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June 27, 2007
Saved Not By My Acts
For a long time I have struggled with my faith. Raised a Southern Baptist, my fall from grace was hard and fast and left me wondering about the nature of God and his relationship to mankind. But here, today, I am pleased to say that I have found the true meaning of life, a transcendental bliss that exceeds all others.
Yes dear reader, heaven is on earth, and it's a mere two hour drive from Vancouver. Tucked away in the snow-capped mountains of the Whistler-Blackcomb Resort, the Four Seasons Hotel is a place so glorious that I'm pretty sure angels whisper about it in awe behind Jesus' back.
My hotel room cannot justifiably be called a room. It's more a suite fit for a king, with handsome and tastefully appointed furniture, crisp white sheets of a thread count higher than my bank account, a glassed-in shower with massaging showerhead (with a separate gleaming bathtub calling out for a long soak), and even a gas fireplace by which I am sitting at this moment, feet propped up on an ottoman I would try to sneak home if I wasn't sure it exceeded carry-on baggage restrictions.
There is classical music playing in the background, the lighting is flattering and indirect (except for the 10X magnifying mirror in the bathroom which points out every pore and unplucked eyebrow, and gently points one towards the spa menu), and there is even a welcome gift waiting on my bed from my Big Idea client.
The landscape of Whistler is stunning, at least what I could see from our tented barbeque dinner out on the veranda. Several of the clients played the golf course, where they spotted a mother bear and cub. There is a heated outdoor pool, with requisite Jacuzzis and steam rooms, and enough space in my room to do vigorous calisthenics, if one were so inclined.
Walking into the sumptuous and yet understated lobby for check-in, my gaze fell over the nightly rate. I was surprised at how reasonable it was for such a luxury, but figured that it must be the off-season. It was only later that I noticed the daily room rate on the inside of the closet (which alone was equal to a studio apartment I once rented in college). Apparently, down in the lobby I had missed a decimal point—these rooms are (per night) half again as expensive as the monthly mortgage for my old condo.
I don't care if it is extravagant. I don't care if the gulf between have and have-not is widening. I am giddy with delight, with an enormous and unprofessional grin on my face. I feel like I have slipped in unaware, and get to hide out in this wonderland until I'm caught.
And I might never go back.
