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!