Working (at) Class, or the Vacation Conundrum

Notes from a previous, ambiguous vacation, alternately titled "Why I prefer to Stay at Home." Every time I think about going somewhere, I reread this.
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The robes provided by our wine country inn are the softest cotton ever, silky on the outside, fluffy, non scratchy, luxuriant terry on the inside. They are light, and suggestive of something "classy"- not like those horse blankets supplied by supposedly five star hotels that make you feel like a sumo wrestler in loosely tied knots. 

The whole kit and kaboodle- or should I say spa ensemble?- soft sheets, crystal clear bottled water from the fountain of youth, tiny, magical shampoos, conditioners and lotions giving off a whiff of fresh peppermint should you wish to snack on them- is designed to make you feel like you’re on that long, long, much  anticipated, post, post operative recuperative journey. Words like "yoga" and "zen" and inexplicably "shambala" pop into mind.

The innkeepers have seen to details, oh yes, right down to the friendly wicker coasters underneath the pristine wine glasses- two sparkling vessels serenely awaiting the elixir of the famed Sonoma grape gods should you deign to use them. Their stems rest on the smooth surface of a black, hand woven cocktail table, underneath which you detect the warm, woody vibe of a redwood deck. Eucalyptus fills the fragrant, evening air as you worry obsessively about the price. 

The whole scene silently blares soothing, trancelike, west coast, mind-freeing, eternal sunset!! (no matter the hour), a command that ironically creates intense levels of stress as it exhorts you to ENJOY and GET FIT. For one mad moment I am overtaken by thoughts of home and trying clumsily to perfect warrior or downward dog on my little pink yoga mat with no one watching.

The bedside table holds a single, slim volume: trendy little sci-fi morsels entitled “Stories for Bedtime.” Nat King Cole croons dreamily over the speakers, pool water gently laps to and fro not far from your small deck. Two of your fellow guests are from the Bronx, like you. Another couple hails from Long Island and cellulite abounds, but everyone is trying to appear temporarily glamorous, if feeling just a tad strange and awkward. I can’t decide whether all this is an unbelievably cool respite, or maybe just a sanitarium, known in decades past as a sanitorium and occasionally featured in Hitchcock films.

What did I do to deserve such highfalutin weirdness, and why is it making me so nervous? Is this really how rich people live? Well, no.

This is class simulacrum. It’s all in your head. Insanely stupid bourgeois yearnings. Most people work for a living at enterprises markedly low on glamour, and rich people frequently are anything but classy. In addition, they do not go to fancy shmancy little inns but own huge tracts of land with mansions and compounds comprising small cities. They do not need to get cheap airline tickets either nor meticulously measure the size of their carry-ons because they possess their own set of wings; they carry on nothing but a smile, generally underneath large, dark, unbelievably expensive sunglasses. The spa scene is for suckers.

Which is why, among other things, I hate fancy hotels. Gimme an Econo Lodge anytime.  Oh, wait. . .  this may not be entirely true either. . . . Oh hell, is there never to be any tranquility of mind for the ninety-nine per cent???

The last straw was a sign seen on a leafy albeit busy road not far from the inn:

Running low on faith? Stop in for a fill up!

The Cloud and Me

The Cloud 

Remember when people thought the gods lived up in the sky, hurling down itinerant thunderbolts and such at whim?

Well, the deities of old may now be only dim collective memories, dog eared text books relegated to middle school mythology lessons, but the magicians and sorcerers of the tech universe have figured out a way to tease us with more than just a whiff of immortality: The Cloud.

In essence, we're talking about all your stuff, everything! And by extension, you too! All this can remain, safely stowed somewhere in the galaxy forever and ever like space debris. Yes, everything attached to your wandering mind, all your junk, every thought, note, contact, photo, memo, video, even your grocery list can now be happily immortalized in cyberspace. Forever young! To be accessed at will by your and your heirs: The Cloud.

How heavenly. Nonetheless, I feared the underside of this strange phenomenon.

At first I resisted, knowing that if I got sucked in it all would lead to hours and hours of frustration as I tried to figure it out. Backing up your entire life as you know it thus far in pixels, so that it all may be uploaded, up, up, up and away into, and then downloaded at some future date: The Cloud.

A dozen or so calls to Apple within 24 hours because they hooked you in, trapped you into intimations of immortality in a manner that Wordsworth never dreamed.

Blake’s infinity in the palm of a hand- i.e. your device- but eternity in an hour??? Good luck! Indeed a far cry from the world in a grain of sand but a concept relying rather heavily on things, many many things, all sorts of things! Devices, devising, ipads, iphones-uphones-mephones, cameras, screens big and little, and screams too of being fed up with the process of figuring out how to back up all your stuff, an assortment of techies along the way smart and dumb, and of course: The Cloud.

And finally, the process of uploading. A rather hellish experience for the uninitiated and a far cry from Valhalla. It took the better part of three days, numerous cries and calls for help, and a growing if somewhat odd, obsessional predilection for eternal screen life amid visions of cloudlike formations. But I did it! I did it!!! And now I’m set, baby! What, me worry?

My life, my idiotic little existence, every stupid or sublime image, thought, photo, tune, video or impulse- the good, the bad, the ugly- all tucked away for time immemorial: The Cloud.

Now what?