Living Presidential

I thought I’d get back to posting a tale from the road today.

The first week of July must have been a slow one for the Westgate Park City, because when we arrived to review their resort, they put us up in their presidential suite. This was good timing, actually, as we were hitting the mid-way point of our trip and frankly, could use a little pampering.

Of course, no one, no matter how many miles they’ve traveled with their little brother whistling in his ear, needs four TV sets, three glassed in massage showers, three fireplaces, a wrap-around deck bigger than our backyard at home, and a whirlpool tub in each of the four bedrooms.

But good luck telling Nate that. He thoroughly embraced this new standard to which he clearly thought he should always have been accustomed from the moment we inserted the key in the door. (Which, incidentally, took us a while: not knowing we were in the presidential suite, we passed by its heavy oak double doors and ostentatious signage many times in search of our room number. We eventually had to ask a passing housekeeper, who looked at us with our duffel bags and wrinkled clothes as though entertaining serious doubts that we were presidential material. I wholeheartedly agreed.)

Within minutes of our arrival, Nate had claimed a bedroom/bathroom suite, played around with the mood lighting, then donned the complementary robe in his closet before sitting down on the leather couch with his feet up. He later tried out every tub (including the hot tub on the deck) and every massage setting on the shower before enjoying everyone else’s turn-down mints while watching HD TV. I did, however, stop him with a shriek before he could untwist the cap on a $5 bottle of sparkling water on the kitchen counter.* The next morning, he was the first to read through the complementary USA Today (while still in his robe).

Upon entering every other hotel room we reviewed after that, no matter how adequate for our needs, he’d sigh wistfully while doing an oh-so-critical walk-through with his now-seasoned eye and say something like, “So small?” or “Not really what I had in mind…” while toeing the edge of the tub as one might give a new car’s tires an idle kick.

I tremble to think what was going through his mind when he got home…to his regular-sized tub and lack of heated floors or maid service. Whatever it was, he wisely kept to himself.

In case you’re wondering: I’m not entirely sure what the point of this post is, other than to admit I now have a spoiled child and no one to blame but myself.

*It does bear revealing however, that by 10 pm that night, his big room seemed a bit too roomy, and he asked Calvin to come share it with him.


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