Still sore from our ride from Salinas (and looking at another doosie of a ride the next day), Aimee and I set out on Monday to find a hot tub. Unfortunately, our $5 a night campsite did not come with many amenities, so we'd have to go into town to find one. We figured that the Monterey Marriott would be our best bet. We had cased the joint the day before, and it looked like it had the best combination of high quality and low security.
Like any experienced crasher knows, the first step is to look like you belong there. So Aimee and I changed into our finest camping clothes (the ones with the least holes in them), and casually strolled into the main entrance. Smiling at the bell hop, we made our way to the staircase. We changed into our bathing suits on the second floor, and hopped in the elevator to find where they kept the pool.
As it turns out, the hotel did have a hot tub, but it was kept behind a guests-only locked door. But no worries, we've faced this problem before. Generally, our approach is to gracefully slip in behind a legitimate guest, but on this particular afternoon, there was no one to be found. So Aimee and I walked the perimeter of the pool, looking for any open gates, scalable fences, or other security lapses. But there were none to be had. We were running out of ideas, but we were very far from quitting. I considered making a well-spent donation to a housekeeper's pocket, but the one that I asked didn't jump at the bait. Maybe he didn't get where I was going with my hints, or maybe Monterey housekeepers are just out of my league. I'm betting the latter.
But just as we were starting to get desperate, I made one more pass by the front entrance. To my surprise, one of the hotel guests had just swiped his key card. "Hello, fine sir. How about that Dow Jones index? You know, the one that was listed in the USA Today that the hotel provides for all of its guests, of which I am definitely one."
I was thrilled, and my sore legs were even more so. Now to get Aimee in. I walked to the back of the pool fence to signal to Aimee that I was in (signal: a shit-eating grin). After walking back to the front to let her in, the two of us made our way to the hot tub, and melted our sorry excuses for troubles away.
Newly refreshed, we headed back into the city to find ourselves some dinner. We walked past several overpriced (but undoubtedly delicious) seafood restaurants, and headed straight to the inimitable Trader Joe's. We decided on a bag of Pirate's Booty for dinner, and a bottle of their finest wine for desert. And by finest, I of course mean Charles Shaw.
With dinner in hand, we headed down to the Monterey docks. They had supported a vibrant fishing economy until recently, but have been converted into a nice tourist destination over the last twenty years.
And we hadn't even opened up the wine, yet! Or maybe we had.
-M
