On Luxury

After much, much deliberation with Qatar Airways, I finally got a ticket to go to Doha on Saturday night, March 17, at 11 PM. What they didn't understand, obviously, was that by flying on Saturday night, I was going to miss the all-night milonga at the tango marathon. This, clearly, was a major inconvenience to me and are you SURE that there aren't any LATER flights? Really? Because it would be really great if I could leave on like, say, Sunday morning...

There were no later flights, and it was just as well, because I was still fighting a cold on Saturday, March 17th. Sasan and I bundled up, drove through the unexpected snow, and took the lessons, all three of them, back-to-back; I looked at the tango shoes, which didn't fit; and I embarrassed myself with my weak abs that could hardly support my volcadas. And then I went to the airport and flew business class to Frankfurt, then Doha.

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Doha, Qatar, is up the ways from Dubai. Talk on the street is that Doha is where Dubai was a few years ago, and is catching up steadily. I've never been to Dubai, but I can tell you this much: Doha is boring. Boring. Y'all know how I feel about Cairo: it's filthy and chaotic, and even the 5-stars feel a tad dingy. But when you walk down the street in Cairo, it's happening. There are people everywhere, all hours of the night. In Doha, the street feels clean and empty, everyone stays in their lanes, and the cars are smooth and powerful. No one walks, there are no corner stores, no kiosks selling bananas and mango juice and the daily paper. Maybe it's too sandy. There's no Nile or Bosphorous acting as a natural gathering place to keep cool in the hot, hot sun. There's just cement and glass, skyscrapers that light up the clear night with their brilliant lights, manicured gardens and heated pools.

The luxury of Doha is not the luxury I imagine when I hear the word "luxury." The word luxury to me inspires images of feather beds and exotic fruits in mahogany bowls, sunlight streaming through sheer curtains, rich plants spilling over balconies, fruit fresh off the trees, the thick smell of vanilla and moist soil. It means thick, saturated pillows and colorful, bejewelled slippers, a wall of books, papaya marmalade on fresh croissants, strong coffee with warm, frothy milk. It means groomed gardens with scented flowers that permeate the evening air. It means an reliable, old house that creaks a little with age, but not with weakness, crown molding, fresh paint, wide porches that cradle you in the landscape, and appliances that are just as beautiful as they are functional. It means space to separate work from play, bills that don't pile up, and room enough to leave projects unfinished for a while.

Doha's luxury is all business. Sure, there are featherbeds and sunlight, pillows and valet parking. There are new mobile phones, clean leather interiors and heated pools. There are doormen who smile and make small talk, there are cheerful waitresses who attend to your needs, there is room service and busines service and laundry service. It all feels new and modern and streamlined, but it feels impersonal. The luxury I imagine-the luxury I want - is not modern and chrome. It's old wood and good design, the smell of breakfast and fresh linen not in a skyscraper, but in your own home, with your own family and people you love. Of course it involves money. Private jets are really nice. Hired help is fantastic. More importantly, though, is the feeling of your home as a haven, a place the outside can't invade, a place full of magic and peace and extra touches: a bouquet left for you on the side of your bed, fresh blueberries in your pancakes, lavendar sachets left on your sheets to make them smell nice when you get in bed after your shower, because lavendar is your favorite.

Luxury at the Doha Ritz is nice, for a week or so. Waking up in your own bed, seeing someone you love, and finding ways to make them feel pampered, that's better.

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That being said, flying business class on Qatar Airways? Is fantastic.

So sorry I couldn't make it; I was weekending in St. Barth's.

There is something extremely satusfying about being able to truthfully say those words:

Random co-worker: "Hey there, good morning."
Me, sunnily: "Morning!"
RCW: "...are you ok? Your face is sort of red."
Me, nonchalantly: "What? Oh, that. It's sunburn."
RCW: "...from what? Were you outside a lot?"
Me, carelessly: "Hm, yeah, I spent the weekend in the Caribbean."
RCW: "..."
Me: "Well, I mean, I was working. But yeah, I guess I got a little sun."
RCW: "...What were you doing in the Caribbean?"
Me: "I was babysitting."
RCW: "In the Caribbean?"
Me: "In St. Barth's."
RCW: "What? How?"
Me: "This family I babysit for, they travel a lot and take their kids. They needed a travel nanny this weekend."
RCW: "Wow. So did you fly out of Reagan or what?"
Me: "No, they own a private jet. We flew out of Dulles."
RCW: "You flew their private jet to St. Barth's?"
Me: "Yeah, we landed in St. Martin and then took the boat to St. Barth's."
RCW: "So...three days in St. Barths, and you got paid?"
Me: "Six hundred bucks."
RCW: "...Nice work if you can get it."

And it's true, that's exactly what happened. I, the travel nanny, flew in the private jet to St. Martin, took the waiting van to the boat, which took us to the waiting van on St. Barth's, which took us directly to the resort hotel on the beach. The babies and I stayed in our own villa, and the parents stayed in their own villa. It was three days of putting sunscreen on babies on the beach, feeding them pain au chocolat, dressing them in a multitude of pink sundresses, changing diapers, and putting on and taking off various swimsuits. It involved occasionally dog-sitting, nap-supervising, and snack-making, but this all dressed in nothing but flip flops, wet hair, and un maillot in the airy, 85 degree, white-linen-and-dark-wood St. Barths, , where Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban were, incidentally, also weekending. It was a 24/7 job. But it was in St. Barth's.

I mean, really. Nice work if you can get it.