Wyndham? Damn near killed ‘em

Last week I piled the wife, daughter and the son-in-law into my fourteen-year old Lexus ES350—really just a Camry dressed up for Saturday night—and took them down the coast to San Diego, where we were meeting up with my son and his fiancé to go see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band.

I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

They were playing at Pechanga Arena, a venue I was unfamiliar with and had never been to, even though it’s been there over sixty years under various names.

Since it was just an overnight trip, and arena shows are notorious for hellish parking and hours-long traffic jams leaving afterwards, I used my big brain and thought the best thing to do would be to book us three rooms at a nearby hotel, where we’d be able to leave the car and just walk to the show.

The hotel I found, the Wyndham Garden San Diego Sea World (the arena is right behind the orca prison) was literally across the street from the arena.

Being the hotel snob I am, after perusing their website and seeing that the rooms and the hotel in general—while not up to the usual Hotel Del Coronado/Fairmont San Francisco/Essex House New York/Four Seasons Seattle accommodations I’ve grown accustomed to—looked decent enough for an inexpensive overnight stay.

But as we all know, when it comes to looks, as in used cars and the opposite sex at closing time, they can be deceiving.

Most arenas are not located in the better part of town, and Pechanga is no exception.

When we pulled into the hotel, which come to find out was more of a motel, it looked decent enough. The woman at the front desk who checked us in was pleasant, and directed us to the building our rooms were in. On the way over, we noticed several extremely sketchy characters not just around the property, but staying there.

It reminded me of the Crystal Palace on Breaking Bad, except without the charm. Although if they had room service, like the Crystal Palace, I was pretty sure meth was on the menu.

We went into the room and, as they say, it was nothing like the brochure. Dingy, dirty and with a prison bathroom, there was only one window with a transparent shade out to the upstairs walkway. I imagine that was to make it easier for the addicts to decide what to steal.

All I could think was Gitmo must’ve been booked for the weekend.

If I’d been a little more thorough in my research, and the only reason I wasn't was because I was pretty danged pleased I'd found a place within walking distance, I would’ve seen the pictures of cockroaches in the rooms and Wyndham’s less than stellar ratings on Yelp.

That would’ve been the first clue.

I told everyone not to put anything on the beds, we were getting out of there.

Speaking with the woman who’d checked us in not fifteen minutes earlier, I let her know the rooms weren’t what we expected and we weren’t going to stay. Without skipping a beat, she said no problem and gave us a full refund. Which told me this probably was a daily request.

Fortunately, the Hyatt Regency Mission Bay Spa & Marina had rooms available and we wound up staying there. Instead of across the street, it was a six-minute Uber ride to the arena, and a million miles away from the Wyndham.

In a word, the Hyatt was heaven. I can’t say enough good things about it. And I believe in my heart that their staff is as great and the accommodations as comfortable, clean and pleasant as they were all the time—not just because we’d made our escape from the bowels of hell.

I wasn't trapped in the Wyndham cell long enough to notice if they had movie channels on the TV. If they do, I'd recommend watching Escape From Alcatraz.

Not for the movie. For the plan.

A show of hands

It's not easy being beautiful during a plague. I mean sure, I make it look easy, but it's really not. Basically I've had to cut down my beauty regimen to just one essential element. And you're looking at it.

I've mentioned here before that I've always washed my hands like I was Howard Hughes. But in the last crazy, unnerving, scary, germ-infested, toilet paper and Clorox wipes hoarding weeks, I'd say I've at a minimum doubled my already ridiculous hand-washing routine.

After touching every doorknob.

Handling every piece of mail.

Taking off a pair of my disposable pink latex gloves (just because it's a plague doesn't mean I can't make a fashion statement).

When I'm done handling dirty dishes.

After I pet the dogs.

And that's just for starters.

As you'd imagine, all that increased volume of hot city water leave my hands more than a little raw. That's why I turn to Bamboo Bergamot from Dani Naturals.

I stumbled on to this fabulous hydrating lotion when I was out to breakfast at the Coffee Cup Cafe with the wife and kids.

The wait, as always, was ridiculously long. So, as always, we wandered into Twig & Willow, the sweet little boutique store next door while we waited. My daughter likes going in there because she's sure she'll walk out with something to wear in the way of clothing or jewelry, thanks to her old man. What can I say? I'm a pushover for my girly.

Anyway, on one of the shelves was a plethora of hand and body lotions with a tester bottle for each of one.

I've found that in shopping, as in life, it's always good to sniff before you buy.

I took a whiff of the Bamboo Bergamot and I was hooked. Its scent was actually reminiscent of the shampoo I used to steal, er, use at the Hotel Del Coronado before it sold and they changed suppliers. It used to be this great fresh, ocean scent. After the sale it was some kind of citrus whammy jammy. Seaside hotel, hello?! Don't get me started.

The good news is unlike toilet paper, disinfectant sprays and wipes, bottles of Bamboo Bergamot are in plentiful supply online. I highly recommend it for keeping your hands and skin silky smooth, hydrated and on the right side of the law, aromatically speaking.

I know there are more pressing issues in the new world order right now. But let's remember the time will come again when we'll get back to being close enough to smell each other.

My advice? Apply liberally.

No Del hotel

For the first time in thirteen years, I won’t be spending part of the summer looking out at this view from our hotel room (the ocean is off camera to the left). Yes, sadly the family and I won’t be spending our annual week in August at the Hotel Del Coronado.

For starters, our great friend Donna who was the manager there has moved on to a much more rewarding position where her talent, experience and insights are being recognized and appreciated on a daily basis. We couldn't be happier for her, but the place definitely wouldn't be the same without her.

Next, with the arrival of the new general manager a couple years ago, rates at the Del – which were always stupid high – are now exhorbitant. A more cynical person might suggest jacking up the rates is an easy way for the recently installed general manager to artificially inflate the bottom line in the short term to make the numbers and himself look good to his corporate overlords in Chicago at Strategic Hotels, the latest owners of The Del.

But why bring that up at all.

I love the Del, and every summer for the last thirteen years it's been our home away from home. But for $719 a night, not only would I need a better ocean view - they’d have to bring the beach up to the room.

Last but not least, the week we’d normally go happens to be the same week we’re moving young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state university to attend one of the nations’ top-rated film schools. So instead of enjoying cool ocean breezes at the Del, we'll be baking in the brick oven that is August in Texas.

I suppose the truth is if we wanted to, we could probably manage to squeeze in an abbreviated trip to the Del before he's off shouting "Action!" - at least a couple days. Unfortunately if the choice is spending $719 a night on a room or putting it towards his out-of-state tuition, the room loses.

So as much as it pains me to say it, goodbye to the Del. At least for this summer.

And while there's consolation knowing the money is going towards his education, there's even more knowing that when he lands his first three-picture deal we'll be back at the Del.

In the big suite.

Getting educated about college

It's been one day since the son got accepted to a prestigious out-of-state college, one that's a shining blue spot in a big red state. I'm not naming names.

But it has a tower. A Longhorn steer. And a bass drum named Big Bertha.

Along with his out-of-state college comes the out-of-state tuition, which is four times what it would be if he were an in-state resident.

I was expecting the hefty tuition tab. What I wasn't expecting, or at least didn't figure into the worksheet (as if I did a worksheet) was the travel expenses. For us going there, and for him coming home.

Since yesterday, we've already fired up the credit cards and racked up a few thousand in airline tickets and hotel reservations for Family Orientation. Then there's getting him settled in when he leaves for the school in August. Another parents of freshman get together in October. And then we have to bring him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas (we figure the guy we've rented his room to will be already be gone for the holidays).

The other thing all this "education" means is, since he starts in August, our annual vacation to the Hotel Del Coronado will not be happening for the first time in fifteen years. Instead, we'll be holed up in a room at the Doubletree Hotel, enjoying the chocolate chip cookies they give us on check in, and buying him everything he needs for his microscopic-sized room at the university.

And when I'm not doing that, I'll be complaining about not being at the Del.

In those rare moments I can get past how much this is all going to cost, I forget about the fact since young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the top film schools in the country, I'll have to work writing banner ads and manifestos until I'm ninety.

But that's overshadowed by the enormous pride I have for my boy in going after his dream, getting in the school he wanted and having a clear vision of the path he wants to take. Even though because he's so talented in so many ways, there are a wide variety of paths open to him.

Besides, credit card applications are like buses. There's always another one coming along.

Shamu's tale

We just returned home from our annual week at the Hotel Del Coronado. It was our twelfth year, and in almost all of our past stays one of the most anticipated parts has been our visit to Sea World. The visit is usually driven by me, because I love the Shamu show and getting splashed.

What can I say? I'm easy that way.

But this year, we didn't go to Sea World. It was on the itinerary, until we decided to see the extraordinary documentary Blackfish. It's about the many trainers that've been injured or killed by these whales, and particularly Dawn Brancheau who was killed a few years ago at the park in Orlando by Tilikum, an orca that had already killed two people before it came to the park. Blackfish also speaks to the conditions that make the whales so aggressive: small tanks, ripped from their families, attacked by other whales in their pens, lack of food and more.

I won't run the litany of excellent points this film makes, but I will say this: it doesn't take a documentary to know that these beautiful creatures, who once had the run of the ocean and swam over a hundred miles a day are not enjoying the same quality of life in the small (for them) tanks at Sea World's Shamu Stadium.

Understandably, we don't see any of the mistreatment from the stands. Instead, we see the show, take the pictures then buy the stuffed Shamu dolls. I'm as guilty as the next person.

I find myself at a crossroads, because my feeling is that, like zoos, if you can't see these animals in person you can't get a genuine understanding of their beauty and grandeur. In my way of thinking, contradictory though it may be, the ability to see them in captivity makes me want to protect them more in the wild. That's the effect it has on me. So much so, I even wrote about it days after Dawn Brancheau's tragic death.

I don't know if I'll ever visit Sea World again. But I do know after seeing Blackfish, my involvement and contributions to organizations who protect and preserve these animals will be an ongoing commitment.

Here's lookin'

My faith in the movie-going audience has been restored. Well, at least in a small movie-going audience on the "island" of San Diego-adjacent Coronado.

As you may know, I've just returned from my annual week at the Hotel Del Coronado. By the time you read this, my tan will be fading, I'll have remembered there's no room service or housekeeping at home and my VISA card will be dead from exhaustion.

But I will have gotten to see one of the great films of all time on the big screen.

Every year we have certain things we like to do in Coronado. And this year, we had the opportunity to see a brand new print of Casablanca with a sold out audience at the recently refurbished Village Theater.

There's a series of films called Mayor's Choice, and this past Thursday his choice was Casablanca. It was showing in the biggest of the three theaters at the Village. Of course, "biggest" is a relative term - the Village Theater in Westwood seats 1,341 people. The main theater at the Village in Coronado seats 185.

Still, the line for the 8:30PM showing of Casablanca started forming about 7PM. We took the ten-minute walk from our hotel and got there about 7:30. We heard lots of good natured comments in line like, "You mean this isn't in 3D?" To which I replied, "Don't worry - at least it's in color."

Seventy years later, it's still a thrilling experience to watch Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. The acting is classic golden age, and the script's razor-sharp humor, intelligence and intrigue is all very much intact and relevant.

And not to sound too "Hey you kids get off my lawn!", but I'm just going to come right out and say it: it was a great, great pleasure to expose my kids to a film without a character wearing a mask, a cape or a metal suit. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

A film for movie lovers, playing in a theater filled with movie history. A few more nights like this on the island, and it could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

If you're interested, here's a quick history of the Village Theater:

I get Misty

I like shopping at Bristol Farms. After all, why pay discount prices at regular markets when you can pay three times as much at Bristol. Besides, you never know who you'll run into. Like the time four years ago when I ran into Misty May-Treanor.

Come to find out, Misty is a neighbor of mine who lives just a few blocks away. On the family's annual trip to the Hotel Del Coronado in 2008, we'd spent most of the evenings watching Misty and her volleyball partner Kerri Walsh in Beijing, spiking and acing their way to Olympic gold.

Watching her then, it never occurred to me that she shops at the market just like regular people.

I had the good fortune of chatting with her at the checkout counter. I told her how much we'd enjoyed watching her win while we were on vacation, and asked her what it was like in Beijing. She was extremely approachable, genuinely giving of her time. And, dare I say it, downright chatty. She was telling me about how she had to get ready for an appearance on "Ellen" later on that afternoon.

I was asking her about her medal, and because she had it with her for her talk show appearance, much to my surprise she popped the question to me: she asked if I wanted to see it.

The medal itself is heavier than you think, and even more impressive in person. I told Misty I knew she was tired of being asked, but if she wouldn't mind could I take a picture of her with it. Her answer is above.

The other thing is Misty drives the same car as mine (or she did at the time), only in a different color. We're kindred Lexus spirits.

I said goodbye and thanked her for her time.

We're not on vacation yet, but you can bet we'll still be watching her and Kerri go for the gold in London this year.

It's what neighbors do for each other.

For now

Not that anyone's noticed - and really, if you have then you're concentrating on the wrong things in life - but I haven't posted anything here in a couple weeks.

The reason, surprisingly enough, isn't laziness. Or lack of time. It's much simpler than that.

I haven't felt strongly enough about anything to go on a tear about it. Not that there haven't been things to feel strongly about - I'm just not feelin' it.

Plus, being the freelancer I am, the time off from the responsibility of coming up with something every day is very liberating. Doing nothing gives me more time to do nothing. What can I say? It's a skill.

So in the meantime, if you want to fill the empty void in your soul and spend some quality time with another clever, insightful, extremely well-written blog, please to enjoy my pal Rich Siegel's musings over at Round Seventeen. For a while now, Rich and I have had a friendly competition to see who could put up more blog posts in a year. Despite an early lead at the beginning of the year, I knew I was nowhere near as prolific as he is. It's official Rich (as if it wasn't before) - you win.

This isn't goodbye. It's just "I don't feel like doing it." for now.

I'll be back eventually. Probably after I'm rested, refreshed and tanned from our annual trip to the Hotel Del Coronado.

So mark your calendars for the end of August, and have yourself a fine what's left of summer.

Don't forget to write. I won't.