America. The land of the big. Big sky, big scenery, big cars to go on big roads, big portions to go on big plates and, inevitably big bellies. Hotels are big and their rooms are big. So when we arrived, almost delirious with fatigue after our trans-Atlantic flight and run-in with US immigration officials which resulted in a brief sojourn in a locked room, all we wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep.
We thought it was unusual that our room had double doors, and that there was an echo as we stepped inside. The room isn’t big, it’s enormous. Our two cases and skis look lost next to the sofa, armchair, table, kingsize bed and – er – jacuzzi. Yup, the room has a proper jacuzzi, not just a bath with a couple of Alka Seltzer added.
The lovely people at the Park City Peaks wanted to thank us for our custom, so we got an upgrade. And they gave us a bottle of wine as an extra thanks. Oh bliss, we’re all sorted for the apres ski now!
Concerning the immigration issue at Atlanta airport, Noel blamed me. Well, honestly, we’d queued for an hour to get to the immigration desk where signs warned us not to cross the yellow line until told to do so. My foot may have playfully crossed it. The Action Man lookalike behind the glass wasn’t amused, his eagle eyes spotted what he said was a problem with my fingerprints and his gripping hands popped my passport into an envelope. We were led to a room where the door was locked behind us. Inside were 20 or so other yellow line crossers, they looked like they’d been there some time. Then after a little while (there were no clocks in the room) my name was called out, mispronounced at it turned out, but I decided to let it pass and we were released without any explanation. That’s the last time I cross the line. Yea, right.