Letters From The Loft
Stuff From The Desk Of Chuck Thornton
I had made reservations at the Embarcadero Inn, located on Embarcadero, the street that runs right along the waterfront. I figured if the hotel had a street named after it, it must be pretty good, and the pictures on the website seemed to promise what I was looking for in anniversary-getaway lodgings: a view of the bay from the room balcony, a wireless network, and enough space to scatter all my junk, just like I do at home. Extra bonuses were a fireplace and a DVD player. I know, I know... I'm an incurable romantic, but with all the advances in medicine these days, who knows? There might be a cure just around the corner.
When we checked in, we were given actual metal room keys instead of key cards, making me wonder for a minute there might be other features that were less than cutting-edge. I didn't want to have to haul water to the room or crank-start the TV. But the elevator to our 3rd floor room seemed okay (it didn't have a guy in a fez operating a lever). In fact, we had to use our room key to gain access to the elevator, which made us feel like we were going to the penthouse.
And the room was great. The view straight out from the balcony wasn't bad....
Looking to the right, the view was partially obstructed, since we were across the street from the Estero Inn....
... but we could still see the rock, and the sun went down right behind it every evening. Or so I'm told. Sunset is usually a little bit past our summer bedtime. We tried to catch the sunset on the first night, but our retinas were pretty much scalded before the sun hit the top of the rock.
Looking at the picture, some of you might wonder why I didn't just book the Estero Inn. I had considered it when hotel-shopping, but it was a bit more pricey, and there was no guarantee that I wouldn't get one of the balconies looking down the street instead of out at the rock. Plus the name had a hormonal vibe that I just wasn't comfortable with.
Although McDonald's was now a constant temptation, we stuck with our original plan to try the local seafood restaurants for dinner each night. So once we settled in, we made our way back to a place we'd driven past on our way to Morro Rock: The Great American Fish Company. It was Sue's first choice because it sounded like it covered all the bases: it was great. It was American. It had fish.
I was a bit dubious. The name made it sound more like a manufacturing facility to me. I imagined conveyor belts of fish leading out to the holds on ships that would eventually transport the fish out to sea, where they would be released to be caught by the local fisherman and brought back to the bay to be sold to restaurants with more fanciful names.
As has been her habit for 34 years, Sue turned out to be right. It was a nice restaurant with a view of the harbor. While we sat at our table, we saw seals and sea otters go by. Curiously, neither was on the menu.
Sue had the sea bass; I had the swordfish. At least I think I did. There's really no way for me to know for sure, since one piece of fish usually looks like another, regardless of species. I ordered it because I thought it would be cool when the waiter brought out the extra-long plate to accommodate the sword, but I was disappointed. So were the folks who ordered the octopus. But the food was delicious, if that's the kind of thing you look for in a restaurant.
When we got back to the room, I read through the binder that described the hotel's amenities and services. It asked that we respect the hours of 10 pm through 8 am as "quiet time", and that made Sue consider a quick trip to the local Rite-Aid for some Breathe-Right strips, but I promised to keep my snoring directed into my pillow.
Not that it would have mattered. At 10 o'clock sharp, the couple in the room next to us started having a high-volume, heart-to-heart conversation, using the same pet names and playful banter bandied between rival gang members. Some of the same weapons might have been used also... it sounded like some of the furniture was being moved around, or maybe thrown. On reflection, I'm thinking that they weren't there to celebrate their anniversary.
But the racket was only a slight interruption to our sleep. After all, we've been married for 34 years, and if we can get used to each other, we can adapt to anything. So after noting the noise, we settled back in and got a good night's sleep.