Sometime around the last government shutdown, I transferred school districts and needed a one-unit course to move to the farthest column on the pay scale. Figuring this was an ideal opportunity for travel, (I generally use any excuse for that); I searched for places to take our family. Europe? Africa? Asia? Terrific travel destinations but costly for a family of five’s vacation and one’s education, especially on a teacher’s salary, and even with my new raise. An exhaustive internet search led me to the precise seminar that met all my requirements in course level, length, price, and destination—at Yellowstone National Park. The University of Montana offered a one-unit graduate level course covering “Geysers, Mud pots, and Hot Springs Research.” Let the family escape begin!
After three days on the road, with stops at Uncle Steve’s in Nevada for horse wrangling, then Uncle Carl’s for fly-fishing, we drove towards our final target of Yellowstone. Our three daughters were camping veterans, who had experienced nearly every summer in state or national parks, since that is what families of teachers often do. The girls knew that the next few weeknights would be sleeping in down bags and under the stars (by my terms, luxurious), bathing in solar-powered showers (translation, just above freezing), dining on camp gruel (edible, by any bear standards), but according to our teenage and tweenage daughters—not so much. So, to make this a “real family vacation,” I conceded and made a one-night reservation at a local hotel in American Falls, Idaho near enough to our final destination, requesting two rooms with four beds, so adults could have privacy and quiet. “No problem,” the clerk responded and we replied that we would arrive by early evening.
The recently remodeled hotel sat on the corner of the American Falls with balconies over leaning the rushing waters—magnificent and thunderous. I handed the clerk my credit card and explained that I called earlier. He seemed perplexed, and then left to find the manager of the hotel. At this point, we were hungry, tired from travelling, and cranky from family time. “Please don’t tell me there are no rooms,” I was thinking and mentally preparing my next move, when the manager approached. “No problem” (I had heard that before) as he handed me a key. He explained, “We had a slight mix-up with the rooms, but I am certain your family will enjoy this room much better. It is the same price.”
I accepted the key and thanked him. We grabbed our backpacks and headed to room 2106. The elevator doors opened on the twenty-first floor, a smallish floor compared with the others, on the other hand, we were on the top floor. We got out and found 2104 and 2108. No 2106. No odd numbers either, which was strange. The only room between 2104 and 2106 had a sign—“Penthouse.” Ha! Like that would happen. My husband glanced around to see if anyone was watching us, all of us feeling slightly sheepish as though we did not quite belong, but the doors opened. Viola! We were going to experience how 1% of the wealthiest lived!
With wrap-around balconies directly over the deafening falls and spray wafting up all twenty floors, none of us could believe the good fortune this trip had afforded. The beds—all queen or king size–were soft yet firm, with downy comforters over satin sheets; amenities at every elbow, including a walk-in shower and a bathtub large enough for a party, velvety towels galore, and, of course, a fancy bidet, of which my kids were clueless. We savored the moments in that hotel and I doubt if any of us slept that night—too stunned at our windfall. Checkout time was 11:00 the next morning; we returned the key at 10:59—then headed to another miracle of sorts, Yellowstone Valley—but that is another story.
Love is Complicated 