one of the owners of the Touvelle House, was kind enough to act as sherpa, lugging much of our stuff up there for us.

I was somewhat worried that, since it was nearly hitting triple digits outside, our small room would be sweltering hot, but to our relief we had our own dedicated air conditioner. It pumped out icy air while I napped (let’s pretend because of the residual effects of my surgery and not just because climbing all those stairs was tiring).

-

We had a view out onto the gardens and even the pool, the latter of which we didn’t even know existed until our arrival.

The view out our bathroom window. And for the record, NO, I do NOT think you could make it into the pool if you jumped from here. #voiceofreason

-

Unfortunately, the freakish amount of sunlight the windows let in was, for my Seattle-dwelling husband and I, a trifle unbearable.

I woke up a little before 7 a.m. the next morning, to the sunlight gently filtering in our room and a handful of birds singing beautifully. It was horrible.

-

The walls of our suite were covered in old postcards and pictures of Crater Lake, which is about a two-and-a-half hour’s drive away.

Me: “Oh my god. It’s called the Crater Lake room, and it’s covered in pictures of Crater lake. Isn’t that a CRAZY coincidence?” / Rand: “I’m fairly sure that was intentional.” / Me: “Suuuure it was.”

-

This decorating move, however, was just cruel:

I understand that it’s vintage and all, but an EMPTY ice cream pie box? That’s just  HEARTBREAKING.

-

An empty ice cream pie box. Just sitting there. It was a continual reminder of the fact that I had no ice cream pie. Adding insult to injury, the box was RIGHT NEXT TO THE BED, which is one of my favorite places to eat pie (or it would be, if Rand would only let me).

Fortunately, despite the dearth of pie, there were plenty of other yummy things to eat at the Touvelle House. Breakfast was generous and delicious – egg souffle, yogurt with berries, homemade banana bread. I would have taken photos, but I thought it might seem impolite, so you’ll have to take my word for it. We ate at a large table with the other guests. It was kind of like one huge awkward (yet not entirely unpleasant) first date.

Other than my few small complaints, the Touvelle House was a delight. When we had to pack up for Ashland, we both were sad to leave.

“This place is almost perfect,” I said. “Except for the risk of zombies.”

Rand looked me square in the eye and asked me if I thought that was a reasonable criticism.

I nodded yes, mostly just to see him smile and shake his head. Because staying at a B & B might have made me feel like a grown-up, but that didn’t mean I had to act like one.

-

Some of the replies to last Thursday’s post (via the comments, Twitter, and Facebook) hit me pretty hard. I have figured that several years of blogging would have thickened my skin, so my reaction surprised me (also surprising: when I got teary over an Olympics-themed Visa commercial. These damn steroids have turned me into a moody softy). I curled up into a ball and when Rand asked me what was wrong, all I could mutter was, “People on the internet are upset with me.”

And he had a good laugh, because when the sum total of your problems can be expressed thusly, THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOUR LIFE.

But in the midst of the occasionally-heated discussion, an important point came up: this sort of reservation-mishap happens a lot (a big thanks to reader kokopuff for making me aware of this). Sometimes it’s an intentional scam. Sometimes it’s just an honest clerical mistake (I want to give our hotel the benefit of the doubt). Either way, you need to protect yourself.

The scenario goes something like this:

You make a reservation at a hotel. You call to cancel it. The hotel fails to give you a cancellation confirmation number (and/or you fail to ask for it), and when they later call you and claim that you are a no-show, you have no proof that the reservation was cancelled. And there is virtually nothing you can do about it.

Heck, not even Christopher Elliott, consumer advocate extraordinaire, could help when someone wrote in with the same problem. Unless you have a cancellation confirmation number, you can’t dispute the credit card charges. It’s apparently a general rule that the only proof you have is that number.

It looks like this sort of thing happens often when booking through certain sites. So you have to protect yourself.

Bottom line: no matter what happens, if the hotel cancels on you, or you cancel on them, get a number confirming that the cancellation took place. It’s the only proof that you have. Without it, Rand and I couldn’t have contested the charges, even if we wanted to (I was incorrect when I presumed otherwise). We’re simply lucky we didn’t get dinged for the entire, staggering amount.

And I realize a lot of folks have taken umbrage over the fact that I made my husband out to be a good person for not contesting the charges – as though his morality was somehow tied to financial privilege. That is not something I ever intended to imply. I simply wanted to communicate how calm he was through the ordeal, and how much I respected him for it. How he doesn’t hold grudges. How he never loses his cool, even when there is plenty to lose his cool over.

And how he’s pretty much the bestest husband in the whole wide world. Something which, to me, is pretty uncontestable.