Hotel Roulette

It usually started on a quiet morning. The sun wouldn't be ready to rise for hours, yet we were paraded out of the house, bleary-eyed and half-dressed with pillows in hand. Cricket song serenaded Dad as he packed the luggage in the back of that well-loved gold Windstar. Bags that we'd all proudly packed ourselves, and - unbeknownst to us - Mom had repacked for us the night before. After making sure we were comfortably stuffed in the second and third rows of the back seat, she took hers up front on the passenger side. I fondly recall nodding off again to the rustle of an unfurling map and the quiet shuffling of her purse on her lap, double checking one last time that nothing was forgotten.

Tires crunching over gravel was our lullaby, barely audible beneath our parents' hushed voices. They tried to let us sleep for as long as possible, but the dazzling summer sun had other plans. As soon as it was up, so were we, bouncing in our seats with rabid excitement.

After all, it wasn't every day we got to go to the beach.

That five-hour drive always felt like an eternity, but - as someone wise once said - the journey is more important than the destination. And with four wild, wiggly kids in the back seat, it was always a long, challenging journey. Someone was constantly too cold or too hot, or needed to stretch their legs. We tested our parents' patience to the max, asking "are we there yet?" and trying to get them to play games with us to pass the time. Eventually they'd catch a brief respite, as soon as a billboard for McDonalds or Denny's came into view. My parents are frugal folks, so we usually didn't get the chance to eat out unless we were on the road. I think it was a treat for them, too, based on the sighs of relief we heard when those golden arches appeared.

By far, though, the best place to stop on our way to the beach was Priester's Pecans. If you're unfamiliar with Priester's, think of it as a Cracker Barrel on steroids. As the name suggests, though, the main draw to Priester's is their pecans. They roast them on site in these great big, old-fashioned kettles, and they make candy, too. Divinity, fudge, pralines, you name it. It's all delicious, plus they have a giant old country store you could literally get lost in. In hindsight, we probably would've made better time skipping Priester's, but why would we? They have home-made candy, and the cleanest bathrooms south of Buc-cee's. Even as an adult, I can't imagine heading to the Gulf without stopping there along the way.

Somewhere between the sugar crash and post-breakfast food coma, we'd settle down enough to let Mom and Dad focus on the road. They're great parents, but between our shenanigans and travel stress, tempers were known to flare. An exit might be missed, or they'd disagree about where or when to stop for gas. This was before GPS, so all they had to rely on was a (probably outdated) map and their own intuition. And when we stopped somewhere to pee, you had better get out even if you didn't have to go. Because if we got back on the road and you decided five minutes later you really did need to go, you'd better have your will written out.

Around mid-afternoon, however, the signs would appear. The ground changed from red clay to soft, sugar-white sand along the highway. We'd see the first few palm trees in the distance, and smell salt on the breeze. You get that knot of excitement in your stomach, realizing just how close you are... and then, you see it. Just a shiny, little sliver on the horizon to begin with, but slowly - very slowly - it starts to get bigger.

The ocean.

To this day, I can picture it so clearly: the row of surf and souvenir shops lining the downtown area, including the one with the giant purple octopus out front; dozens of enormous, beautiful hotels, dazzling almost as brightly as the shore they tower over; the little beach houses further inland, all pink and blue and yellow and cheerful as the day is long. After so much boredom and frustration, we'd finally made it. But the journey wasn't over yet. There was one last hurdle, and it was the most important yet.

I didn't learn until I was much older that most of our vacations were spur-of-the-moment. Mom would help us pack our bags one Thursday night, and Friday morning we'd just go. No plans. No forethought. No reservations. As a result, we wouldn't actually have a final destination in mind. So, Mom and Dad would drive along the shore, pick out a hotel they thought looked good, and stop in at the front desk. If there were no available rooms, or if the room was out of budget, they'd hop back in the car and drive to the next hotel.

Sometimes it took an hour or more to find a room. It was hot, and frustrating, and I never ever want to do it again. Still, part of me enjoyed the hunt when I was little. Looking up at one of those beautiful, shiny high-rises and wondering, "is this the one?". More often than not, though, I was looking at the beach, wondering how quickly I could gnaw through my seatbelt and run to it before my parents missed me.

The beach, of course, had to wait always. Once Mom and Dad finally found a winner, we had to unload the car and pile into the room first. No surfaces were allowed to be touched, though, until the room was inspected. My mom would put professional hotel inspectors to shame, running over every inch of the place with a fine-toothed comb and an industrial-sized can of Lysol. On some occasions, the room didn't pass muster, so we immediately checked out and a new round of Hotel Roulette began. Usually by dark, though, we'd have a suitable place to hang our hats. Or, in our case, an acceptably clean bed to sprawl our pitiful, exhausted carcasses upon.

Although the actual vacation didn't start until the following morning, we'd won the uphill battle getting there. That's what mattered. Not our half-numb butts, cricked necks, or the "adult" language we heard from the front seat when Dad accidentally took the wrong exit. In hindsight, all the arguing and anticipation and boredom was what made it all worth it.

That, and a sackful of Priester's finest pecans.