Readers occasionally ask me what experiences have made a lasting impression on me during the decade I’ve been writing my columns. Here’s one that stands out…
Four years ago Joe and I flew to Phoenix to an exclusive, Asian-style spa/resort, to attend our friend Ron’s Christmas wedding there. His lovely bride was- and still is- the resort’s popular social director. Guests are often elegantly turned out People of Note.
Tree trunks were wrapped in lights; huge cacti twinkled from top to bottom. Large, imported Christmas trees were tastefully decorated. Even in the high desert, t’was The Season.
During our delicious balcony lunch outside, above the intriguing infinity pool—which seems to defy gravity—Joe suddenly choked on his salad. His eyes widened. He gestured with his fork toward the large patio area below us, where guests were sunbathing and chatting. I looked, and gasped! A tall, gorgeous woman, probably in her early thirties, wearing 5” spiked heels, walked delicately toward two chaise lounge chairs, followed by her man. She bent over one, the better to display her gravity-defying wonders—a volleyball-sized bust. Sunbathers lowered their shades to gape at the spectacular sight. (This resort attracts the discretely understated sort, so she—ah, stuck out.) Every incredulous female on the big patio felt ironing board flat.
Three men in the generous Jacuzzi dunked themselves to clear their heads, then checked ‘the vision’ again. Sure enough, she was real.
Her companion, a tall, tanned, massively muscled fellow with a narrow waist, wore black silk trunks that flowed expensively to knee level. There was something peculiar about him, though. From the top of his bald head right down to his toes he was dyed a deep plum-purple. A huge eagle tattoo covered his back. Intricate, vividly colored tattoos decorated his limbs. His ton-y torso and tapestry made every other man there feel boring and inadequate.
She slowly massaged his plummy calves as he lay facedown on the lounge chair, then carefully laid her own generous purple towel across her thighs and fussed with the drinks on her little table in such a way as to display her eye-popping frontage.
Her one-of-a-kind one-piece purple ‘swimsuit’ was never meant to be wet. I decided that its creator/designer had poured her into a regular swimsuit, then snipped away at every bit of material that wasn’t absolutely necessary, until what remained could easily fit into a whisky shot glass.
She constantly adjusted the microscopic bits of cloth, which struggled heroically struggled heroically to cope.
The woman possessed lovely, long, tattooed legs, a perfect tan, fluffy blond shoulder-length hair, and up-to-date plumped lips. Satisfied she’d captured everyone’s attention, she positioned herself carefully sideways on the lounge chair to sunbathe. Arranging herself was a tricky business that required some patience. I wondered how she managed to sleep. In the background Frank Sinatra sang, “I’ve got youuu—under my skin,” which made me gasp, then giggle into my napkin.
Joe, finding his voice, whispered, “Do you see what I see?” I nodded, and focused again on the plum man, who’d lowered himself into the Jacuzzi to chat with the other lightly tanned, or pot-bellied, pale men. The dye, obviously impervious to water, was off-the-wall odd, but honestly, on him it worked. “The guy’s probably a professional wrestler,” mused Joe, who’d spared him only a quick glance. His eyes were glued to wonder-woman, who had carefully risen to teeter toward the dressing room while sipping from a long-stemmed martini glass. After a brief absence she teetered back, head held high. Nobody spoke. Everybody looked. The scene was surreal.
We finally finished lunch and left, a few minutes too soon, as it turned out. Apparently one too many martinis had been her undoing. Inebriated and wobbly, mademoiselle tripped on a towel and toppled backward into the big Jacuzzi. She surfaced, sputtering but unhurt, wearing only her birthday suit. A hot tub male, who’d managed to avoid being hit, dived for (her) ‘cover,’ then triumphantly held up his micro-trophy before handing it over to her rattled escort. Another gallant fellow proffered his skimpy towel. Pandemonium reigned for a minute or two as she climbed unsteadily out, clutching the ridiculously inadequate towel to her ‘assets.’ The rest of her was on full display. She probably didn’t notice. (This sort of script would have been rejected as too fantastic, even for Hollywood…or- maybe not.)
At breakfast the next morning the odd couple, who’d checked out early, was the main topic of conversation. Apparently she, an exotic actress, had just finished making a movie, with her companion as co-star. Exhausted from weeks of filming they’d come to the resort to unwind. Some wag commented that the two had inadvertently created another unscripted, short-feature reality show that the resort’s captivated audience would remember, and talk about, for years.
Yes indeed. I’m proof of that…
Note: My book, The View From Sunnybank, is packed with true stories about the fascinating people and animals I’ve encountered over more than twenty years of sharing my secret garden with visitors. All book proceeds go toward maintenance of the garden, open four months of every year. A fun Christmas gift, it’s available at Horizon Books in Traverse City, or online, on Amazon.
Four years ago Joe and I flew to Phoenix to an exclusive, Asian-style spa/resort, to attend our friend Ron’s Christmas wedding there. His lovely bride was- and still is- the resort’s popular social director. Guests are often elegantly turned out People of Note.
Tree trunks were wrapped in lights; huge cacti twinkled from top to bottom. Large, imported Christmas trees were tastefully decorated. Even in the high desert, t’was The Season.
During our delicious balcony lunch outside, above the intriguing infinity pool—which seems to defy gravity—Joe suddenly choked on his salad. His eyes widened. He gestured with his fork toward the large patio area below us, where guests were sunbathing and chatting. I looked, and gasped! A tall, gorgeous woman, probably in her early thirties, wearing 5” spiked heels, walked delicately toward two chaise lounge chairs, followed by her man. She bent over one, the better to display her gravity-defying wonders—a volleyball-sized bust. Sunbathers lowered their shades to gape at the spectacular sight. (This resort attracts the discretely understated sort, so she—ah, stuck out.) Every incredulous female on the big patio felt ironing board flat.
Three men in the generous Jacuzzi dunked themselves to clear their heads, then checked ‘the vision’ again. Sure enough, she was real.
Her companion, a tall, tanned, massively muscled fellow with a narrow waist, wore black silk trunks that flowed expensively to knee level. There was something peculiar about him, though. From the top of his bald head right down to his toes he was dyed a deep plum-purple. A huge eagle tattoo covered his back. Intricate, vividly colored tattoos decorated his limbs. His ton-y torso and tapestry made every other man there feel boring and inadequate.
She slowly massaged his plummy calves as he lay facedown on the lounge chair, then carefully laid her own generous purple towel across her thighs and fussed with the drinks on her little table in such a way as to display her eye-popping frontage.
Her one-of-a-kind one-piece purple ‘swimsuit’ was never meant to be wet. I decided that its creator/designer had poured her into a regular swimsuit, then snipped away at every bit of material that wasn’t absolutely necessary, until what remained could easily fit into a whisky shot glass.
She constantly adjusted the microscopic bits of cloth, which struggled heroically struggled heroically to cope.
The woman possessed lovely, long, tattooed legs, a perfect tan, fluffy blond shoulder-length hair, and up-to-date plumped lips. Satisfied she’d captured everyone’s attention, she positioned herself carefully sideways on the lounge chair to sunbathe. Arranging herself was a tricky business that required some patience. I wondered how she managed to sleep. In the background Frank Sinatra sang, “I’ve got youuu—under my skin,” which made me gasp, then giggle into my napkin.
Joe, finding his voice, whispered, “Do you see what I see?” I nodded, and focused again on the plum man, who’d lowered himself into the Jacuzzi to chat with the other lightly tanned, or pot-bellied, pale men. The dye, obviously impervious to water, was off-the-wall odd, but honestly, on him it worked. “The guy’s probably a professional wrestler,” mused Joe, who’d spared him only a quick glance. His eyes were glued to wonder-woman, who had carefully risen to teeter toward the dressing room while sipping from a long-stemmed martini glass. After a brief absence she teetered back, head held high. Nobody spoke. Everybody looked. The scene was surreal.
We finally finished lunch and left, a few minutes too soon, as it turned out. Apparently one too many martinis had been her undoing. Inebriated and wobbly, mademoiselle tripped on a towel and toppled backward into the big Jacuzzi. She surfaced, sputtering but unhurt, wearing only her birthday suit. A hot tub male, who’d managed to avoid being hit, dived for (her) ‘cover,’ then triumphantly held up his micro-trophy before handing it over to her rattled escort. Another gallant fellow proffered his skimpy towel. Pandemonium reigned for a minute or two as she climbed unsteadily out, clutching the ridiculously inadequate towel to her ‘assets.’ The rest of her was on full display. She probably didn’t notice. (This sort of script would have been rejected as too fantastic, even for Hollywood…or- maybe not.)
At breakfast the next morning the odd couple, who’d checked out early, was the main topic of conversation. Apparently she, an exotic actress, had just finished making a movie, with her companion as co-star. Exhausted from weeks of filming they’d come to the resort to unwind. Some wag commented that the two had inadvertently created another unscripted, short-feature reality show that the resort’s captivated audience would remember, and talk about, for years.
Yes indeed. I’m proof of that…
Note: My book, The View From Sunnybank, is packed with true stories about the fascinating people and animals I’ve encountered over more than twenty years of sharing my secret garden with visitors. All book proceeds go toward maintenance of the garden, open four months of every year. A fun Christmas gift, it’s available at Horizon Books in Traverse City, or online, on Amazon.