When Mike and I neared Hot Springs early Saturday afternoon, he was confident he knew how to get us into town and from there we had a nice set of Google directions to take us the rest of the way. As we drove along the main street we got this funny feeling we weren't going the right way. Everything around us was just so ... barred. We made the decision to turn around—well, Mike made the decision to turn around while I made the decision to finish off one last chapter in The Time Traveler's Wife—find our way back to the freeway and put our faith in signs taking us to the general location we needed to be (actual signs, with approximate mileage listed, not omens or lightening bolts or black cats or anything like that). An hour-and-a-half later we did indeed find our Bed and Breakfast—about four blocks from where we had originally turned around at. Things did look drastically nicer on our block, thankfully, and there were no bars on any of our particular windows, but our sweet innkeeper did walk us through a fairly intense security process—"You must make sure you don't tell anyone the code to the main house! And pull the door shut when you leave. MAKE SURE IT'S SHUT! LIKE THIS!" And then she showed us how to shut the door properly. So, I'm not entirely sure how safe Hot Springs is, in general, but our room, in our little carriage house, was just wonderful:
(This is the view from the main house's upstairs balcony, but we stayed in the Carriage House, seen partially in this picture. And see that cat lounging on the hot driveway? To the right? Well, there's really nothing special about him--he's just a cat--but he was quite friendly and I named him Stanley.)
(Bed! King-sized!)
(Bathroom! There was a TIME Magazine in here from 1999. I didn't realize the date until I was halfway through an article on Monica Lewinsky, and I kept thinking, "Will they ever just put this story to rest?")
When we first got to town, after the security debriefing and after we had dropped our suitcase off, we headed out to grab dinner in downtown Hot Springs. We decided on Brick House Grill, where I had a deliciously juicy cheeseburger, and because it was vacation! and our anniversary! and, fine, just because I was upright and breathing! I decided to get a glass of champagne. When I ordered it, the waitress sort of scrunched up her face and said, "Well, I'm not sure if we can make that. I'll have to ask." I answered with, "If they have to make it, I'll take a Bud Light." Thankfully they had it (pre-bottled!), so I had the second glass to celebrate the first one.
Before I go on to talk about how I got naked on Sunday morning, I want to mention something about Arkansas, something you should definitely be aware of if you are ever visiting. There are crosswalks every fifty or so feet and regardless whether the light is green or how heavy the traffic flow is, if a pedestrian walks into one of these crosswalks, all cars must stop. IT'S THE LAW. (No, really. There are signs posted.) It sounds like an interesting little system—pedestrians really do have the right of way!—but Arkansasians (is this the correct term?) don't particularly care if you're going 45mph or if you've briefly glanced down at a map to see if you're headed the right way to the putt-putt place you're trying to track down. Arkansasians don't care what you have going on in your MOVING VEHICLE as they begin walking across the street. Before you know it, you may find yourself screeching on your brakes, heart palpitating with visions of vehicular manslaughter charges racing in your head. Thankfully I was never the one driving, so Mike would have been carted off to jail (clarification: thankfully for me; not so much for him), but I am not exaggerating, even a little, when I say not a single person looked up when they walked into the crosswalk. On the one hand, what faith they have! On the other, larger hand, they're apparently all crazy.
So after we finally found the putt-putt place, all Arkansasians avoided, and after Mike beat me by FIFTEEN STROKES (that's a lot of on-par shots by him and a lot of balls meandering into ponds by me) we called it a night but not before picking up cheap beer to drink back in our room because if there's one thing you need to know about how Mike and I celebrate anything—promotions! new houses! anniversaries! birthdays! random Tuesdays!—it's with plenty of cheap alcohol.
The next morning we had reservations at a bathhouse, where both Mike and I imagined we'd be spoiled all morning long with massages and wraps and, if I'm being totally honest, chocolate-covered fruit and more champagne. (I had no reason to think the last part, but I totally did anyway.) Granted, neither of us had ever been to a bathhouse, and neither of us had bothered to Google it beforehand, but they are all the rage in Hot Springs. There is even a "bath row" there, and who am I to question something so popular. Oh, I'm the girl who had to get naked in front of a room full of strangers, that's who! I'm not entirely sure when I realized this bathhouse idea was a bad one—at first everyone seemed happy and looked normal, and Mike went into his locker room and I to mine, and we made causal plans to meet up outside after all the relaxing and pampering, but let me mention that when we did finally meet back up, I asked him to hold me to erase the memories of the past hour.
When I walked into the women's locker room, I was ushered into a changing room but—funny tidbit—given nothing to change into. I was told to undress and my "attendant" would be right back to assist. It didn't dawn on me until about thirty seconds later that I was absolutely unsure what she would be assisting with. Now, I'm liberal! I have no problems with nudity or being naked in the privacy of my own home! But there are certain steps one takes when they know random (and plural) strangers are going to see them naked. ONE DOESN'T EAT A CHEESEBURGER THE NIGHT BEFORE, FOR INSTANCE. So, she opened my changing-room door—where I was naked, totally naked—and she wrapped me up in this very sheer sheet before ushering me towards a bath stall, where another (perfectly nice and, all things considering, perfectly professional) attendant stripped me down and told me to get into the tub. NAKED. AGAIN. She did leave me for a good half hour, to relax in the mineral bath, but while I laid there, no more than a dozen people walked by—some naked, some not, but all of them with actual eyes. I have never touched my own boobs so much in an awkward attempt to hide them. I went through a few more things as the day wore on—a ridiculously hot steam room that caused me to sweat more than any kickboxing class ever has, a sitz tub, a mineral shower, a mineral wrap, and some of these things were actually quite nice. I think there was even a solid five-minute period when I found myself relaxing. But then it was time for my massage. And you'd think the "relaxing" would be kicked up a notch—HA! YOU'D THINK!—but I was, again, ushered into a room, where a very large woman barked at me to get naked and lie on the massage table. Now, the fact that she was large didn't bother me—please give me some credit—but what did bother me—and I'm just going to put it out there because there is no skirting around political correctness here—was when her entire body smothered me as she leaned over to get out certain kinks and knots. Her very large stomach was on top of my face. And I just don't know if I can accurately describe the horror of those twenty minutes without you assuming I'm being judgmental or tacky. But, please, try to understand: I was naked. On my back. With a stranger's stomach resting on top of my face. Aside from all that, and I know you're wondering how it could possibly get worse at this point, she was really very nasty and mean. She kept barking, "RELAX! YOU'RE TOO TENSE! JUST RELAX! WHY ARE YOU STRESSED?" And I wanted to tell her about the one time I was knocked in the head with a baseball bat, lying on the ground with a fractured eye socket and how I was more relaxed back then than I was under her care. Finally, it was over and she shoved a tip jar toward me and I had sort of had enough, so I said to her, "I'm naked! I have no money!" She sighed and managed, "Well, enjoy the rest of your time here. Or whatever."
You know, as I changed back into my clothes, I couldn't be sure I had ever been so happy to throw on a pair of ratty Old Navy jeans before. There's a chance I may have shed a relieved and happy tear as soon as the zipper was up.
Mike's bathhouse experience seemed to go much better than mine. There was nakedness, sure, but much less of it and a lot less badgering and ushering for him. He even met a really nice attendant, named Billy, who kept repeating to him, "Who's your buddy? Who is?" And Mike would answer, "You are Billy." So where Mike found camaraderie, I found large, judgmental smothering. You win some, you lose some, I suppose.
Although it may be hard to believe, the rest of the trip was incredibly relaxing and lovely and fun. We did a little shopping on Main Street (which is actually Central Avenue, but Main Street just sounds quainter). We took a dinner cruise on Lake Hamilton. We cuddled up in our king-size bed and watched Jurassic Park on VHS. We ate. We lounged around. We stopped at a roadside rock stand where I bought hand-carved dice (I don't know why either; they were pretty and $1 a piece). We had fun.
Finally, after we had checked out of our room early Monday, we walked hand-in-hand towards The Pancake Shop, a cute little breakfast joint we chose for our anniversary breakfast. The trip was winding down nicely, and I was looking forward to the long drive home, for the chance to get started on Twilight. That's when Mike stopped, turned to me and said, "Baby. I don't have my wedding ring." HA-HA, you don't have your wedding ring, that's a good one, on our anniversary and everything! Except, he totally wasn't kidding. For about ten minutes, I did a lot of tongue holding and fist clenching because you just can't yell at your husband on your anniversary even if you REALLY, REALLY WANT TO, but he did know exactly where he had left it, on the edge of the tub, and it was still there when we went back to look for it. So, crisis averted! Just in time to enjoy eggs and pancakes and freshly-squeezed orange juice.
And each other.
I'm already planning our next anniversary trip, and regardless where we trot off to—Boston, back to Tahoe, Lithuania for all we know—I can tell you this much: Mike is the only one who's going to see me naked. I'm pretty sure.