Travelers
nowadays don’t realize just how fortunate they are. If they are thinking about
staying at some hotel or resort they’ve heard about, they can go online, check
out the reviews and find out if the place is the luxurious palace they’re
imagining it is...or some run-down old roach-motel.
All
I can say is that back in the early 1970s, when my husband and I were planning
our “dream” vacation, we could have saved ourselves a lot of money and misery
if the Internet had been around to help guide us.
After
much deliberation, we'd finally decided to treat ourselves to a second honeymoon
at one of those fancy honeymoon resorts in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. We sent away for dozens of brochures,
then spent hours carefully studying them, weighing the pros and cons of each
resort. Finally, we selected what we
thought would be the perfect spot for our romantic getaway.
The
brochure described the resort as a romantic trip back in time to the days of
Ancient Rome. It featured a man-made
Venetian lake, “Roman Forum” suites,
sunken Roman baths, marble fireplaces, heart-shaped beds,
Romeo-and-Juliet-style balconies, moonlight gondola rides, and horseback
riding.
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| 1973 BROCHURE PHOTO |
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| 1973 BROCHURE PHOTO OF BATH |
What
could be more romantic? Even more
impressive was the resort’s list of nightly entertainment: Kenny Rogers, Frank Sinatra, Jr., Frankie
Avalon, and Rodney Dangerfield, to name just a few. We were sold.
We
called the resort and were instructed to select a suite from the brochure (the
nicer the suite, the higher the price, of course) then send a check for the full
amount. The package price, according to
the employee, included all lodging, meals and gratuities.
“Once
you get here, the only thing you have to worry about is enjoying yourselves!”
he cheerfully added.
After
more deliberation, my husband and I finally selected the “Coliseum Suite,”
which, according to the photos, was lavishly decorated in red velvet, genuine
marble, gold-leaf accents, and even had pillars and statues surrounding the
sunken Roman bath. It was expensive,
but we wanted to completely surround ourselves in luxury.
The
drive to the Poconos went smoothly, but when we reached our destination, the
resort was nowhere to be found.
“I’m
telling you, the map in the brochure (no GPS back then, either) says it should
be right here!” my husband insisted after we had driven up and down the same
winding road at least a dozen times.
I
sighed. “There’s nothing on this road but those faded pink barracks over
there,” I said, pointing toward the backs of some old buildings. “And they look
as if they’ve been deserted for years.”
“Those
aren’t barracks,” my husband said. “By the looks of them, they probably were
part of some old factory at one time.
And judging by the color, they must have made something like cotton
candy there!”
“Or
Pepto Bismol,” I muttered.
Hoping
we might be able to find a caretaker or someone who could give us directions,
we turned down the driveway that led to the pink barracks/candy factory. When we reached the front of the first
building and read the sign, our mouths fell open.
We
had arrived at our luxury resort.
As
we sat in the car, too stunned to move, a man with a camera leapt out from
behind a nearby clump of trees and snapped our photo.
“Welcome,
honeymooners!” he cheerfully greeted. “I’m Tom, your resort photographer, and
I’ll be following you around all week taking candid shots of you, which you can
purchase at the end of the week!”
My
husband frowned at me. “We’re outta here!”
“They
have all of our money,” I reminded him.
We
went inside. The man at the desk also
was cheerful. He checked us in, handed us a stack of itineraries, then called
for an employee to show us to our suite, three buildings away.
“What’s
that swamp over there?” I asked the employee as we followed him down a cracked,
weed-covered, narrow sidewalk.
“That’s
the Venetian Lake,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Is
that where the gondola rides are supposed to be?” My husband seemed almost afraid to ask.
The
man shook his head. “Not any more. They
all sank.”
Silently,
we followed him up a flight of chipped concrete steps to our second-floor
suite.
“Oh,
avoid going out on the balconies,” he warned us. “They’re not safe.”
So
much for Romeo and Juliet, I thought.
The balconies on the place looked so old and run-down, it wouldn’t have
surprised me to learn that the real Romeo and Juliet actually had used them.
The
employee unlocked the door and threw it open. “Welcome to your romantic suite!”
he said, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
My
husband and I stepped inside and froze.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
“This
is some kind of joke, right?” my husband asked the employee.
“Please
tell us this is a joke,” I whispered, barely able to find my voice.
The
employee acted as if we were invisible. “Enjoy your week!” he said, smiling
broadly, then disappeared.
What
did our “luxury” suite look like? And
did we stay for the entire week? I’ll
tell you more about it next week.
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