The Hannas Take a Road Trip

Everyone knows the true test of a marriage is how well you get along on vacation. When you leave town, you leave your daily routine as well. For some couples, this spells disaster. Cut loose from their work lives, they find that they have nothing to talk about. Worse yet, they discover they can’t stand each other’s company for more than a couple of hours a day. The ultimate disaster is that they plan too much activity, get tired out, and unpack the same old arguments they should have left at home.

Keeper and I never fight, so I was confident that we would enjoy each other’s company for our long weekend at Lake Tahoe. I wasn’t worried about getting along with Keeper; I was worried about being attacked by bears.

We stayed at a south shore resort/conference center which was just the right balance between rustic and civilized. There were exposed beams overhead and “save our environment” signs everywhere, but the rooms still had hairdryers and wi-fi connections.

Our room key came with a passcode for the pool area, a reminder of the check-out deadline, and a note to “be bear aware.”

As we climbed up the hill to our room in the sky, I discovered something. At 6,200 feet above sea level, a bear would have no trouble catching me. After all, he would be acclimated to the altitude, while I, a sea-level kind of gal, was wheezing and gasping for breath. Keeper swore his finesse in handcuffing bad guys (not to mention his runner’s physique) would keep us safe from menacing forest creatures.  I knew that he hadn’t packed any handcuffs, and I failed to see how reading a bear his Miranda rights would subdue him, but I appreciated his protective instincts.

It turned out I would need his protection, as I was victimized the next day, not by a grizzly, but by a server on our tour boat.

We took a 3-1/2 hour tour of Lake Tahoe, all the way to Emerald Bay and back, during which we learned the history of the region, the geography of the lake, and fun facts like this: if you drown in Lake Tahoe, it’s likely that they will never find your body. The water is so cold at its 1600 ft. depth, that a dead body cannot release the gases that normally turn a corpse into a floater. Good to know.

Before we boarded, the captain made a point of telling us that the boat was a floating restaurant and bar and that we must leave any food we brought with us behind. At this announcement, the group in front of us rearranged their tote bags so as to conceal the numerous snacks they had brought for their children.

Keeper and I played by the rules, and as our reward, we were forced to wait two hours for an overpriced, watered-down Diet Coke, some stale chips and a lukewarm ½ cup of spinach-artichoke dip. This was served to us just as we entered Emerald Bay and everyone got up to take in the sights from the starboard railing. “I’ll be right back with your napkins,” said our server, breezing past us with drink orders for the bring-your-own-food people.

She was prompt with the bill. A full 18 percent gratuity had been added for our convenience. The bill was $15.19. Keeper wanted to just leave a twenty. Considering the fact that we had been ignored the whole trip, we had to wipe our hands on our pants, and she had already included her own tip, I thought the correct response was to give the exact change. Keeper pretended he wasn’t with me while I dug a ten, a five, and a quarter out of my purse.

Our server picked up the check and the money, saying “I’ll be right back.”

Keeper and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Do you think I’ll get my 6 cents back?” I asked.

“Do you want me to put the cuffs on her?” asked my ever-protective husband.

“Nah, let’s just feed her to the bears,” I answered.