Okay, I haven’t worn a string bikini in public in over twenty years. This is Southern California, though. I’m with my glamorous 17-year-old, and there are palm trees and a Jacuzzi. If not now, then when?
We’re here for two days of SoCal college tours, one them at my own alma mater, Pomona College. I wasn’t prepared for the bombardment of memories. Let’s not even talk about the train tracks where my late night skater buddies and I, the Riders of the Smooth Shiny Black, worshiped the god of wheels as it whistled by. I’m just talking about street names: the Santa Ana freeway (feel the wind), Indian Hill Blvd., Bonita (sounds like fish flakes, only wrong language) Ave. Even “10th Street,” which you’d think would be a pretty innocuous street name, calls up…well, never mind about the ghosts of my college exploits.
Anyway, it’s hard to be, like, serious down here in the baking sun and gusty winds. The hotel looks like a tropical paradise: palm trees, succulents, bougainvillea, orange poppies and purple lilies, clover-shaped swimming pools. And they hand you gigantic warm cookies when you check in. (“They’re not so gigantic,” says my daughter.)
So we did what the situation called for—went out for end-of-summer, rock-bottom-priced bikinis and flip flops, and then went for massages, an organic vegan dinner, and a long soak in the Jacuzzi. This is what normal people do for vacations, isn’t it? Wow, I can see the allure.