At the least, I thought, wed be by the ocean, given the clubs location in Florida. Then I learned the resort near Port St. Lucie was surrounded by strip malls and landlocked as close to the sea, for me, as Nebraska.
It was my moms 60th birthday, and she wanted a family get-together. Despite our groaning about a weekend in central Florida in July, we went along, even submitting to wearing pink T-shirts featuring a big, grinning picture of my mom.
When we arrived, we were greeted by a storm that felt like a hurricane. The staff took our bags, and we spent hours huddled in the crowded bar, nursing too-sweet daiquiris to the sound of thunderclaps in a room that had the pungent smell of a fraternity house. When the storm passed, we sloshed through the warren of concrete buildings, which reminded us of cellblocks, to find our luggage outside the door in a large puddle, everything soaked.
Later, at dinner in a mess hall that offered the ambience of a high school cafeteria, we each announced our readiness to leave. Even my mom who smiled through our ribbing agreed.
The next morning, despite a restless sleep on lumpy mattresses and awakening to screaming kids, we resolved to stick it out. The sun was shining, and it wasnt that hot, after all.
We ate tasty, French-style breads for breakfast, tried to do some yoga, and took a small boat out on the drainage canal they called a lake.
We even ventured into the suspiciously warm pool. By the end, it was almost like we were having fun.