The Royal Hawaiians

Picture yourself on the Island of Oahu in a fabulous hotel. You're lying in a three-foot high four poster bed basking on a duck down feather mattress. You're snuggling with the love of your life under a soft fluffy comforter that is covered with a duvet made from the finest white linen. Of course it's embroidered in a cherry blossom pink that matches the rose colored wallpaper, and rivals the oak wood floor. You sit up and rest your back against the oversized pillows while your lover pours Taittinger Rose into etched crystal flutes that room service has gently placed on a gilded tray at the foot of your bed. Needless to say, you're languishing in luxury at the famed Royal Hawaiian Hotel.
You don't want to walk down to the tourist-filled Waikiki Beach where it looks like some huge gila monster has vomited flowers all over everyone's clothes. And you'd rather not go on your scheduled excursion to Pearl Harbor to see where the Pacific Fleet was annihilated during World War II, even if your father had been stationed there (on clean-up duty, after the fact, because the navy hadn't been integrated yet). You could stand to do a little shopping -- always -- but you certainly don't want to go to some silly magic show at a stupid theater downtown.

You simply want to luxuriate in the hotel you vowed you'd return to some day once they'd ejected you from their property back when you were 19 and on your first all-girl's vacation. But that's a story for another time.

And then you hear a thump coming from the adjoining room. You're startled at first. You rack your brain when you hear loud familiar voices. Then your shoulders slump in disillusionment, for you realize you must get up and do all the things you'd rather not because you just remembered your kids are here, too.

The Royal Hawaiian at Waikiki Beach, Number 79 on my Bucket List.