As usual, the getting there was the hardest part. Our classic combination of GPS, Google maps, regular maps plus several desperate phone calls were no match for the spa’s location, which inexplicably doesn’t have an address. The poor woman at the front desk just kept telling us on the phone, “Eats on da MOUNTAIN”.
After twenty minutes of driving back and forth through town, our own version of “Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament“, the spa actually sent someone out to find us. When a black Mercedes coup pulled up, we happily followed. Straight up the mountain indeed, then around a hairpin turn to the left, where the hotel’s sign was displayed for anyone coming the other way.
But the sun was shining, the pool glistening. We dropped bags, picked up books and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon at the lovely micro-resort (a term I just made up but think applies.)
For her part, Phoebe was an excellent sport. She slept through the night both nights; not a huge feat considering that she does it every night at home but sometimes sleep is harder to find on the road. But she also went right to sleep in the stroller at the stroke of seven each night, happily snuggled in while we enjoyed multi-course dinners, with Prosecco, both nights. This is major. We typically limit ourselves to one course when we’re out with Phoebe because we just want to enjoy ourselves, not push our luck.
There was no need for luck on this trip though–once we arrived. The ride home was uneventful except to say that we even scored a parking spot. Talk about a soothing experience.