Not so relaxing

Ishould have known the stars for a relaxing getaway were misaligned when we pulled into a fast-food restaurant in Tallulah, La. The woman at the register took four minutes to get an apparently complicated order for two cheeseburgers straightened out.

We’d dared ask for one without catsup or pickles.

Arriving in Vicksburg later that Saturday afternoon, I strolled into the hotel lobby confident the reservation made through an Internet travel site ensured a relaxing room awaited. The nice woman at the desk scrolled through her computer, bumping back and forth between screens.

Finally, she said, “Sir, are you sure you made a reservation? I can’t find it.” “Yes, I made it online last week.” “How do you spell your name again?”

Another five minutes passed. She took to the phone to call the wellknown travel booking agency. Of course, she was immediately placed on hold. We stood smiling at each other in awkward silence for several more minutes until she gave up.

“Sir, are you absolutely sure your reservation was made here?”

“Yes, I’m an LQ member and always stay at La Quinta.” It was at that moment I finally glanced at the wall behind the nice lady and realized from the large sign that I’d been standing in a Holiday Inn Express. Oopsy.

She smiled. “Your hotel is located right next door, sir. You just pulled in one driveway too soon.”

Slinking back to the car, I drove next door and repeated the performance. And, of course, that lady also could find no reservation under my name.

“And sir, we are full for tonight. … Oh, wait a second. I see a cancellation was made just as you were coming through the door.” Without hesitating and in the most calm and relaxed voice I could muster I bellowed, “I’ll take it!”

Stepping into the elevator bound for our third-floor room, the lift immediately began growling and lurching as it strained to creep upward. Not relaxing! The frightful noise continued until the door thankfully slid slowly open and we leapt from the compartment, bags in hand.

Later that evening, I met a hotel guest who told me that the day before, alarms had sounded when a guest became stuck in this elevator from the dark side. In leaving that Sunday morning, we decided on the stairs.

On Saturday night we’d anticipated a relaxing dinner at one of the city’s established and popular restaurants. Our soft-spoken waitress was accommodating, despite a noticeable underlying sadness, as if she was carrying an enormous weight.

Jeanetta later returned from a lengthy stay in the ladies’ room, where she’d encountered the waitress alone and crying and felt moved to give the woman a hug. As unlikely as it seemed in such a crowded restaurant, the two were able to talk alone for several minutes. The waitress explained that her husband had left her with six hungry children.

As a mother of four who raised hers mostly as a single parent, Jeanetta could easily relate. The waitress also said she’d been disciplined the previous day for missing a hastily called employee meeting because she had no babysitter, adding that she desperately needed the job more than ever before.

We agreed providence had placed them alone together for those unlikely minutes. The remainder of our meal was spent with a bit of, well, stressful guilt while reflecting on her six hungry kids.

But our relaxing getaway had just begun. Far away near Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula, a storm bearing my name was forming that very night and would set a course to become the biggest hurricane in Florida Gulf history, heading directly for our long-awaited initial destination, Orange Beach, Ala.

Michael had not formed during the previous week or the week after, but rather on Sunday, our very arrival day in anticipation of a week of stress-free beach time.

We watched on Monday as Michael edged relentlessly toward us at 12 miles an hour. Winds began increasing by Tuesday as the emerging storm entered the warm Gulf waters and was projected to intensify from a tropical storm to a Category 4 hurricane at landfall.

At this point I’d enjoyed all the unrelaxation I could bear. Stepping onto the patio of the beachfront condo shared with friends Nickie and Hank Thompson, I raised my arms and implored into the wind-whipped palms and whitecapping surf.

“Michael, can we talk? I know you’re headed for us and it’s going to be anything but pretty when you arrive. As one Michael to another, and after two stressful days, I’d consider it a personal favor since you’re coming anyway if you’d please make a slight turn and strike the least populated area.”

Low gray clouds suddenly parted. Sun shone through in shimmering rays reflected by the surf. I’ve since convinced myself Michael the impending devastator heard my plea and took mercy on Alabama’s coast.

By Thursday afternoon, whatever vacation curse had befallen us had lifted with the storm clouds. Sunshine and calm surf returned. Two days later we headed for Fort Walton Beach to examine any damage Michael had wrought in that “relaxing” beach city.

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