Room Service
on struggle and pleasure
“You’re in your element,” my boyfriend said to me as I sipped my juice and enjoyed the avocado toast on our balcony in San Juan, still in my matching pajama set.
I had ordered room service for the first time in my life. I was desperately hungover and couldn’t make it out of the room to get food without first some food.
It was easy (too easy). There was a room service button on the telephone. Thank god, I was in no place to consider numbers. I asked for the avocado toast, a side of fruit, and grapefruit juice. “And hot sauce! Please, hot sauce.”
It was at my door in less than twenty minutes. They charged it to the room.
“Don’t tell my mom,” I responded, swirling my forkful of bread, avocado, and pickled onion in the runny egg yolk.
It’s not that I think my mom would be disappointed…But I don’t think she would be impressed. And aren’t we all on an everlasting quest to impress our moms in everything we do? (No? Just me?)
I have been so lucky to have traveled well with my family. But let me be clear—my parents are travelers, not vacationers.
A typical day on a family vacation might look like this: no one sleeps past 9; that’s a wasted day. No fewer than two activities a day—a hike, zipline, museum, another hike. Sure, we ate out for dinner, but we ate our leftovers for breakfast and made lunch from grocery-store provisions.
It was more about the principle than the money. Room service is lazy. My folks love the struggle. It’s part of the vacation. It makes dinner taste better.
Never in my life have my parents had food delivered to our house. Going out to eat in general is a rarity, saved for birthdays and (very) special occasions. They don’t like having things done for them that they could do themselves.
I am built a little bit differently. I love pleasure. I love earned ease.
For a long weekend, I enjoyed meals brought to my door and piña coladas brought to my beach chair.
Historic winter storm Hernando stranded us in San Juan for an extra night. We were getting tight on cash and opted for a dinky hotel next to the airport, instead of an extra night at La Concha Resort.
We walked three-quarters of a mile to pick up some regional fast food. We laid out a towel on the bed and ate between the skidmarked walls and billboard-covered window. I lazed in the terryclothed La Concha robe my boyfriend had stolen for me, eating mac ‘n’ cheese from a paper cup with a plastic spork, watching Blades of Glory off some free streaming site on his laptop. I felt very much in my element then, too.
Pleasure travels well with a small carry-on of struggle.
I love you from my head tomatoes,
Gareth
I love this so much! As a flight attendant, I’m always in hotels, and room service is one of those quiet luxuries that makes the job worth it. I also love earned ease, but ironically enough, unearned ease comes easier with practice.