Nom de Plume

The Dead Sea is amazing. So is the hotel. You missed out bigtime.

I swam laps here last night and this morning.

Walking down to the Dea Sea.

The beach–though it’s rather cold.

Dead Sea up close

I’m leaving for the airport in half an hour.

Steve just called me into the kitchen.

“Are you loining your girdle? I’m going to rip out all the cabinets in here while you’re gone.”

Hotels are booked!

We will be staying at the Kempinski in Amman and the Jordan Valley Marriott Resort & Spa on the Dead Sea.

Also on the agenda: A horseback ride in the Wadi Rum, a Dead Sea spa day, and of course, the obligatory trip to Petra.

Steve and I have rented a cabin on the shores of Soap Lake for the long holiday weekend, arriving around noon on Thanksgiving Day. Which, of course, leads to the question of how to cook a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. I think we should be okay if we get a super-small bird. The question is, what is the smallest turkey you can get?

I’m planning to meet my mother in Jordan in January, a trip I’m really looking forward to. I just got a very cryptic e-mail from my mother saying we should go to the Zara Spa while there. I don’t know if this is because she’s feeling the need for some pampering after the rigors of Iraq … but I am SO there.

I was going to do a long, involved step-by-step recap of our week-long trip to British Columbia, but I’ve lost my steam. The short version is that we spent two days in Victoria, 2 days in Tofino, a day sightseeing our way to just north of Vancouver, and a day and a half along the coast up there. It was great; we fell in love with Tofino and the whale-watching tour, thought Butchart Gardens was WAY overrated, and discovered the mining musum, which rocks (literally). One of the highlights, though, was camping outside Port Alberni along a stream where the salmon were migrating in DROVES.

The view from our cabin …

Steve is going back to work on October 1 — even though he says he’s not ready. Actually, what he says is, “I just want to be unemployed and you can be my sugar mama.”

Which would be fine with me — as long as he had dinner ready every night and was wearing something sexy when I got home. Oh wait, I work from home.

In any case, we’re going on a hurrah trip on Monday: British Columbia. Neither of us has ever visited our friendly neighbors up north, so we’re looking forward to the trip. But of course, it means that I’m in a rush trying to wrap stuff up.

“Can you think of a reason to come back to Long Beach?” asked Steve. We were hurtling down the 28-mile long peninsula back to the mainland.

“No.”

And that pretty much summed up our weekend jaunt. It wasn’t a bad little vacation, per se, but it was disappointing . The thing about Long Beach is that it’s just as far as driving to Oregon–and even though the peninsula boasts it has the longest beach in America, you can’t get in the water because of the dangerous riptides. It’s a strange combination of touristy towns, a complete lack of zoning (and the subsequent building monstrosities), and, well, not much to do. The best part was going to the very tip of the peninsula and hiking through the snowy plover reserve.

A large part of the disappointment was our hotel. We stayed at the Moby Dick Hotel and Oyster Farm. It was highly recommended by neighbors because of its eclectic charm, the stellar food, and the sauna that overlooks the bay. Unfortunately, the chef has gone on to different things, so the widely-advertised breakfasts were indifferent and the proprietress couldn’t get the sauna going. And let’s face it: eclectic charm quickly gives way to cheap furnishings and really bad art when one is faced with not enough hot water, a hostess who lacks the most basic of people skills, cramped quarters, and tacky little envelopes that read, “Hi, my name is Alma, and I have prepared this room specially for you.” They may as well have said, “Tip me! I’m an illegal worker who isn’t being paid a living wage.”

Even checking out was a hassle. I waited by the front desk; one of the owners was standing there talking about politics with a couple who was also leaving. After about five minutes, she asked if she could help me. I said we needed to check out. “Okay,” she said, and returned to her conversation. When I waited (patiently, I thought, but maybe not), she turned to me again and asked if I was in a rush.

I have a distinct feeling that the place is resting on its laurels, and that once upon a time, it was a fab place to vacation. And I will say that there were some very interesting, very congenial folks there.

Well, here we are. We spent the weekend at Steve’s uncle’s ranch in Indiana for the big family shindig. It was fun, but the drive was pretty long for the amount of time we spent there. Now we’re back in Rockford, and Steve is off doing handyman stuff at his Grandma’s house. I, on the other hand, am comfortably settled in a squishy couch in a coffeeshop, basking in the rays of their free wireless. It’s an addiction, I tell you.