Buckheadpest

On Sunday, L. was feeling much better and had a brilliant idea: she called The Four Seasons Hotel in Midtown, and was told that for a one-day entry fee of $10, we could enter their health club, including access to their swimming pool, workout room, locker room and sunning patio. So after morning coffee and the Sunday New York Times, we headed the five or so miles to the hotel.

The manager of the Health Club was very gracious and polite, even as he told us that we weren't in fact welcome - we apparently had been misinformed; the $10/day rate is for guests of the hotel only - it was not open to the public. "You know, for security reasons," he told us. Undaunted, L. held to her story and explained that we had acted on what we were told, and surprisingly, after a few minutes, the manager agreed that since we had come all the way over, he would let us in "just this one time."

We moved out to the patio, where it was sunny and warm, despite the imminent presence of Hurricane Frances. The hotel was full of Floridians escaping the storm. We lounged on the chaises, soaked in the sun and read our books - me, my Ray Anderson and L., her Joyce Carol Oates. We swam in the pool, took in the sauna and wore the terrycloth robes provided in the locker rooms. We trod the treadmill, exercised the weight circuit and even jacuzzied. It was easy to forget we were only five minutes from home. It truly felt like a vacation destination.

So to recap: I began the Labor Day weekend sad and depressed, but then sat at the zendo Friday night until I had let go of my misery, happily played caretaker to an ailing L. on Saturday, and found an unexpected resort setting practically in my own backyard on Sunday.

That night, we curled up on my sofa and watched Ry Cooder and a bunch of beautiful Cubans in Win Wenders' "Buena Vista Social Club"

Things just keep on getting better.