For once, I’d like to be the easygoing family who actually enjoys their vacation.
I don’t mean I wish we could appreciate cold soup or celebrate bedbugs. I just mean it would be nice not to be the ones loitering in the four-star hotel lobby at midnight, receiving judgmental stares, as my husband debates with the manager why—though we’re in 104-degree Mexico—the air conditioner won’t transform our room into Antarctica, while our youngest shrieks at mosquitoes, the eldest groans over spotty Wi-Fi, and I near-faint over the possibility I’ve ingested gluten.
“Are you allergic, ma’am?” the clerk asked, motioning for the medic.
“Worse—I’m on day two of Paleo.”
We certainly weren’t raised to be ingrates. My husband and I grew up in tiny houses where dining options included whatever was served, or starvation.
So what causes us to metamorphose into the Duke and Duchess of York the moment our Reeboks touch down on the marble lobby floor?
Hangers, for one. There are never enough. Sometimes too many. How do they expect us to fit our clothes in here with all these hangers?
Michelin-star entrées, for another. They’re too spicy or salty, took too long, or taste different than described on the menu. Otherwise, they arrived too soon. Give us time to finish our appetizers!
French fries also deserve a special mention. Hubby wants his hot and crispy; the kids, slightly overdone; mine still reminiscent of potatoes.
“Oh, and we’ll be sharing them.”
I used to try to control us. “Let’s not be difficult,” I’d admonish when my youngest sulked over no vegan options. “You do realize we are not blue-blood royalty,” I’d scold my husband for ordering triple au jus. Once, I yelled, "CAN WE NOT BE THAT HIGH-MAINTENANCE FAMILY?" The entire restaurant turned.
I then sent my chicken back.
“But you haven’t yet ordered, ma’am,” the waiter stammered.
“Trust me, it will be dry.” I palmed him a crisp dollar bill.
Later, we caught the repairman leaving our room. Icicles hung from his eyelashes. He looked like he had the flu. “And you’re sure this is the lowest it goes?” my husband asked, fiddling with the dial.
I was running out of singles. “Don’t look at me,” I told the clerk. “You guys are the enablers. Learn to say no, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then, one vacation as we paid farewell in the lobby, a sound piqued my attention.
“Oceanview isn’t oceanfront,” a man said.
“We only have three pillow mints—but there are four of us,” his wife added.
“The pool’s freezing,” the kid chimed in.
Well, well. Another case of an ordinary family turned into vacation royals.
“The nerve of some people,” I chortled. Then ushered us home to where laundry and frozen entrées awaited.
—Heather Siegel
Heather Siegel is the author of two memoirs and a debut women’s fiction novel, and is represented by the Jennifer Lyons Literary Agency.
A lifelong outsider, shaped by an unusual childhood, Heather grew up watching from the margins—an accidental anthropologist drawn to the invisible dynamics of families, friendships, and belonging. That instinct to observe led her to pursue an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at The New School and continues to inform her storytelling.
Her coming-of-age memoir, Out from the Underworld, was a finalist for the Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award, and her follow-up, The King and the Quirky, won the Next Generation Indie Book Award’s Gold Medal for Women’s Issues. Her essays have appeared in HuffPost Personal, Salon, and a range of literary journals and anthologies.
Originally from California and New York, Heather now lives in South Florida, where she coaches student writers and walks her Golden Retriever through the Everglades—always noticing what doesn’t quite belong.