Essay: All-Star Traveler

Whenever I pack my Kate Spade rollaway and embark on a new adventure outside state lines, I suffer a mugging, theft or some other catastrophe. In fact, I plan to limit future travel to the state of Michigan since my latest travel-related incident turned out even more horrific than the L.A. knifing or Dallas robbery. I’ll just honeymoon at Greenfield Village, have deceased out-of-state family members shipped to Detroit and host the annual Girls’ Vegas trip on 8 Mile instead; both locales boast prostitutes, pimps and clubs named Pure anyway. No more exotic vacations or foreign getaways. Far worse than 15 stitches or a stolen identity, the latest police report listing me as a victim suggested my fashion-sense is more reminiscent of RuPaul than Jean Paul Gaultier.

I flew to Scottsdale for All-Star weekend and met up with my gorgeous jersey chasing friend, Jill. Being more interested in Jewish attorneys than rap stars and professional athletes, I spent my time pursuing as many open bars as possible, while Jill handed out Future Husband Applications. This eventually led us to crashing a Lebron James party. Unfortunately, fellow partiers received me, the only girl with blonde girl, with kidney punches and shoves instead of the admiration I anticipated. It was so crowded I actually had difficulty getting to the open bar, never mind actually getting a drink. Jill was also disappointed since she had hoped teaming up with a blonde girl would attract a diverse group of celebrities. She quickly reevaluated my use.

“Can you dance?” she asked.

“I can’t even find the beat in a song.”

“Do you know who that is?” She pointed to a really black man.

“A celebrity?” I guessed.

“No shit, which one?”

He was surrounded by a bunch of women in wearing Lover’s Lane outfits. “Lebron?”

“Wrong. Akon.”

Since I was the only girl devoid of an ass, rhythm and rap star radar, Jill labeled me a hindrance, fired me as her “wing-woman” and propped me up against a 12 foot tall space heater. I spent the remainder of the night unnoticed, guzzling a bottle of cheap wine red wine I swiped from the bar and cursing myself for not wearing something that offered more coverage than a cocktail napkin. Luckily, the vast majority of my peers sipped on Hennessey and Remy, which left my preferred alcoholic beverage quantity unlimited. Accordingly, I overcompensated for my lack of clothing by consuming more booze than was safe or reasonable as the temperature continued to drop and as the hours wore on.

4 AM left the Last of The Mohicans scrambling for after party plans and me wobbling around wrecked, wasted and wine-stained. Jill finally left for round 2 with some actor about as tall and famous as herself, who made promises of a really good soiree, and I grabbed a cab back to the resort.

I thanked and paid Solomon then stumbled up to my room, where I noticed my Louis Vuitton mules looked like they lost a Michael Vick dog fight. Even worse, a mix of cabernet, merlot and pino noir added to the rainbow of colors on my new Alice and Olivia shirt. I stripped, gathered all of my dirty clothing and tossed it in the resort’s laundry service bag.

After milking my hangover with Gatorade Glacial Freeze and about 15 Tylenol until 5 PM the following day, I met up with Jill, who had nothing exciting to report. “Really good soiree” translated to mansion with stripper poles that rise out of the ground, topped with 100% nude escorts. Not surprisingly, the following 3 days played out like a broken record of rappers, Flavor Flav reality stars and basketball players. Finally, on Sunday while packing for home, I realized housekeeping never returned my clothes. Assuming it was an oversight, I moseyed down to the front desk to inquire.

“Hola! Me nombre es Vanessa. Como esta? I need me ropa.” It was Arizona, after all.

“We speak English. What can I do for you?”

I explained the situation to the Front Desk Manager, Maria, who feigned ignorance.

“Call laundry service, then. I need my clothes. I have to catch a plane,” I prodded.

Maria’s face fell and next thing I knew, she went ghost on me. I took a seat in the lobby.

“Ms. Vanessa?” Maria returned 15 minutes later.

“There seems to have been a mix up.”

“I figured that much. Can I just get my clothes back, please?”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait until someone turns them in…” she trailed off.

“Explain.”

“Well, apparently laundry service gave your clothes to another guest.”

“Ok, which guest? Let’s call him and get my clothes back.” This all seemed very logical to me.

“Well, it’s not that simple. Myra, the lady in charge, said a gentleman came down to get the clothes before she could deliver them, so we aren’t sure which room he’s in. She thought he was your boyfriend.”

Turned out Myra failed to ID and validate whether or not the gentleman in question was a registered guest.

“So some random person could be walking around in my clothes right now?” I asked.

“I’m sure she gave the bag to a guest. She thought it was your boyfriend …”

“How can you be sure? I want to see the security tape.” Believe nothing of what you hear or read and only half of what you see! Also, I wanted to see what type of guy Myra envisioned me with.

“I can’t let you view the tapes. You’re just going to have to wait. Or I can call you when someone turns them in.”

Apparently Maria had the IQ of a dump truck. She didn’t know the difference between “lost” and “stolen.” She didn’t understand Customer Service 101; rather than apologizing, she shooed me away. And her wardrobe consisted of an unflattering grey, shoulder padded suit and boyfriend cut jeans; she could not possibly understand my loss.

“I am not going to sit waiting for my clothes to show up indefinitely. I mean, really, what do you want me to do? Sit around until someone mugs me or steals the shoes off my feet? No thanks. A resort employee gave my clothes away. You need to fix this! Hand me the phone. I’m calling the police.”

Maria refused to let me call the police from the resort’s phone, so I dialed 911 from my cell. Unable to argue with the law, Maria begrudgingly handed over the security tapes to very charming Officer Hernandez who arrived within an hour.

According to the police report, a homeless man stole my clothes from an upscale Scottsdale resort’s laundry service and rode off on a bike. I’m not sure which I find more offensive: Myra mistaking a homeless man for my significant other or a homeless man happily sporting my wardrobe. Apparently I look like a drag queen who dates men who order takeout from dumpsters and vacation in refrigerator boxes. The resort offered no form of restitution.

Below is the actual police report!