While asleep, I had no idea where I was, except that my subconscious might have been registering the skimpy pillows.
With reservations already set, I headed back to the resort the next morning for the signature spa treatment: the $45 Water Path Ritual. Pressure points on the feet are massaged by pebbles that line alternating paths of hot and cold knee-deep water. The fluctuating water temperatures are intended to stimulate circulation.
Next, I lounged into a deep Jacuzzi with hot water and mineral salts from the Sarvar Springs of Hungary. The treatment ends with a Swiss shower of water from a dozen shower heads.
In just 25 minutes, I felt as relaxed as a wet noodle, or perhaps in my case, a soggy blintz.
In a thick spa robe, I proceeded to the pool, where a couple other blintzes were enjoying the feeling of utter relaxation. Eventually, I walked into the waters, my tiny splashing sounds the only ones in the room.
A health-food restaurant where a meal-sized salad costs about $6.50 is at the spa entrance. You can lunch there without changing out of your robe. It occurred to me then that I should have planned to try out the shooting range before my spa treatment. Never mind: Paying for a treatment gave me free rein in the spa all day, and I could return to bask in an outdoor hot tub.
I had considered horseback riding, or the Adventure Center with its climbing wall, in-line skating and obstacle course. Then again, I could get hurt, and shooting skeet was entirely new to me.
With an appointment made two days earlier, I filled my borrowed shooting vest with shotgun shells and got in a golf cart with instructor Larry Orawiec.
I didn't really expect to hit a skeet. But Larry was a patient instructor, and suddenly I was blowing skeets to smithereens.
I immediately regressed to the days when I owned a coonskin hat and a fringed leather jacket that I loved so much I slept in it. It infected the site of my smallpox vaccine, so that my mother first cut a hole in the jacket sleeve, and when that didn't work, burned the whole thing. I was blowing skeet to hell and remembering how, even 40 years later, I'm still mad about that jacket.