Although we’re staying at a resort, we’re not “resort people.” That is, we’re not looking to spend any time with the folks we imagine coming to resorts. And we’re not trying to derive status from our visibility here: we’d rather be invisible.
Alone in Public
It’s summer. That means we have one of New England’s most luxurious ski resorts practically to ourselves. The lobby is deserted, the lifts are empty, and the chichi shopping plaza is a glossy ghost town haunted by upbeat 80’s hits regaling the absent crowds.
In other words, it’s heaven.
So when a sweaty quartet of bougie bruhs announced their return from the links to the entire lobby with their boisterous, beer-fueled chatter and made a beeline for the hotel elevator just as Rachel was about to enter, she found her phone suddenly so fascinating that she missed getting in before the doors closed and hushed their unwelcome interruption.
Our Kind of Luxury
Yes, Sugarloaf is full of luxury. The 30-person outdoor hot tub that we had mostly to ourselves. And the steam room and sauna afterward – that we had to ourselves. And the gym. The bike trails. The hiking lanes to the top of the mountain. But we choose them only when we can be alone, together, there.
Just like at the one busy coffee shop, a line of customers is reason enough for us to turn on our heels and find another place. Another activity. Another opportunity for solitude.
For us, luxury isn’t posh or privilege. It isn’t what we have or what we experience. It’s who we do – or don’t – experience it with.