Let’s get one thing straight: I’ve always been a simple guy with a simple mind. An old-school, no-frills, meat-and-potatoes type, who is uneasy when surrounded by too much luxury or introduced to fancy high-tech devices ostensibly designed to make life as easy as pushing the right button. Someone acting haughty is what usually pushes my buttons.

 

In that vein, I’m accustomed to staying at budget motels and hotels that advertise on TV for regular common folks like me with messages that proudly say, “We’ll Leave the Light On For You,” or “Find Your Perfect Somewhere,” “Our Business is You,” or “Smiles Ahead.”

 

So, imagine my mixed feelings when my wife’s boss unexpectedly invited us to join an all-expenses-paid company retreat at a lavish five-star+ hotel and estate somewhere in the rolling hills of rural Pennsylvania. From the brochures, it evoked a rarefied atmosphere of guests playing squash or dressed in red riding outfits on a foxhound hunt.

 

 

I could sense already this was turning into much more than having the light left on for us when we drove up to the gates of the hotel’s guard station. Our reservation was confirmed by a young lady outfitted in a company uniform and helmet that reminded me of the palace guard for the English royal family.

 

I expected trumpets to sound as we were met by uniformed staff at the lobby who off-loaded our baggage, the valet squad disappeared with our car, and where we met our “butler,” assigned personally to us to make our stay a memorable experience. Classical music played softly overhead. I could already see that we had found our “Perfect Somewhere.” I must say the butlers I have seen on TV are often named Jeeves or Higgins. But since this butler wasn’t of the male persuasion, let’s just introduce her as “our butler.”  

 

She led us to our top-floor penthouse suite fit for a monarch. It came complete with a small library and balcony where we could step out to admire the gorgeous surrounding Pennsylvania country scenery while sipping our tea and coffee and munching on crumpets and whatever other delicacies the always super-friendly staff could roll over on a tray. Penthouse suite? Crumpets? Why not? We apparently were high-rollers now.

 

 

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” our butler asked us. She suggested she could prepare our hot bath in a gold-rimmed bathtub that reminded me of the one used in the 1996 movie The English Patient, where the nurse washes the hair of the main character, a Count Laszlo de Almasy. I would never be so obnoxious to ask our butler to do likewise. But yes, she could make sure our silk bathrobes and slippers provided by the hotel staff were ready when we climbed out from the tub.

 

The pièce de resistance, however, and forgive me if I sound uncouth, was the gold-plated heated toilet seat situated along a control panel that seemed elaborate enough to fly a jet aircraft. On that score, this hotel had its own landing strip for guests to arrive on the property in their private Learjets, sometimes stopping in just for lunch, if corporate business obligations didn’t allow them time to stay longer. Though none of my business, you had to wonder who were these jetsetters who flew in for just an hour or two.

 

Meanwhile, I would have needed to study an instruction manual to understand how all the buttons on that control panel by the toilet operated. Our butler explained its purpose, which included something about using the bidet, and raising or lowering the temperature on the toilet seat. Forget the gold-plated shower stall or the fluffy warmed towels. That seat by itself would have been enough to have me choose to sit there all day like a king on his throne.

 

 

I ventured onto the grounds of the championship golf course. I didn’t take offense when the club professional didn’t invite me to play a round or two with his group dressed in beautiful golfing clothes complete with wristbands and golf gloves. I guess he wasn’t impressed by my 35-year-old clubs, with the rubber grip of my 2-wood club coming unraveled.

 

As we lumbered over to the driving range, and not to sound arrogant, I actually hit the ball better than some of those gentlemen and ladies who, by their gaudy outfits, resembled the next Tiger Woods or Anika Sorensen.

 

Which made me realize that by the time our stay at the hotel was over, my earlier feelings were dissipating. Apparently, by the simple fact that we were honored guests here, we were all the high-flyer one-percenters who had made it big in life.

 

 

Eventually, our stay ended and by now I wondered how we could return to reality, after being treated like royalty. Although as my wife said, if we lived it up like this every day, maybe that too would become stale and boring. Of course, the truth is, we wouldn’t have to worry about that happening.

 

Perhaps as we were driving home, one way to rejoin the hoi polloi was to have lunch at a down-home all-American diner off the freeway, where you could hear good, old country music playing in the background. We ordered a hamburger and chicken salad sandwich rather than the Saffron risotto with forest mushrooms or the Tasmanian salmon fillet with Dutch carrot puree that we had grown accustomed to on the restaurant menu back at the hotel. At least this place did offer your choice of fries or coleslaw to go along with the sandwiches.

 

The minute we arrived home, there was an email from the hotel management saying “We miss you already. Please come back soon.” Maybe we will, if there’s such a thing as another life and we’re multimillionaires. If that happens, I know that upon our return, the first thing I’ll do is head straight for that gold-rimmed bathtub and heated toilet seat.

 

 

Author Bio:

Eric Green, a Highbrow Magazine contributor, is a former newspaper reporter, U.S. congressional press aide, English-as-a-second-language teacher, and now a freelance writer in the Washington D.C. area. His articles have appeared in various newspapers and websites, including the Washington Post and Baltimore Sun.

 

For Highbrow Magazine

 

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