After we walked out of the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood Airport, we saw our limo waiting for us at the curb. I heard Terry inform Bob that Juan and Diego, whoever they were, had collected our baggage, which was already in the trunk waiting for us.
I slid into the limo’s butter-leather seats and sat back ready to see the sights. The chauffeur told us that it was only about five miles to our destination, Port Everglades. I found that name rather chilling since it reminded me of snakes and alligators, but I kept quiet. I’d already created enough drama for the trip. It was time to take a back seat and let others fight off the dangerous beasts.
At first the road we traveled was a string of cars, tall buildings over to the side, lines of palm trees like a decorative fence, and then, an intracoastal waterway with lots of boats. Even through the closed windows and with the air conditioning chugging away, I could smell the ocean. With eyes wide and awake, I searched the horizon and saw exactly what I expected.
The blue was a gem of sparkle, and the beaches were plump with white sand that called for us to come out and play. I remembered my times at Santa Cruz Beach where I made sand castles with my mom. My grandmother hated sand, so we never went back to the beach after my parents were gone, but I had wonderful memories of those earlier times.
As the driver had told us, the Hilton wasn’t far. It practically welcomed us with its airy and inviting front. The sight of the towering, magical hotel was exciting, but my eyes were drawn to the water, to the beach, and to all the excitement I felt around us.
At the welcome counter, we were told that the hotel had thirteen floors. I’d thought that was an unlucky number and had heard that elevators didn’t list thirteen. The woman, very stylish in her burgundy uniform, with a tag on her breast pocket that called her a Welcome Attendant, seemed uneasy about my question. She glanced over at the manager, as if needing assistance with how to respond, but the manager couldn’t bail her out since he was talking to someone else.
“I don’t think people worry about that anymore,” the receptionist said, “But if you and your husband don’t want that floor, I can assign another room to you.”
“Is it a problem?” Timothy asked me, ready to change rooms if I said so. I loved that about him. He actually listened to my concerns. But being on the thirteenth floor didn’t make me apprehensive, as long as they had elevators. I’d only been curious about it. (There was that mouth of mine, shooting off when it had no business doing so. At least that’s what my grandmother would have said.)