Tuesday, Jul 8, 2008
Murderous thoughts are generally discouraged at Club Med. Leave it to the Canadians to send you to the brink.
May 2, 2000 | Once or twice a year, when I've grown tired of slinging chicken and beef at 30,000 feet, when the high-pitched shrill of passenger complaints reaches an unbearable crescendo, when my polyester uniform begins to cling to my body like an ugly second skin, I take advantage of my airline travel privileges and fly away for some well-deserved R&R. But sometimes, a vacation can be just as unnerving as the job -- even if you're lounging at Club Med.
Back bruised and aching, skin lightly broiled from the South Pacific sun, I hobbled to my thatch-roof bungalow on the French Polynesian island of Moorea. A moment earlier, I had been water skiing. Or to be more precise, I had been making an attempt at water skiing. During my third try I lost control and ended up with an intimate understanding of the agony of defeat.
Slowly, cautiously, I limped across the room and sat down next to the big, black duffel bag laying open on my bed. Because I was traveling alone and didn't own a big, black duffel bag, the air grew thick with suspicion.
Shuffling Quasimodo-like, I searched the place for more signs of the intruder: In the bathroom I found a toothbrush with flattened bristles and a family-size bottle of Scope; beneath the bed, a pair of flip-flops large enough to fit Shaquille O'Neal; in the closet, a trio of exceptionally gaudy Hawaiian shirts. Baffled and a little pissed off, I left the bungalow and made my way to the check-in counter.
A stiff, humorless French G.O. (group organizer: a Club Med employee) eyed me from the opposing side of the desk. I told her that there had been a mistake -- although I specifically requested a single, someone had been assigned to my room. Though I winced in pain during occasional pauses in my story, she remained expressionless. When I finished, she just looked at me. Abruptly, and with the casual indifference of a weary Parisian waiter, she stated that "zingal" room status allowed for the pairing of a roommate.
"That doesn't make sense," I said. "A single room in any other lodgment usually indicates occupation by one individual." She shrugged her shoulders, tossed her head to one side and hissed between her teeth. C'est la vie. The G.O. said that I must not have read the fine print in the contract (she said this and then grinned smugly as she had probably done to many "zingal" guests before me). A contract materialized. It turned out she was right.
Dejected, I hobbled back to the beach. Club Med Moorea is blessed by sugar-white sand that disappears beneath turquoise water far too beautiful for words. There, nudged by a gentle breeze that swept beneath twin coconut palms, I pouted like a first-class airplane passenger who'd been relegated to a center seat in coach.
Upon entering the bungalow later that evening I was greeted by George Langley, a jolly Canadian with the robust chuckle of a department-store Santa Claus. He extended his hand immediately and offered an apology that was as sincere as his smile. It seems the front desk G.O. had given him the "zingal" room lecture as well.
George turned out to be a great guy. We talked furiously throughout the all-you-can-eat dinner buffet, shared a couple of laughs at the campy Club Med cabaret show and later at the discotheque, besieged by bad music and too much beer, we spoke about our jobs. I told lurid stories about passengers screwing in airplane lavatories. He spoke passionately about corporate accounting. Despite our differences, we really hit it off. We clicked. We bonded.
The bond between two strangers loses considerable glue, however, when one has a habit that drives the other crazy.
George dozed off in his twin bed while I read a Stephen King thriller in mine. The protagonist had just stumbled over the tip of a buried alien spacecraft when my eyelids grew heavy. I flicked off the light and settled in for a good night's sleep when suddenly, I heard THE SOUND.
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