“Downtown. Start watching for the signs that say Sydney.”
I fiddled with the map, turning it upside down and right side up until I finally found the airport and traced the route to downtown Sydney.
Looking up at the next street sign, I said, “I think we’re going the wrong direction.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. See if you can exit and turn around.”
I continued to track our route on the map, as Jill exited and tried to point the car in the correct direction. Due to road construction, we had to take an unexpected turn, and neither of us could figure out how to get back on the right road.
“This is a nightmare,” Jill said, as we inched along through another construction zone. After fifteen minutes in the thickening traffic, she said, “It looks like we can cut over onto another highway. Can you see the name? Is it one that will take us downtown?”
“I’m not sure. Can you pull into that hotel driveway for a minute so we can look at this map together? I’m completely turned around.”
The only place for our car was in front of the hotel entrance. A valet came over and opened my door.
“Oh, no. Sorry,” I said. “We’re not staying. Just trying to find our way.”
“California girls, huh?” the young Aussie said with a tease in his voice. He probably made that comment to all American women.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, we’re two born-and-raised southern California girls.” Jill reached for a pinch of that cheerleader charm. “And we’re lost. Can you show us how to get back on the motorway? We want to go to the Vacation Inn at the Quay.”
“No worries. That happens to be one of our hotels.” He launched into a fast-paced set of directions complete with hand motions and a wink for each of us before he said, “G’day” and sent us on our way.
“Okay, we turn right here.” Jill put on her blinker. “Then what?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t understand him. I thought you understood him.”
“I thought you were listening.”
“I was listening.” The enzyme giggles were returning. “But I didn’t understand a word he said.”
“Okay. You know what?” Jill checked her watch. “I’m going to return this car.”
“I don’t think the car is the problem.”
“Very funny. I still think we should return this car.”
“At the airport?”
“Yes. Look at the sign. We’re right back by the airport. I’m terrible at directions, and getting lost all the time is going to ruin this trip for us. I’d rather spend the money on public transportation or a taxi and not have to worry about driving everywhere.”
I appreciated Jill’s candid evaluation of her weakness. Had it been me, for the sake of the money already spent, I probably would have gutted it out, gotten thoroughly frustrated, and spent the rest of the trip stressed out.
“What time is the wedding?” I checked my watch.
“At five o’clock.”
“Jill, it’s already four-thirty. Are you going to make it?”
“It’s four-thirty in Wellington, but here it’s only two-thirty because of the time change. I still have time.”
I reset my watch. “Five o’clock seems like an odd time for a wedding.”
“It’s a short ceremony followed by a sit-down dinner. This will work out fine. We’ll return the car to the rental lot, grab a cab to our hotel; I’ll change and then take a cab to the wedding. It makes it easier all around.”
Jill’s evaluation of our car situation felt as if she were offering me freedom to change my mind about something if the situation arose. She just said things as they were and moved on. She didn’t need to be right; she just needed to try possible solutions until she found the one that fit.
I liked that approach to life.
We returned our rental car to an amused rental agent and hauled our luggage around to the taxi stand.
Our driver greeted us with, “G’day!”
“Not so far,” I quipped.
“No worries,” he said, as Jill showed him a printout from her computer with the name and address of our hotel. Off we went, sitting in the backseat and smiling contentedly. We were prepared for a much better start to our adventure now.
Less than ten minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of a hotel and hopped out to unload our luggage for us.
“We can’t be downtown at the harbor already,” Jill said, looking at the reservation. Then she added a humble sounding, “Oh.”
I looked at the reservation with her.
She pointed to the full name of the hotel on the computer printout. “I reserved the wrong hotel.”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here. We can stay at least for tonight. Otherwise you’ll be late for the wedding, and that was the main reason we came.”
“You’re right.”
Just then the hotel valet opened the back door of the cab. “Hey, the California girls are back! Coming in style this time.”
Jill and I busted up.
“And this time we’re staying,” I said, exiting the car to show I meant it.
Jill followed me to the check-in desk and explained her reservation mistake. She asked if we could stay there one night and switch to the Vacation Inn at the Quay for the remaining three nights.
After much tapping on the computer keyboard, the young woman at the desk told us that since our reservation had been prepaid on-line through a discount site, we were unable to make any changes.
Jill’s brow furrowed, but I said, “That’s fine. We’re here. Let’s stay here.”
I knew that, if I were back in the U.S., I probably would have asked to see the manager. I would have pushed for what I wanted.
But I was changing. This trip was changing me. We were, after all, in the place of “no worries,” right?
When Jill whooshed out the door forty minutes later in a gorgeous blue outfit and with a whiff of gardenia-scented perfume, I walked into the bathroom and smiled at the bathtub, my favorite “no worries” machine.
The bathtub in our Sydney hotel room was longer and higher than the standard-sized tub—and it had whirlpool jets. Having a bathtub in our hotel room was a treat for me, but having one with whirlpool jets was a double delight. I ran the water and rummaged around for something to use as bubble bath. The hotel provided shampoo, shower gel, and mouthwash in small bottles but no bubble bath.
In my cosmetic bag I carried a variety of sample-sized bath oils. Don’t ask me why I brought them all the way from California. I guess I thought I’d save money when we got here by using up all the little samples.
I pulled out my collection of bottles and set them on the tub’s rim. They made a nice collection. Seven different sizes, colors, shapes, and fragrances.
Checking to make sure the hotel room’s door was locked, I slipped out of my clothes and put my foot in the tub to test the three inches of water. It was taking a long time to fill, but the water was just the right temperature. So I settled in and did an “eenie meenie miney mo” with the bath oils.
The purple vial won. It was lavender scented. As I poured the entire contents into the water, the purple gel sank to the bottom and sat there like a sleeping jellyfish. I broke it up with my toe, coaching it to foam up, but all it did was break into smaller jellyfish that hunkered in the tub’s depths.
“Okay so much for lavender. I’m sure the water will smell nice, but I want bubbles.”
Trying bottle number two, I released a clear liquid into the water, and nothing happened. The oil floated on top of the clear water.
I went for sample number three, an amber-shaded gel that had a wonderful vanilla scent. The bubble factor was still disappointing, so I dumped in the rest of the gels. An ambrosia of bath-oil fragrances filled the air. I was pleasantly pleased with the way the green apple scent blended with the cherry almond. It would be like bathing in hot fruit punch.
As soon as the water leve
l seemed high enough to turn on the jets, I followed the directions on the timer, set the dials, and pushed the button to make the whirlpool do its whirling wonders.
Settling into the tub, I felt the bubbles begin to rise.
Those bath gels just needed a little more agitation. I’m glad I used all of them. They were all so small. This is dreamy!
I closed my eyes and hummed to the sound of the whirlpool jets while the growing effervescence surrounded me like bubble wrap. It was a lovely, lightweight, floating sensation. I could feel airy kisses on my earlobes as runaway, tiny bubbles bid me farewell on their way to outer space. I felt as if I were being massaged by hundreds of BB-sized bubbles as they rose with the force of the jets and ever so minutely tapped my shoulders and neck.
Oh, this is nice.
The water temperature, the tub’s size and shape, the wonderful fragrance that encased me, and the energetic bubbles that were filling the tub and … I felt bubbles rising to my chin and then to my mouth. Lots of bubbles.
I opened my eyes and sat up. The bubbles had gone berserk! They had formed a chain gang and were escaping the tub’s high walls at an unstoppable speed. I stood in an effort to make them sink back down into the tub and not spill over onto the bathroom rug. I was fast, but they were faster. The bubbles were mutating and multiplying at a freakish rate.
Stepping out of the tub, I scooped up a handful of run-aways and deposited them in the sink. Another wave came over the wall with greater speed. I scooped them up, lifted the lid to the toilet, and tried to dispose of them.
When I turned around, a league of invading bubbles had breached the tub and was coming at me across the tile floor.
Turn off the jets! Turn off the jets!
I pushed one button, then another button. Nothing happened. I tried to reset the timer. It wouldn’t budge. Plunging my arm into a three-foot-deep drift of bubbles, I fished around until I found the plug and gave it a tug.
The water drained from the tub, but the bubbles had no intention of following. I noted that part of the plumbing system in this Australian bathroom was the drain in the tile floor under the sink. As the bathwater went out, I could hear it going down the drain in the tub as well as down the larger drain under the sink.
Then two things happened at once. The whirlpool jets, which were still running because I couldn’t figure out how to turn them off, were beginning to sound like they were wheezing, gasping for water. All the jets had to siphon were the bubbles.
The second thing that happened was the lavender bath gel, which had lurked on the tub’s bottom, must have been among the first to go down the drain. When the purple jellyfish reached the larger drain under the sink, instead of finding their way out to sea, they decided to do what they were originally created to do. They burst into a bazillion lavender-scented bubbles and rose from the floor drain under the sink, coming at me like a fierce army of awakened sea creatures.
This is not good! Not good at all!
I stuck the plug back into the tub and turned on the water so that the whirlpool jets would have something other than bubbles to drink. As soon as the water level rose to meet the jets’ begging open mouths, the newly activated layer of mighty bubbles billowed over the side of the tub like Rapunzel letting down her golden mane.
Frantically scooping up the weightless enemy by the armsful, I deposited them in the toilet until they overflowed there as well. And then I flushed. Another mistake. Any motion only made more bubbles.
Grabbing the metal wastebasket, I shoveled the bubbles that now covered the floor up to my bare ankles. When the trash can was full, I tried to empty it in the only open cavern—the bathroom sink.
That’s when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I had a floof of bubbles on my head and another outcropping coming out of my shoulder that looked like an elf’s cap with a bent point. The expression on my face was one of panic. I never would have recognized myself, even in a police lineup. I should have been wearing a number around my neck to match the guilt I felt for the crime of setting off a bubble bomb and endangering the life expectancy of a formerly healthy whirlpool system.
Just then the phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. That would have been a sight, because all I was wearing was my fruit punch-scented skin and an assortment of bubble patches.
Wrapping a towel around me, I quickly exited the bathroom, closing the door securely behind me.
“Hello?” My heart was pounding. I was sure the hotel manager was calling to ask why the entire sewer system was being attacked by millions of bulbous jellyfish that strangely smelled of lavender.
“Room service calling. Will you be desiring turn-down service this evening?”
“Um, no. I mean yes. Actually, I could use some more towels.” I tried to calm my voice. “If that would be convenient.”
“Certainly. How many would you like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about …”
My eyes were fixed on the closed bathroom door. I couldn’t finish my sentence because the worst I’d feared was happening. The bubbles were oozing out from under the door and creeping across the carpet like thousands of minuscule Navy SEALs.
“Two towels?” the woman on the other end of the phone asked.
“Actually, four would be good. No, on second thought, how about if you double that.”
“Eight towels?”
“Sure, why not.” It was becoming more difficult to sound nonchalant as the bubbles inched their way toward me. “Eight towels would be fine. And you don’t have to come in to turn down the beds, but if the turn-down service includes chocolates for our pillows, I’m sure we’ll make use of those.”
The hotel employee obviously had been trained to remain polite in all circumstances. “And would you be wanting eight chocolates as well?”
“Sure, that would be lovely. Thank you.” I hung up before she asked any more questions.
Grabbing the wastebasket under the desk, I placed it on its side in front of the bathroom door. The bubbles blithely stumbled into the trap set for them.
Then the sweetest sound fell on my ears. It was the sound of the whirlpool jets stopping. I hoped it was because their timer had gone off and not because they had been strangled by ropes of bubbles.
Standing beside the closed bathroom door, I leaned over and listened. I’m not sure what I expected to hear. Was that the sound of thousands of bubbles bursting? Or did I only wish that bubble bursting was what was happening on the other side of the closed door? I was afraid to open the door in case the bubbles had managed to form themselves into the boogieman. If I opened the door, he might come out, arms waving over his bubble head as he chased me around the room.
I told myself I should let the remaining bubbles calm themselves before I opened the door for inspection. I also told myself it might be good to put on more than a bath towel in case room service was speedy in delivering those towels.
As soon as I was dressed, I put the towel I’d been wearing to work, sopping up the escaped bubbles. The prisoners that had walked into my trash can trap had nearly all popped themselves. I wondered if the same phenomenon had happened behind the closed door.
It’s now or never!
Turning the handle slowly, I entered the inner sanctum where everything—the tub, the floor, the toilet bowl—had a slick, glimmering sheen. If a bathroom could be glazed the way a donut is glazed, this is what it would look like.
It wasn’t hard to clean up. I used every towel we had and wiped off the afterglow of the bubbles. It’s possible this bathroom had never been so clean. Certainly it had never been so fragrant. I told myself I had done this hotel a favor in cleaning their bathroom so thoroughly.
Just then a knock sounded at the door. I took one last look around for unpopped bubbles before opening the door. The young woman holding the stack of towels inhaled with a look of surprise. “Mmm. It smells good in here. Like a tropical beverage.”
I sniffed the air, as if I hadn’t noticed. “Does it really
?”
Jill returned to the room close to ten o’clock. I’d fallen asleep watching television but instantly revived when she stepped in. The first thing she said was, “Smells scrumptious in here. Did you have a fruit salad for dinner?”
“No, I had a fruit bath.”
“What’s a fruit bath?”
I told Jill the whole story, complete with all the bubbly details. She started to laugh when I described how I’d scooped the bubbles into the toilet. She kept on laughing, holding her sides, as I concluded with the comment the housekeeper made when she brought the fresh towels.
“Oh, Kathy, you’re making me laugh so hard I have to go use the fruit bowl. I mean the …” she kept laughing and said, “Do you think it’s safe to go in there?”
“All the bubbles are gone, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t think any commandos will be lurking in the corners.”
Jill went in the bathroom and closed the door, but I could still hear her laughing. When she came out she said, “The funniest sight in there is all your empty bubble bath bottles lined up on the counter. Definitely evidence that a wild party went on in there. And here I was worried that you would be bored, staying in the room by yourself. Did you order anything to eat?”
“I had a chicken sandwich from room service about an hour ago. And I ate half of our chocolate mints. The other half are for you, on your pillow. So how was the wedding?”
Jill changed into yellow pajamas sprinkled with a variety of what looked like paper-doll cutouts of shoes, purses, and hats.
“The wedding was lovely. Lovely in every way. The bride was a blushing beauty, and the groom couldn’t take his eyes off her. I was happy for them. Young love. There’s nothing like it.”
“Were you okay being there by yourself?”
“It was pretty good, actually. I thought I’d be lost at dinner, when everyone was seated as couples, but I ended up sitting beside the officiating pastor and his wife, and guess what? She was from California! Escondido. The pastor grew up here in Australia, but he and his wife live in Oregon now. Gordon and Teri were their names. They were so fun to talk with.”