Betwixt the both of them an inferiority complex is brewing

Rachel: Asian, young, pencil skirt. Polished, but not excessively.

"We are about to make the transition from carpet to black marble." Her heals begin clomping. "Are you a golfer? Because you're wearing a golf shirt, you know."

We leave the low-pile carpet of the Hilton Bonnet Creek, and enter the gleaming floors of the Waldorf Astoria Orlando. Waldorf is Hilton's luxury brand.

The two hotels are connected.

The idea is that for a meeting of about 2,000, a planner could buy-out the Hilton's 1,000 rooms, and book 200 or so at the Waldorf Astoria for VIPs, executives and discerning travelers. Delegates are able to meet in ballrooms located between the two properties without fully committing to either side. 

We move into the lobby lounge, with iridescent peacock patterned carpet, and look out the window onto the pool deck.

"Guests are welcome to use either pool. But we find that parents and families are drawn to the Hilton's water slide and lazy river. So, really, why walk all the way over here?" 

In the soft-toned Presidential Suite 16 floors up: 

"The princess of Saudi Arabia was here just a few weeks ago. She used this whole room just for her jewelry. . ."

We examine the posh master bedroom, and continue into the bathroom. The shower is bigger than my kitchen.  

Back in the living room, after pointing out the flat panel TV that retracts into a cabinet so as not to obstruct the view of the golf course and freeway beyond, the subject returns to the Saudi princess.

". . .She would be the queen of Saudi Arabia, but she is the fourth wife. So she's just a princess.  The King of Saudi Arabia is 70 or something. She is only 23. I don't care what country you're from. That's just gross!"

We finish the tour by swinging by the chrome and marbled Guerlain Spa, pausing at a wall displaying photos of Ella Fitzgerald singing in the Waldorf in NYC (Where Rachel held her bachelorette party), and stopping in front of a tall clock under the guilt dome of the main lobby. It was exactly 4:00 p.m. 

The clock chimed. 

Rachel's cell phone buzzes for what must have be the tenth time. "The chime is an exact replica of the clock found in the original Waldorf Astoria. Ever heard the phrase, 'I'll meet you at the clock?' Well, that's where it came from." 

"So is the clock an exact replica?" 

"Um, not quite. But it is a modern version of the original."

We exchange cards. Rachel arranges for a driver to take me back to the Gaylord Palms. 

The Waldorf is an accessorized satellite shrine to the temple back in NYC. The Hilton, if nothing else, is new.

They are both very close to Disney World. 

Gaylord's Animal Kingdom

I just got back from a convention in Orlando. I stayed at the Gaylord Palm's Resort and Convention Center in Kissimmee, Florida: "Located just 1.5 miles from the front gate of Walt Disney World®." 

When I arrived at the hotel, I checked-in, navigated my way through a huge atrium, past mini-Gatorland (Real banner:"Gators, and Turtles and Snakes, Oh my!"), up to the 6th floor, and down the hall to room 6333.

Roommate Sam, opening the drapes of our Atrium-View Double: "Doesn't this place remind you of Jurassic Park?"

Tentatively: "Yes?"

"I mean the opening scenes where they tour the laboratory and the museum. Remember the atrium?"

"Right." It was coming back to me now. "The atrium where the blond kids play hide-and-seek with the velociraptors? The one the T-rex smashes through in the end?" It seems like the T-rex ripped down the "Welcome to Jurassic Park" banner in a moment of slap-across-the-face irony.

He was right. It kind of did, although the Gaylord Palm's atrium was about 10x bigger. The remarkable bit was that it had the same sense of being too perfect and too full of sunshine. The hotel had even hung a bright orange 60'x20' welcome banner from the atrium's beams with our company event logo on it. It was a marketing dream.

I watched the first Jurassic Park movie at the drive-in with a bunch of high-school friends. We marveled at the CGI Brontosauruses, the Triceratops's steaming poop, and the explanation of amphibian DNA filling in gaps of dinosaur stuff.  And we all knew that one day a storm would come to destroy the sanctuary; and that on that day all the fat, slobby, self-interested characters would be eviscerated.

It's just the way Spielberg does things. Predictable? Absolutely. Nuanced? Absolutely not. Cash-generating? Yes!

Let me start first with what I am not saying: Guests should not worry about giant lizard creatures wreaking havoc on the hotel or its occupants. The food we ate was anything but gut-eviscertating. And customer service was stellar.

Let me continue with what I am saying: The Gaylord Palms is a stage set. It is all hollow columns and fake stone, and recreated Spanishy architectural elements. The resort's 1,406 guestrooms smell slightly of decomposing drywall.

On Sunday, before we got on our flight back to Salt Lake, I went with a few friends to Disney World's Animal Kingdom. After planning out our day with Amanda, a helpful cast member, we ran to jump on Dinosaurs, the main attraction of the park's Dinoland USA section.

Guests load onto 4x4 looking cars, go back in time, narrowly avert Dino attacks and the meteorite that would end it all, and make it back, safe and sound, to 2010 after about 5-minutes.

As we exited, on our way to Mt Everest, I thought how much fun it would be to bring my little brother, my nieces and nephews, and future children to experience the Dinoland USA ride with me. The animatronic Dinosaurs were predictably robotic, the story line ridiculous, and all of our screams disingenuous. But I can honestly say that it was fun to suspend reality, to laugh, to scream and ultimately to pretend.

Sure, I've been to Spain, and to Mexico. I've seen gators and crocs in the wild. I've sipped granizada in a 1,000 year-old Spanish courtyard. But I sure didn't do any of that for $139 a night, and the jet lag was much, much worse. 

Let there be exquisite hotels: and there were exquisite hotels.

"They said a FAM trip could never be done on the Hilo side of the island. And I said, 'Watch me!"

A group of twenty-five event planners had just arrived at the Hilo International airport for a Big Island familiarization trip. Cathy Clarke, Founder of Cathy Clark Destination Management Co.,  provided a running  commentary on our transfer from the airport to the Hilo Hawaiian Hotel.

"Now I have a saying on my trips. . ." She sat sideways on the front seat, one hand on the microphone and the other looped around the seat for stability. "If you're not having fun, let me know what I can do. If you're still not having fun, get off the bus!"

We passed a row of gargantuan banyan trees with children playing tag around their jungle roots.  In front of each tree, a plaque commemorated the planter: "Cecil B. Demille," "Elvis Presley," "Elizabeth Taylor.". . .The sun had brought families out to the ocean's rocky shore for Sunday picnics and paddle boarding.

"The Hawaiian Islands are like my children." Cathy's whitish blondish hair swayed as the bus maneuvered a pot hole. "When I'm asked which one is my favorite, I have to say that I love them all the same." She winked her thickly mascaraed right eye. "But my home is on this island. . ."

Parked now in front of the hotel, Cathy blocked the aisle. Calmly and with enunciated vowels: "Remember. . ." (This was a pep talk to prepare us for our sub three-star accommodations.)"We are on the Hilo side of the island. You will have your five-star resort experience in two days. You are about to see and experience the real Hawaii I know and love. Since you are the first FAM ever, keep in mind that this is an adventure!"

Next morning on a site inspection with Linda, a muumuu-wearing Hawaiian with long black hair past her waist:

"Linda, when did the hotel last have renovations?"

"I think it was 1992, maybe earlier."

I admired this honest lamb among hotel wolves.

After the hotel tour, we loaded a coach bound for Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, home of Kiluea, "The world's most active volcano." Before the volcano, however, we visited Hilo's hot spots: a quaint old-town shopping district, Big Island Candy Company, home to maybe the world's greatest shortbread and chocolate-dipped squid, and the Imiloa Astronomy Center.

We reached the Jaggar Museum, perched above the Volcano's caldera, well after dark.

"Take your time walking to the museum. I have a surprise!" Cathy scurried off the bus, hobbling a bit with what must be a bad hip replacement. In front of the walk leading to an observational platform, she stopped and conversed with several shadowed figures in native dress. We soon caught up to her, shivering in the mountain air.

Cathy introduced us to the leader of a local Hula school, called a Halau, and ushered us onto the observational platform where we had an uninterrupted view of the caldera's red glow against the black of the night.

The dancers faced the glow, dancing to the drum beat and chant of their colleagues seated behind. They performed three numbers to the Volcano goddess, Pele, who is said to reside here. She is a deity of jealous destruction; but also the creator of new, virgin land where her lava meets the ocean.

One song was about a tempestuous love affair between Pele and another deity. Another was performed in worship of her creative force.  

The dancers wore green ti leaf lava-lavas, leis, and garland-crowns of dried leaves. They rhythmically pounded their feet on the earth, bowed to the ground, chanted "Pele!" and proceeded to the caldera's edge with arms stretch high in the air. They repeated the sequence again and again in a trance-like state. This was not the gentle swaying, ukulele music, Oriental Trading Company kitsch of the luaus offered at the swanky hotels on the other side of the island.

This was a dance of passion, and of frightening virility.

After the dancing, friends and family gathered around the performers in warm congratulations. later, I overheard that twenty years ago, Pele's lava flow nearly destroyed their entire town.

On the bus again.

"Cathy," I observed privately, "Something has changed here, even just in the five years I've been coming to Hawaii. I don't feel like a colonizer anymore. I feel like a guest to far off land with a rich, thriving, culture."

Cathy sat up, almost whispering, "In the colonial era Hawaiian elders decided that they were going to put what they called, 'The knowledge,' away for a time. About twenty years ago one elder here on the Island decided that the children must learn 'The knowledge' before it died away. Once he started sharing, traditional halaus began popping up all over the place. Children are learning 'The Knowledge' again."

Abruptly she reached for the microphone.

"Who's going to join me in the bar tonight!? We're gonna drink em dry. . . Anyone have a good ghost story? I know I do! But you're probably tired of hearing me. . . No?"

My mind wandered to the potent image lingering in my mind of the dancers and the glow of Kilauea. I contemplated the feral spirituality that emanated from Kilauea and the significance of creating new land in a vast ocean.

Predictably, perhaps, I shifted from sacred to profane. Why couldn't there be, for example, a Montage Resort on the Hilo side of the Island? Something meticulously planned, and culturally aware. Guests who have done the cliche beach vacation could be lured to this side's glistening, brand new, black sand beaches. I went so far as to envision a rainy season festival selling out hotel rooms with guests desiring new and unpredictable travel destinations and weather.

"Are you having fun?!" boomed Cathy behind the microphone. "You ain't seen nothing yet!"