“Welcome to our hotel, sir! We are so glad to have you here for the week!”
I returned her pretty smile as best I could. “Glad to be here! We are looking forward to our stay! And,” I added, “the kids can’t wait to get in the pool!”
Her face clouded only slightly. “About that, sir,” she began. “We had some difficulty last evening, and the pool will be closed for a couple of days.” She brightened. “It will be open again by the weekend!”
I stared at her. “The conference is over on Friday,” I said, trying and failing to keep sudden frustration out of my voice. “We will be checking out that morning.”
“Well—” she began to stammer. “There was an event poolside last night and a glass panel got knocked over.” She shrugged, trying her best to put lipstick on this pig. “It will take them a few days to clean it up.”
A pause. “There is a glass panel beside the pool?”
She nodded, and her smile began to fade to apology.
“They will have to drain the pool, won’t they?” I began to feel sorry for her.
“I’m afraid so, yes. There is a lot of broken glass.” She fumbled with some papers. “We can’t let guests into the area for at least a few days.”
Stoicism is the refuge of dignity
“I see,” I said, mastering the quite logical temptation to anger. “Can you recommend another hotel nearby?” I asked. “One with a working swimming pool? We have younger kids, you see,” I added.
Her eyes swept over our two boys in the 10-year-old range, standing quietly with Mom, awaiting the fate the Big People would decree. All day on the road we had been promising virtually unlimited swimming at the host hotel.
The desk clerk referred me to the Concierge who, amid profuse apologies, suggested a motel chain a half mile away with an outdoor pool. I thanked her, we stuffed our belongings back into the van, and drove to the Super 8.
It was par for that course
This sort of trip was what we did, back in the day. My job required my attendance at two annual trade shows every year. My employer was a significant player in the industry, and as Sales Manager my participation was never optional.
The venues were always destination locations, and frequently, as schedules permitted, I took the family along. We developed the habit of driving our conversion van. Didn’t matter how far; my wife and I took turns driving, 3 hours on, 3 hours off. The driver listened to an audio book on headphones (the more exciting the better, for staying alert), the kids slept in reclining captain’s chairs, and the non-driver stretched out on the bed.
This particular conference was just under 1,000 miles from home. All of it was interstate highway, about 15 hours. No problem. We left at 4:00 AM local time and arrived that night in time for dinner. The company paid air faire in lieu of mileage, making the trip nearly free.
Downtown Detroit in August sweltered in heat and humidity. It was only a half-mile walk to the alternate motel. However, seeing my customers at the convention — who for the most part did NOT bring their kids and thus found no need for the pool — required that I look presentable. A 10-minute downtown walk would leave me sweaty and smelling of asphalt.
I took a cab back and forth, leaving the van for my wife and the boys.
Disruption and recovery
It was a ritzy hotel catering to the well-healed business traveler. The poor judgment of architects surrounding the pool with delicate, three-foot-high glass wall sections was exceeded only by the idiocy of management hosting regular Saturday night cocktail parties in their midst.
Of course a glass wall will get knocked over! The explosion would have been entertaining. How many dressy, open-toed high-heels got filled with broken slivers I never learned.
We survived the week, and admittedly the motel was only a fraction of the cost of the host property. So glad I could save the expense for my billion-dollar employer. I made up for it by charging the cab fare to my corporate card.
The kids had a great time, as kids will. My wife, trooper that she is, took it in stride. But now we have been to downtown Detroit, and, with all due apologies to our Michigan readers, we never have to do it again.
“We have met the enemy, and he is us!” — Pogo
The future rolls toward us inexorably. There is no stopping it. One of the Proverbs urges us to get ready for whatever comes: “The wise man sees the (coming) evil, and hides himself. The fool walks on, and is punished.” (22:3)
Whether anticipating a wedding, the birth of a child, a vacation, or your retirement, there are stages. Whether we recognize the steps or not, there is:
Expectation
Rough outline
Detailed planning
Deliberate execution.
And sometimes we find ourselves in:
Unexpected disruption
Unplanned alternate arrangements
Adaptive modification of the expected routine.
You may plan all you want — and you should! — but we must be ready to modify and adapt to changing realities.
The fourth quarter of life, for those of use entering it in this chunk of the 21st century, will present a wide range of opportunities to show our adaptability. That is the best face I can put on it.
A pretty good old movie…
Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis starred in The Out of Towners (1970) about a young man from the mid-west invited to New York City for a job interview. He resolved to take his wife, turning the trip into a short and exciting vacation.
Every detail was planned; the schedule was incredibly tight; his expectations were completely unrealistic. As the audience expected, the trip was entertainingly disastrous.
Jack Lemmon’s character knew nothing of flexibility.
…which may hold a lesson for us.
Recognizing the evil and taking steps to protect from it is a responsibility that cannot be avoided. Analyze what’s coming and plan accordingly.
Have a good week!
P.S. For help thinking through what makes a fruitful retirement, subscribe to Your Best Retirement newsletter. There is no charge. It launches in June and will be sent direct to your inbox. (Cancel anytime.) Click the link below.
A Swimming Pool Filled with Shattered Glass...