Tag: motel

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Christmas Dinner

I was raised by feral wolves. At least that is how it felt every time we took a road trip.

My parents were big on travel adventure, short on planning. Somehow, it always worked out for them. They never bothered with any research or advance bookings. We would just pile into the car and drive. We would arrive at our destination late at night, be the last car through the drive through, then drive around to find a room in a low-end motel. Growing up we thought this was normal.

This same lack of planning defined our Christmas trip to Disney World when I was a young kid. This was a major trip from Canada to Florida at the busiest time of year. Most people spend months planning their Disney vacation, optimizing all variables to navigate the crowds. My parents did zero research. Their only real decision was whether to take a 50 mile detour from the Interstate to see the world’s biggest ball of yarn. Thankfully they did not.

We pulled into a suburb of Orlando at around 10:30 on Christmas Eve. Surprise – everything was closed. This was back in the 1970’s right in the belt buckle of the bible belt, so everything was closed. There wasn’t a single restaurant open. Mercifully, they found a hotel. It was so low end that you could put quarters in a machine to make the bed vibrate. We unpacked the car, tired and hungry.

The only food we had with us was a gingerbread house that my sister had made as a Girl Scout project. It had travelled with us from Canada in the trunk of the car and was still partially frozen. So our family piled on to the vibrating bed and dad fed quarters into the machine while we waited for the gingerbread house to thaw. Then he went down the corridor and came back with a couple of cans of grape soda and a bucket of ice. Feral wolves, I tell you.

There were four of us. Each person got one wall of the gingerbread house for our main course. For desert, we split the roof between us since it had icing and gumdrops. Then we washed it all down with Grape Crush. We fell into our vibrating beds in a sugar coma.

We awoke Christmas morning ready to face the crowds at Disney World. Outside it was freezing.  Truly freezing. Florida was in the grip of a rare cold snap. Parents who had done their planning and watched the weather report opted to stay away that day. We were from Canada and had all our cold weather gear, so no problem. And no crowds. We had Disney World to ourselves. Love my parents: somehow it just always worked out for them.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.

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The Motel

The diaper exploded in the motel swimming pool. Then the offending infant sealed the deal by throwing up in the shallow end. They closed the pool for cleaning. Our children returned to the motel room, downcast.

We had chosen this motel, a classic 1950’s two story walk-up, specifically because it had a pool. That was our treat for the kids as our family toured the historic battlefield of Gettysburg. Our only fallback now was the allure of the make-it-yourself waffle iron at the breakfast bar the next morning.

That night the Boy Scout troop in the room above us began bouncing off the walls. Their leaping and tackling reverberated like thunderclaps in our room below. At 10:00 PM I went up and kindly asked them to be quiet. At 11:00 PM I did the same. By midnight, I had had enough. I threw back the covers. My wife immediately registered concern. She knows that when Panda dad switches to Grizzly dad, it can get unpleasant. I assured her I was under control. I strolled purposefully up to the second floor walkway in my plaid boxer shorts and thin sleeping t-shirt.

I knocked on the door. The room went silent. I knocked again. A boy scout opened the door and peered out, wide-eyed.

“Where is the scoutmaster?”, I asked calmly.

The scout became immediately contrite. “I am sorry”, he said. “We’ll tone it down”.

“Please answer my question”, I said with Vladimir-Putin-lack-of-emotion and half-lidded eyes, “and tell me where I can find the scoutmaster”.

“I promise we’ll be quiet”, said the scout.

“Son”, I said, “I am going to knock on every door on this floor until I find the scoutmaster. You can either come with me, or I can march back down here with him when I find him. What’s it going to be?”

Before he could answer, a door opened further down the walkway. Out stepped a man who turned out to be the scoutmaster. He looked puzzlingly at my boxer shorts. I explained calmly and politely what was going on. He said he’d take care of it. He did. Not another peep out of those guys.

The next morning our family was sitting in the breakfast room eating waffles. At the table beside us were several obese men. They were dressed in Civil War period uniforms and had waffle batter on their chins. As they discussed their upcoming battle re-enactment one of them remarked, “You know what I don’t understand? It’s those wussies that re-enact the War of 1812. I mean, that was just a totally sucky war, man”. Our family quietly challenged one another to think of anything less cool than battle re-enactment guys with waffle drizzle on their chins talking trash about other battle re-enactment guys. Our son identified “diapers exploding in a motel pool” as being way, way less cool.

In walked the scout troop. The entire troop came up and apologized. They looked us in the eyes. They shook our hands. They took responsibility. Later, we commended the scout leader on their exemplary morning conduct, and we asked him to convey our sincere appreciation.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]