As I checked into a hotel last month, my co-worker who was standing beside me, wrinkled her nose as she complained about the smell. “Yuck! Why do hotels with pools always have to smell like mildew?”
I just gave her a weak smile in response, but in my mind, the scent had already transported me back to happy childhood days of swimming and splashing with other fellow travelers in heavily chlorinated water. When travelling with my parents, finding a motel with a pool was the highlight of our trip. And I wasn’t the only one who loved taking a dive. Both of my parents would suit up and jump in. My dad was always showing off his Special Pool Super Power, which was his ability sink straight to the bottom of the pool and then sit there without moving. Mom and I were impressed with this feat, (of course!) no matter how many times we had seen it before. I would try to imitate him, and I did pretty good if I do say so myself. Apparently, the ability to sink like a rock is genetic. As we hung out at the bottom, we left Mom, who was never a swimmer, quietly bobbing along the surface. I’m sure she enjoyed the quiet, even though she knew she would be required to lavish praise on us both as soon as we came up for air.
I thought back to some of the last times I was in a hotel pool. I was in Seattle about eight years ago on a business trip, and Mom was right there with me. The pool was on 15th or 20th floor or something crazy like that. Neither of us had ever gone swimming that high above the ground before! Then there was the time I flew down and met my folks on their Florida vacation a few years ago. It was a simple outdoor pool, but it was surrounded by banana trees and beautiful tropical flowers. The last time must have been on Tybee Island (with my mom again!). It had a great ocean view with none of the pounding waves.
Back to present day and the complaining co-worker. I was scolding myself for not bringing my bathing suit with me on that trip. Not that I would have gone for a swim anyway; I mean, hotel pools are typically reserved for families with young children, or rough-housing youths, or even the occasional lone gentleman in a Speedo, but not a thirty-something woman on her own. Dang you, society!
But even as I stole a glance toward the pool as we walked to our rooms, I realized that it wasn’t so much the swimming I craved as much as it was the time with my parents. When we were in the pool, we didn’t have to talk, so we didn’t argue. There were no scoldings, no back talking, and no tension. It was like an Instant Happy Family. Just add water.
