About a month ago, my friend Jenny emailed me, saying that if I booked a flight to Southern California, she'd get us a hotel room in San Diego and we could have a fabulously girly weekend visiting two of our former students, Amber and Sarah.
I immediately booked a cheap flight for this past weekend.
Jenny reserved a room for us at the Westgate, a hotel so ornate that we immediately agreed the gloriousness would have been completely lost on our husbands who, incidentally, we left at home with an almost-two-year-old and a new puppy. We felt about two seconds of guilt--that we were enjoying sunny San Diego while they were potty training a puppy--until we realized that the grandness of the place could never be fully appreciated by two men who spent their day at Rubio's and then at a hardware store "for fun."
The hotel was full of sparkling chandeliers, antique furnishings, and tasseled drapes. Mostly everything was gold! gold! gold! in the most fabulous possible way.
This is how we turned on the faucets in our room:
We ate breakfast in the lavishly appointed hotel restaurant where the waitstaff inquired whether we were planning to attend the opera that evening. Some of the ladies at breakfast were actually wearing gloves--fancy dress gloves--and many were drinking white wine at 10:30 in the morning.
In two days we visited two candy shops so our purses were full of gummi raspberries, sour fizzy candies, and Bubbalicious Ink'd gum.
We drank Cokes and ate huge sundaes at the Ghirardelli shop and ordered Milky Way Mochas at The Living Room Cafe in La Jolla. We had room service bring up coffee and stayed in our pajamas as long as possible.
Basically, we were 12-year-olds.
But, you know, totally classy 12-year-olds with credit cards.