Journey to Club Med

Avid readers of this blog may have noticed something curious over the past week: no content. None. Zilch. Usually when I’m preoccupied, I usually manage one or two small items here and there, but alas, it’s been a dead zone on B-Side Blog. Why? Well, I went on a family vacation, and we went to a faraway place with barely any WiFi or Internet Acces. It’s a place called… Club Med.
Yes, born out of a desire to have my entire nuclear family together in one place for once, my parents organized a week long stay at the Sandpiper Club Med resort, located in scenic Port St. Lucie, Florida. The destination was chosen both for its warm-weather locale and for its family-friendly amenities (ie. babysitting and camp activities), which were of particular use for my brother and sister-in-law, who together have two bambini in need of age-appropriate entertainment. Between the unlimited booze and the extensive jungle gyms, we were all going to have fun, regardless of our ages. Or so the website promised.

Long story short: I did have fun. I really did.
That’s not to say there weren’t a few bumps in the road, starting with an ominous trek to Port St. Lucie that took nearly 23 hours from start to finish. It began at 5 AM, an ungodly hour for me to wake up at (although, I do fall asleep at that time on occasion). I had an early-morning flight out of LAX, and while being up earlier than 9 AM is normally a concept that makes me crabby and inconsolable, I at least took comfort in knowing that I had a smooth day of travel ahead of me, which would end hopefully poolside with some sort of slushy, umbrella-adorned beverage in hand.
Upon arriving at the airport though (courtesy of my early bird friend jash), I noticed an unsettlingly high number of travelers all crammed along the curbside check-in areas. Who were all these people departing at 6 AM? Granted, this was the Thursday before a four day weekend, but still, it seemed a tad early for the masses to come out in force. I ultimately chalked it up to haywire flight situations caused by heinous snowstorms in the Northeast all week. Heck, I wasn’t even sure if the rest of my family would even be able to make it into West Palm Beach airport on time, thanks to the frigid conditions in the greater New York area. At least my warm-weather route, which would take me from Los Angeles to Dallas to West Palm Beach, would be spared similar hardships, save perhaps an errant thunderstorm.
Or so I thought.
After braving a lengthy security line, I finally was able to hop on my plane and luxuriate in not only an exit-row seat, but an exit-row seat with no one in the middle — always cause for minor celebration. Vacation was starting on a positive note! Even better, I had a celebrity on my flight, and not just any celebrity: the one and only Pat O’Brien, he of the drunk and salacious voicemails. This was of particular amusement to me because just the night before I’d had a brief thought process involving Mr. O’Brien, wondering what had happened to him. Was he still on The Insider? Or had the powers that be finally deemed him too creepy to stay on the air?
Well, I didn’t have the answers to those questions, but one thing I knew for sure was that he was here with me on the plane. In coach, no less. In a middle seat. How the mighty have fallen.
Of course, I took this sighting as a harbinger of great things to come, but surely I should have recognized that the appearance of Pat O’Brien was nothing less than an omen. A dark, dangerous omen dressed in a snappy blazer. No sooner had PO’B taken his seat than the pilot came on to announce that we shouldn’t be alarmed. Alarmed? Why would we be alarmed? That in itself was alarming. He went on to say that “I know many of you are checking your iPhones and Blackberries to find out the latest news about the weather in Dallas. We’ll keep you up to date.”
I must admit, I was confused. Moments later we were informed that there were light snow showers in Dallas, but nothing too bad. My confusion turned into concern as “snow” and “flying” are two concepts that are rarely paired in a positive light. Was it really snowing in Texas? And were we going to land in it? My brain could not process such things; so I just denied this meteorological update and concluded that what was being reported as snow was merely just flurries and that there was no need for panic.
Two and a half hours later, as we descended out of a white cloud over Dallas, I realized that the snow was in fact snow. The entire city seemed to be blanketed in the stuff, and as we approached the runway, I thought to myself a) this is not a good idea, and b) this isn’t a snow shower: this is a snow storm.

Well, we successfully touched down amidst the precipitation, and that’s when things went from unsettling to outright bad. The head flight attendant got on the PA system and made a rather unpleasant announcement. We were now in OSO mode, he said. Basically, that meant that the snow had screwed so many things up that all the schedules and flights and timetables were now completely useless. “Nothing will ever be the same from this point on,” the flight attendant said, rather dramatically I thought. He then told us that if we were concerned about missing a connection, don’t be — again, because “everything has changed. Nothing is the same.” Again with the dramatics. Nevertheless, this news was good because then we didn’t have to be stressed when we then wound up sitting on the tarmac for a solid thirty to forty minutes while we waited for a gate to open up for us. I was in no rush though. Why? Because I had since learned that my flight to West Palm Beach had been canceled. Normally this would be cause for panic and perhaps a light film of sweat on the forehead, but I played it cool. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I found a nifty rebooking station and managed to score the last seat on the last West Palm Beach flight out of the day.
Now all I had to do was sit around and wait. That’s what I did. I sat and waited, emailing friends and posting asinine updates on Twitter. Occasionally I’d go on little excursions, such as an accident-prone McDonald’s lunch, which resulted in me spilling soda all over my crotch. All the while, the snow continued to pile up outside with no sign of letting up. I mentally braced myself for the very real possibility that I’d be spending the night deep in the heart of Texas.

Lovely!

The view outside an inter-terminal shuttle.

Amazingly though, American Airlines let us board our flight, even if we did seem to be stuck in the middle of a passing squall. By 8 PM (a full seven and a half hours after my initial connecting flight was supposed to leave), our entire flight had boarded and was ready for takeoff. I wasn’t particularly enthused about departing in an aircraft that looked more like an oblong igloo than anything else, but I refused to fill my mind with scary, fatalistic concerns. I left that up to the woman in front of me, who seemed to exhaust her entire cell phone address book as she called each and every one of her friends and family members to say “I can’t believe they’re letting us take off in this. I don’t think it’s gonna happen. I think they’re gonna cancel the flight.”
Begrudgingly, I did feel like she had a point. We were scheduled to leave at 8 PM, but by 10 PM, we were still sitting in the exact same place. At one point, the flight attendants announced that the jetway had been brought back to the plane’s front door, causing murmurs all around. Surely this was incontrovertible proof that we were soon to be whisked off the flight, with unsatisfactory travel vouchers soon in our hands. But no. It was merely an option for us. Should we choose, we could walk off the plane, they told us, but not without consequence: once off, we couldn’t get back on, and all the flights tomorrow were completely full. We had to assume all the hotels were booked also. Basically, it was a false choice which served to do nothing but raise the pressure for all of us: if this plane didn’t take off tonight, we might never leave Dallas.
With snow encasing my window so thickly that no light could come through, I had serious doubts that we’d ever make it to the de-icing pad — a necessary step before taking off. My friend on another flight ahead in the queue (which was thirty planes long) informed me that my odds were bad: the airport was apparently giving priority to international flights (such as his) — another blow to my humble de-icing goals.

Not a promising view out the window.

Even less promising.

Finally though, our plane backed away from the gate. There was general excitement on board as the end seemed nigh. Unfortunately, the de-icing pads were located on the opposite end of the airport, and so we had to make a long, slow journey across the tarmac. I’m not sure if it took ten minutes or four hundred, but at a certain point, I became convinced that we had broken out of the confines of DFW airport and were now rolling quietly across the countryside, determined to get to Florida, even if by ground.
When we did finally reach the de-icing pad, we came to a halt and waited yet again for another forty-five minutes to an hour. We had come so far, and yet every step of the way seemed to come with a forty-five minute delay (if we were lucky). Even the de-icing itself took the better part of an hour, but with violent jets of de-icing chemicals hitting the wings and bright lights floating above us in cherry-pickers, the entire scene resembled something out of an early Steven Spielberg movie. It was somewhat entrancing. Needless to say, when we finally, miraculously took to the air four and a half hours after having boarded, the entire cabin burst into appreciative applause.

The de-icing procedure begins.

Not unlike certain moments of E.T.

We were finally in the clear, off to Florida, and while I admit the idea of spending a week in family-oriented Club Med wasn’t necessarily at the top of my vacation wish-list, I couldn’t think of anything more appetizing after this hellish day of flying. A few hours later, after a spate of hostile turbulence and a tasty chocolate chip cookie, I finally landed in West Palm Beach where a terminal full of pink and turquoise greeted me. Yes, I was in Florida.
My parents were kind of enough to fetch me at 3 AM, and they were even kinder to stop off at IHOP for a late night meal. We shared our travel war stories for the day; although, my parents seemed to not have endured anything much worse than having to watch Paula Deen on JetBlue. My mother was in shock about the Southern cook’s food, remarking “I don’t know how people don’t just… die!”
Soon, the three of us headed an hour north to Port St. Lucie, and after a few mishaps thanks to the traffic circles on Westmoreland Drive, we eventually pulled up to the resort at 5 AM. I kind of expected — nay, assumed — there’d be a twenty-four hour steel drum band at the reception desk, ready to greet all guests with a smile and some tropical vibes, but instead I stepped out of the car to find nothing but the sight of my own breath in the cold, cold early morning air. Something seemed not right. It didn’t matter though. I was there at last, and come tomorrow, I’d be paddling up to the poolside bar and enjoying the fifth of what would surely be seven afternoon margaritas.
After checking in, I made my way to my room, which was surprisingly large and spacious. Unfortunately, the thermostat had been left at a chilly fifty degrees, which made for an icy entrance — made all the more unpleasant by the tiled floor throughout the room. Great for hot summer days. Brutal for cold snaps. There was also a crib in the corner, but I pretended to ignore that as I engaged in the usual hotel ritual of flicking on and off all switches in an effort to get a lay of the land. Satisfied that I knew the master electrical layout, I cranked the temperature up to seventy-something and promptly crashed in the bed, not even realizing that the pillows I was sleeping on were just massive throws. Whatever. They did the trick — even if they did smell a little funky.
A blink later, it was 1 PM. My cheek now had a fascinatingly textured pattern, courtesy of the throw pillows, and the room had since warmed up. I was honestly ready to sleep for two more hours, but I didn’t want to waste the day away, especially if I aimed to maintain the personal schedule I had organized for the trip. Every day, I planned to do gym for an hour, followed by thirty minutes of swimming laps, followed by indefinite drinking. There were, of course, certain flaws with this plan. First, my assumption that I could maintain any sort of organized schedule was a total joke. Second, there would be no swimming. Despite boasting several pools on the property, only one of them seemed to be heated. The rest had water that may or may not have been imported from the Arctic Circle. All the kids at the resort naturally gravitated toward the one warm pool, and just my luck that it was the lap pool (which didn’t have lanes specially roped off, thus meaning that any attempt at laps would surely be impeded by flocks of kiddie interlopers).
As for the swim-up bar, well, that just didn’t exist. Don’t get me wrong: it’s not like the Sandpiper Club Med ever claimed such a thing was available. I just merely assumed it would exist, at least by the “Adult Pool,” which boasted a much welcomed “Whisper Zone.” Sadly, said Whisper Zone was greatly undermined by a loud, outdoor aerobics class that would convene whenever I was falling into a nap on a chaise-lounge. I have since discovered that I am not a huge fan of French cha-cha techno music.
Nevertheless, there was no swim-up bar. If I wanted drinks, I’d have to meander into the Sandbar, which wasn’t a terrible chore by any means, but not nearly as exciting as the poolside extravaganza I had concocted in my mind. Not gonna go into detail, but I had visions of beachballs and inflatable flamingos. Never happened.
At least I had the fitness center though — the one part of my daily plan I could still follow-through on. Unlike the poolside bar, it existed, and unlike the actual pools, it was usable. Although, with rusted over equipment that was occasionally prone to malfunctioning, I use the term “usable” loosely. It certainly was not the best facility I’d ever seen, but at the very least, it provided a safe haven from the swarms of children running all over the campus. It’s not that I hate kids, but when unleashed in this sort of environment, they tend to be unwieldy. They squealed and zipped around, thanks to an overabundance of stimulation, and while it was great fun for them, it could be a bit much for a bastard like me. On occasion, my cold heart would melt as a genial camp counselor would lead a pack of waist-high children in a line from one activity to another, sort of like a duck and her ducklings. It was a cute sight, and I realized how adorable kids could be when they weren’t being awful.
Unfortunately, it was a whole different scene around food. Every day, the dining room would open for a breakfast, lunch, and dinner buffet. Each meal would see more and more diners, culminating in total chaos by the time dinner rolled around. Sometimes it was pure pandemonium, and navigating the buffet required utilization of all the best survival skills. First, you had the kids, who in the presence of unlimited french fries and hot dogs wound up running from one station to another at dangerous speeds. On more than one occasion, I would have to stop short just to avoid having some tyke plow into me and thus knock over my carefully assembled plate. I felt I was in some alternate version of Frogger. A version that involved soup.
Upping the challenge were the old people, who tended to cluster together in twos and threes and just stop for no reason. Any attempt to go around them would be thwarted when they’d not only start walking again, but they’d fan out inexplicably, thus making it impossible to go around. Between the old slowpokes and the young speed demons, it was not unlike driving on a Los Angeles freeway.
After dinner that first night, I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to survive the week. Swimming seemed unlikely, the gym was a challenge, and the kid situation was giving me great stress. My only comfort was the booze, and I was gonna have to dive into it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I was gonna have to do it alone. My parents aren’t major drinkers, and my brother and sister-in-law had the kids to tend to (one of whom came down with a stomach bug that was apparently making its rounds throughout Club Med). Yes, this was gonna be a one-man party, come hell or high water.
But first, I needed to digest. I full-on attacked the buffet that first night, and I won’t lie, it was pretty good. There was a tasty lobster bisque which earned raves from my entire family; plus all sorts of other delightful and unexpected items. Caviar! Sushi! Salmon terrine! Turns out that Club Med caters to a very French crowd (it’s a French company), and as such, the buffet had many items that were decidedly continental. It was a nice touch, and I was more than happy to sample the goods.
With all that food in my stomach, I decided to rest up in my bedroom before attempting to drink alone for the night; so I headed back to my corner of the resort, and after having crossed paths with a raccoon in the stairwell (for the second time that day, no less), I was soon on a couch, watching the Opening Ceremonies of the Winter Olympics. Next thing I knew, it was 12:15 AM, and I had spent the entire evening watching TV. I do love television, but this felt like a waste of a night. At the very least, I would get myself one free drink; so I put on my hoodie and stepped out of my room, immediately turning into an icicle in the lower-than-normal temperatures. Seriously, it was freezing out. So cold, in fact, that the local weatherman issued an official “Snuggle Alert,” which meant either that we should find someone to snuggle with pronto or that we should be on the lookout for someone wanting to engage in a snuggle ambush. I wasn’t totally sure.

An upgrade from the Frottage Advisory.

Anyway, as the temperatures teetered in the high thirties, I loudly stomped my way towards the bar — clacking my feet extra loud should that raccoon (which may or may not have been rabid) be lingering around any corners or in a bush. All I succeeded in doing, however, was mobilizing an army of panicked rabbits, who in turn startled me as they scampered this way and that. Clearly I had disturbed their own attempts to heed the snuggle alert.
I did eventually make my way to the bar unscathed, and I was happy to see that the music playing was fairly current. I’d had my doubts when earlier in the day, I had asked a worker about the nightlife.
“Oh, it’s great,” he had said. “You can go to the Sandbar and get beer or wine or whatever you want.” It had seemed promising until the gentleman added, “Tonight’s circus night. It’s great. We get the kids involved and up on stage. It’s hilarious.”
Circus? Kids? These were things I did not typically like with my drinking experience, and I was bracing for the worst when I stepped into the Sandbar. Thankfully, if there had been a circus, it had since left town. In its wake were clumps of people standing around a long, curvy bar, which despite its size only had about six or seven barstools, all occupied. This was a problem. My whole plan was to take a seat and drink at the bar. How enigmatic that would have been: me, the dark haired stranger sipping away quietly in a haze of mystery. Or something like that.
Without a stool, however, my gameplan was shot yet again. I wasn’t about to just stand around with my beverage and look awkward. Yes, I could have socialized, but I really wasn’t in the mood. I hightailed it out of there, returning to my room via Watership Down, and vowed to make a better college effort the next day.
Things were not looking good for my Club Med aspirations. Luckily, my college friend Danya was conveniently passing through town, and so she scooped me up the next day, and we went in search of adventure in the nearby town of Jensen Beach. We ultimately wound up in a fun seaside restaurant called the Dolphin and the Skipper (actually, no, that wasn’t its name at all, but that’s what I’m calling it since I’ve forgotten the real name. It did feature “Dolphin,” that’s for sure). It was mostly a geriatric crowd, which gave me pause, but the food was quite tasty, and the banter excellent. Furthermore, the selection of light rock playing was most agreeable to my tastes.
Danya, however, had to continue on to Orlando; so she returned me to the resort, nearly flattening a meandering ibis in the process. The weather was colder than ever, and as I made my way back to the shabby gym, I quietly wondered if things would ever pick up a little here at Club Med. This then gave way to feelings of guilt — how could I be so unappreciative of a free and perfectly relaxing vacation? Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but it still was better than facing the stresses of real life. And I was with my family. And family is most important. Why was I such a dick?
By dinner time, my father had disappeared, apparently felled by the great stomach bug of 2010. My nephew, however, was healthy again, and we were able to enjoy another lovely meal together again (albeit without Dad). My brother felt bad that I had been stranded alone the night prior; so he said he might come out drinking with me. It was a nice gesture, but I knew it wasn’t gonna happen. He looked tired, and after dinner, when he retreated to his room to put the kids asleep, I knew that he’d be in for the night.
I, however, decided I wasn’t going to be a lump. I could either privately mope, or I could enjoy myself. I didn’t bother heading back to my room after dinner. I knew I’d just get sucked into TV again. Instead, I waltzed right over to the Sandbar, which was in a relatively quiet and peaceful state. This time, I found a barstool. I sat myself down and soon the bartender tag-team of Yonnie and Logan attended to my every alcohol-related request. Yes, I was drinking alone, but I didn’t care. The bar had the Olympics on, and in case I had the sudden need to express any thoughts to anyone, I could always send out a Tweet or two to the world at large (which is sort of a sad notion, but alas, desperate times call for desperate measures).
Unsurprisingly, I soon found myself pleasantly drunk, and while the free-flowin’ booze had certainly done much to alleviate the embarrassment of drinking alone at a bar, it still couldn’t negate the effects of the unexpected dance party that soon broke out around me. At 9:45 PM, seemingly without warning, a disco ball swirled to life, the doors opened, and a hoard of people stormed into the place. An air guitar show in a neighboring theater had apparently just let out, and in an effort to prolong the fun, an energetic, possibly French-Canadian emcee funneled the audience into the Sandbar — all while the ubiquitous “I Gotta Feelin'” played over the speakers. It was not unlike some horrific, Québequoise version of The Pied Piper.
Suddenly, the formerly mellow bar transformed into a madhouse as children flowed in like an overturned crate of marbles. The emcee stepped onto a nearby stage and somehow organized the masses into a sprawling, pseudo-Electric Slide dance — one that continued from song to song, both in English and French. Honestly, I thought I had stepped into a bizarro French-Canadian Bar Mitzvah (and yes, I’ve been to a Bar Mitzvah in Montreal; so I have specific experience with such affairs).
I’m not used to having kids and tweens flittering about my watering holes, and I imagine the staff must have detected my internal horror because soon, two or three of them came up and began chatting with me. You see, when Club Med employees aren’t on the clock, they’re living the resort experience too. They hang by the pool, eat in the dining hall, and drink at the bar. In fact, it’s sort of their job to socialize with the guests, making sure that we all feel welcomed and happy. I didn’t realize this initially, and you can only imagine my quiet shock when one of the employees asked if he could sit with my family one night at dinner. Everyone at the table seemed fine with it, happily ignoring me as my eyes darted from one place to another as if to say “Does no one else think this is totally strange?” I got over it though when I realized that maybe I just needed to loosen up a tad. By the second and third time it had happened, I was barely fazed. Stunning growth on my part.
Anyway, at the Sandbar, I soon found buddies to chat with in the form of Logan, Lisa, and… some other guy. Please remember that I was quite drunk at that point; so it’s a minor feat I can remember any of their names. They were all very friendly; although, I was a bit surprised by their insistence that I go rollerblading with them the next day. Kind of felt like one of those horror movies where friendly, overeager new people dupe some chump into a macabre web of danger and deceit. Sorry, that’s just the way my mind works.
But why not rollerblade? By the time I woke up the next day, I decided I would throw caution to the wind. I would stop clutching to some preconceived notion of what my Club Med experience would be and just go with the flow. I was going to rollerblade!
It should be noted, however, that I did not rollerblade. The suddenly warm weather inspired me to abort my morning gym session and instead drink several mimosas by the pool with my mom. This was a truly pleasant experience, and not even a roving man in a devil costume (don’t ask) nor a nearby kiddie dance party (“Love Shack” was played) could detract from it. Well, maybe just a little.

Our mimosas are interrupted by the unexpected presence of an errant peacock.

After lunch, when the booze had cleared our systems, we then ambled off to the tennis courts to hit some balls around, stopping momentarily to watch some kids attempt the famed Club Med trapeze school. It was surprisingly fascinating to watch, and my mother was so caught up in the experience that she let out a gasp of horror when one little girl fell from her trapeze. Fear not: a safety harness and a giant net countered any violent acts of gravity that might have otherwise occurred.
I did feel a twinge of regret as I walked by Lisa’s rollerblading station, but a) it was filled with kids, and b) the whole point of this experience, I was learning, was that I should just do whatever I wanted at any given time, regardless of what the previous plan was. And what I wanted to do at that moment was play tennis.
So I played tennis. Another day, I sat by the pool and read for two hours. Another day I returned to the tennis court. I even tried archery. I was really getting into the whole Club Med vibe, and I found myself wanting to do more and more as my time at the resort dwindled. I flirted with the idea of taking jet ski lessons, but I had a feeling it would end with me being ejected into a flock of wading herons.

The joys of archery!

Aforementioned tennis.

Speaking of winged creatures, I became enamored with the local birds that strutted around the region. The ibis was my favorite of the bunch, what with the way it would stroll around haplessly without a care for its environs (ie. cars). It was sort of like the Mr. Bean of birds. A sunset river tour revealed all sorts of interesting flying critters: pelicans, terns, egrets, great blue herons, and more ibises. We also came across a pack of vultures all just sitting atop palm trees, eyeing us with hungry anticipation. Clearly they were praying for a fiery shipwreck, but thankfully we were spared. Even if our vessel had sunken unexpectedly, the water was only about ten feet deep. Not a major concern. Of course, then there’s that whole alligator issue — as in, they were there lurking under the surface — but since we didn’t see any (nor did we see any manatees), I relied on that old fallacy: out of sight out of mind. I felt pretty safe overall. Strange how I could be so steely in the presence of alligators and yet tremble at the prospect of a roving raccoon.

A lovely river tour.

Birds doing their thang.

What I imagine is an ibis cocktail party.

More ibises idling about a putting green.

At night, things began looking up too. My parents took over evening babysitting duties, thus allowing my brother and sister-in-law to come drinking with me. It’s amazing what a little company can do to improve the quality of a drinking experience. The three of us sat at a cozy corner of the bar, and as we made fast friends with our bartenders — Logan again and Lauren — we suddenly became the recipient of many shots. We also downed a pretty miserable Mind Eraser, and I can assure you that despite some palatability issues, it certainly did the trick. Needless to say, I walked back to my room that night so drunk, not even the threat of a rabid raccoon lurking in the shadows could concern me. (My concern, however, did return the next day when the raccoon hustled right up to my screen door and paced around urgently before darting off toward the river. I watched with horror from my bed and made a mental note to never go out the screen door ever again).
Feral animals be damned, by the end of the week, I had grown to enjoy the lazy life at Club Med. Sure, I could have done without the screaming banshee children making the dining hall a perilous battlefield, and sure, easier WiFi access would have been lovely, but for the most part, I was able to get over myself and embrace the Sandpiper experience. Plus, I got a tan, and isn’t that all that matters?