A Series of Incoherent Thougts: Notes from my Vacation

Today is the first actual day of living it up here at the resort. Now when I say, “living it up” you have to bear two things in mind about me. One, I do not like the sun, and two; I do not like to swim. Irony ensues as this place has nine pools and the lovely state of Arizona is in a state of constant sun saturation. I make due however, choosing to sit under an umbrella with my trusty iPod, and a copy of the latest EGM.
All though the patrons of the resort are hardly diverse (white, mid forties to early sixties) the choice of beverages are. From a frozen cappuccino in the morning, to a strawberry daiquiri come lunch life was diversity in a blender (much to the dismay of the ACLU). As I mentioned the lack of human diversity, one is forced, and thankfully so, to acknowledge of the intricate blend of tropical paradise and desert oasis. Walking a few feet here you take in the ever green, highly manicured grasses, and at the same time tan soil dotted with beautiful cactus plants. Neatly trimmed hedges stand their ground next to midget palm trees. These contrasting themes do not fight each other, but rather work in harmony to produce a scene that is truly breathtaking.
As I walk the grounds of this place and take notice of the people here, I am inclined to think that if you combined the net-income of all the guests you could very well afford to purchase a couple of states, or a small nation. For, as one meanders through the line of darkwood beach chairs you can rest assured that the guy whose drink you may have accidentally tipped over was probably the CEO of Verizon, or the President of Toshiba. These shirtless CEOs reveal their office tans, which are most comparable to the gamer tan of which I sport. To their side, is, more often than not, a scandaly-clad woman whose age even David Blaine couldn’t guess. Through the magic of cosmetic surgery these trophy wives 2.0 defy your perception of age, though at the same time you have assume that they were aged enough to need the services of a Beverly Hills Doc. However, this is not the definite standard. Every so often you take notice of a large graying man with an attractive, young, Asian woman. One has to assume, that like his Ferrari, she’s a rental. So maybe I was wrong to question the diversity of the people who cook their bodies under the Arizona sun. If beauty can only be skin deep, why not diversity?
Aside from the “Playboy” bunnies you will see here regularly, there is a surprising abundance of real bunnies, which are very cute, very brown, and very slim. I guess the only arguable difference between the two would be that only one of them you have to pay to walk on all fours.
What makes this place the crown jewel of five star resorts is the abundance of activities, however, the one thing that I value above all the rest here is the where you can just think. Impulse buying still goes, but even that moves a comfortable pace. As cliché as this may come across, the only real decisions that one has to make here is do I want to go to the poolside bar or chill in the cushy lounge? If that is your prime decision, all the more power to you, for you are truly living it up.
I may have over-estimated my assertion regarding the average age of the guests at this resort. I have seen my fair share of teenage girls with sunglass lenses arguably larger than their brains. The always roam in groups larger than three and carry with them a sort of movie star vibe, as if I should be bowing when they walk by.



I am not very fluent in the use of flip-flops. I am near certain that I have tripped over them as many times as there are needles on all the cacti in this state or, the number of times I have heard “on the rocks, with salt.” However, I am drawn to them. It must be the symbolic nature of the flip-flop itself, a direct representation of relaxation. You are not truly on vacation unless you are wearing flip-flops. So, here I am. Tripping over myself for the cause of the vacationing spirit.
Right now I am sitting in the hotel lobby area. It is a large expansive area that contains a bar, a lounge, a place for tea, and leads to a terrace that allows for a fantastic view of the resort and the outlying city of Phoenix. I am staring at a fireplace wondering if my presence will go unacknowledged. The city looks wonderful tonight. It’s not yet dark, but just enough that the urban lights can be seen. It is truly a sight to behold.
Another benefit to my location is the view of the people. I can analyze their movements and observe their interactions. The section of the lounge that I inhabit is more or less an empty sector though. However, from my seat I have a panoramic view of the entire scene. Hopefully that waitress will finally take notice of my arrival.
The battery on my laptop is running low, about thirty eight percent. I am trying to make the most of it.
The best way to observe is from the outside looking in. As obvious as this may seem, people tend to forget how much you miss when you are caught up in the thick of it. “Embedded in America”, as The Onion would say. A casual observer misses the emotion. The man in the middle gets the emotion but misses the big picture. There are trade offs, as with everything. One, I suppose, could argue that it would be easier to build from the small emotional clips, and form the big picture from it. However, sometimes it’s just easier to work down.
The people sitting at the table about seven yards in front of me are made up of two older women, one I think I younger than the other, and two older men, one I think is younger than the other. Friends perhaps? They do not appear to share any family connection.
Just as I finished that last statement the piano began to play. Tonight’s pianist is a bald man, imposing, but with a certain air of openness. It sounds beautiful really. Hard to describe. I wish someone would bring me a drink so I could truly enjoy this, although the chances of that happening are arguable. Funny enough, just as I wrote that last line the aforementioned waitress approached me.
“Are you doing OK?”
“A Coke would be lovely.”
“OK, I’ll be right with you.”
So goes the exchange. My episode of outside observing briefly interrupted with actual contact with the people that set the scene. The pianist drones on and I am brought back to the outside.
Lovers stroll outside, husband and wife. She stops to comment on a couch that looks remarkably like her own. He walks a few steps forward and turns, staring back at her. They continue their stroll making a “U” back toward the lobby. The pianist reaches the bridge. The conservation at the table directly in front of me has picked up. Brief intervals of forced laughter slice through the elegant atmosphere created by the sound of an old Steinway, and a large fountain in the center of the lobby. A woman wearing a brown sleeveless top and khakis stops to observe a clear vase containing pink flowers. I assume she is wondering if they are real. I believe they are. Just as she moves away the people at the table directly in front of me, sign their check and leave. It turns out there were three woman and one man, my mistake. As the busboy makes his move on the table, all evidence that the party had been enjoying their evening there is removed. Two martini glasses, a champagne glass, a bowel of toasted nuts; all removed, as the consumers have disappeared into the fray. It has grown darker, and my waitress is nowhere to be found. My battery power is at thirty-two percent. I will leave at ten. I think she is coming. However, her tray seems to be missing my Coke, she realizes her mistake upon the recognition of my person.
“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your Coke.”
“That’s OK.”
Her accent appears to be southern, she must have moved here. Not really a bad choice. If you do not mind a little heat in the summer, it is really a nice place to be. The tones of the piano have reached a dramatic pitch. Candles are flickering all around, and as I shift my gaze toward the city I realize the similarity between the urban lights that punctuate the night sky and the candles that glow dimly throughout the scene within. The piano is now playing a light hearted tune. I do not recognize it by name.
The waiters dressed in black move across the room like ghosts. Brought back into the plane of human existence only by brief interactions. They swiftly and silently make their rounds. My waitress arrives with my Coke.
“I’m sorry again for the delay, this one’s on me.”
“No, that’s all right…”
Before I could finish my protest…
“I insist, please enjoy.”
I have a free drink. This is pretty good news. It’s always fun to get a free drink. The world seems like such an inviting place all of the sudden. However, I do not now how to act now. Should I just leave without paying? I hope that she remembers to pick up the tab; the precedent she set is a little worrisome. She was nice however; I will give her the benefit of the doubt.
My Coke tastes very good, and for split second I could have sworn the pianist was playing the intro to Billy Joel’s Piano Man, however, I am mistaken. The woman in the brown top returns and once again goes to observe the clear vases that contain the pink flowers. This time however, her husband accompanies her. He motions her over to a couch not to far from where I am sitting. I can pick up bits of their conversation. It seems she is definitely intrigued by those clear vases.
I think the pianist is now playing Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain. I may be wrong. I have about three quarters left of my coke and my battery is at twenty-six percent. The night is still young.
People are attracted to laptops. They attempt to hide their gazes as the pass by. We are all guilty of it. Our eyes are drawn to the screen, as curiosity gets the better of us. However, all they will see right now is a dimly lit screen and a wall of Times New Roman. I think the Times font is derivative of the New York Times. That would be interesting. I just recently found out that Time Square was named for the New York Times; it’s possible that the font is named for it as well.
The lobby has cleared up somewhat since I arrived on the scene. The real action is outside. There, the resort has beautiful fires lit on the terrace and there seems to be a silent competition amongst the guests to get closet to it.
There is a significant chance that my battery will outlive my Coke. The poor thing is two sips away from death, and my battery still has twenty three percent left. It is now seven twenty postmeridian. I may take my leave shortly. Will it be rude if I just leave my glass behind? Of course not, you pay good money to have people pick up after you. I think the nightly cost of my stay here is around 1,500 dollars.
I recognize the pianist’s tune; it’s Billy Joel’s She’s Always a Woman to Me. I picked up on the bridge. He is definitely taking some artistic liberties with it, but it’s definitely Joel. I was hoping to hear at least one tonight.
My Coke is now done, and my battery is about to cross the barrier from twenty percent into the teens. Working it’s way down. Just as an observer works from the big picture, to the small emotional clips, I have worked down.