But there is another world, one where the magic whisks you away to a place of opulence and blissful luxury, where every care is tended to, every need foreseen. I’ve said before I like nice hotels when I travel, but there is one that is perhaps the grand dame of all luxury hotels in Paris, perhaps the world. I’d never even so much strolled past the Hôtel Plaza Athénée but of course knew about it. I knew it as place a world away from the simple and charming places within my budget where I like to stay. So when I was invited to stay at their treat, as media, I flew directly to cloud nine.

We were scheduled to stay there on our last night of a 16-day trip,a trip that included an overnight trip by camel in the Sahara desert with no facilities – a euphemism by the agency that helped book the expedition for no toilet, no water, no electric, no heat. Our bed was a mattress in a pigeon feather-filled tent. Not to say I didn’t love it! The endless stars in the blackest of skies was possibly the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. But roughing it is decidedly not my style, and the thought that kept me smiling through some travel “discomforts” was that of the Plaza, awaiting me in Paris like a beacon of luxury.

All the daydreaming, and speaking of the hotel in verbal italics – “we’re staying at the Plaza,” we’d say – still couldn’t prepare me for sweeping into into the lobby – literally, it was wildly windy – just after sunset on a December night. Leaving the taxi, rumpled and disheveled from a day of travel from Morocco, we were folded into the fantasy of the Plaza, ushered by a dapper doorman to the reception desk in the intimate but grand lobby, where we needn’t trouble ourselves with giving our names to the desk – he handled that bothersome detail. The clerk presented our door keys in an elegant red folder and Aude, the press contact, directed us to our room through amber-perfumed hallways. The first sign that it would be even more special than I had dreamed was the door number: it had two. Aude opened the door and we stepped in. The room – the suite – lay before us. No power on earth could have prevented my mouth from dropping open at the sight. All crystal, plush seating, mirrors, gilt, heavy silk draperies and flowers, and yes, that was a bottle of champagne chilling alongside a platter of chocolate cake. I had walked out of Arabian Nights flying in from Fes that morning, and into a Marie Antoinette dream.

I couldn’t decide where to look first, eyes darting to take it all in as I tried to not sound too much like a girl from Kentucky presented with the most extravagantly luxurious living quarters I’d ever seen. A desk and library, a fireplace with ceiling-high mirror – with flat screen tv built in – two couches and two chairs, and we were still just in the living room. Aude showed us to the bedroom, past an open bathroom door, and the crystal chandelier elegance continued in there. She welcomed us and left us to our joy in the Prestige Suite.

I skipped around the room like a child on the most splendid of all Christmas mornings, taking in the chocolate cake on the table, the Alain Ducasse champagne, and then I lost Brian. “Do we have this wing, too?” he called from down a hall where he’d found a dressing room and another bathroom, all marble and mirror with Dior – DIOR – toiletries arrayed on the counter. The bellman presently arrived with our bags. “Shall I have housekeeping come unpack for you?” he asked. It was all I could do to not giggle – our bags contained nothing but dirty laundry and souvenirs at this point. “No, we can take care of it,” I replied.

Left to our own devices we spent a few wild moments running around looking at everything, marveling at the delicious decadence. “Should stay in the room?” we wondered aloud – we’d planned to go to dinner for a final celebration of the trip. If the concierge could get us into l’Atelier Joël Robuchon we would go out, we decided. If not, we would stay in. Meanwhile Brian popped the champagne and filled our glasses. We were almost too dazed to toast. While the concierge worked his magic calling the restaurant I ran around the suite – the size of our entire home – giggling madly, and jumped on the bed for good measure before drawing a white-tea scented foamy bath in the deep tub. I emerged after a good soak, and ensconced in my heavy Plaza robe, feet tucked into cushy Plaza slippers, tried out the Dior skin crème supplied with the toiletries, although surely I needed nothing else to make me glow at this point.

We reluctantly left the room to stroll to our dinner, and though the tasting menu was one of the most amazing meals of our life, we couldn’t wait to leave to return to our own little Versailles. The room had been cleaned and bed turned down while we were out, soft lights welcoming us back. I perused the pillow menu, thought about ordering a beauty pillow, but the lure of the soft bed was too great and dove promptly in.

I awoke early, sad that it was the last day of our trip, but excited to check out the bicycles the hotel offered guests. A luxuriously long shower under the rainfall showerhead, a brief time lounging in the robe while Brian got ready, and we left our private palace for the lobby where the concierges were only too happy to arrange the bicycle loans for us. Les velos were ready promptly outside, darling red bicycles with tiny headlights and bells, and we hopped straight on to head out for Angelina’s for breakfast. We rode down the Champs Elysees, made our way through the Place de la Concorde and down Rue de Rivoli, where we left our bikes with the Plaza’s sister hotel, Le Meurice, next door to Angelina’s. After our wickedly decadent hot chocolate and breakfast, we pedaled over to the Eiffel Tower to say goodbye to Paris for this time. The only thing that could have drawn me away was our suite and the waning time left before our 12:30 checkout for our flight home.

We sadly finished our packing – I suppose we could have called for help – and rang downstairs for the bellman. One last look around our all-too-brief home, and we left the Plaza, and Paris. Tears welled up in my eyes as the taxi pulled away. “The next time we come back,” Brian said, trying to cheer me up, “we’ll be looking for an apartment.” If only it could be in the Plaza!

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Look what I found!

When I was a kid I found a lot of four-leaf clovers. My mom thought that made me lucky. I hoped that luck would carry over into my first morel-hunting expedition Saturday when my mom took Brian and me out into the woods behind ——— —- —— (you know I can’t tell you where).  She had seen one earlier in the week and left it, hoping to return to find more. That was the trial run, spotting one where I knew one existed. I was still a bit giddy when it appeared, magically popping out of the sodden leaves and greenery.

My eyes swept the ground, hoping another morel would materialize. I covered a lot of ground before the first one showed itself to me. That’s morel hunting — long stretches of frustration, then sheer jubilation. An hour or so of traipsing yielded a handful of the mushrooms, just enough to sautee and top an egg with.

After a good downpour, we went back out Sunday, starting in the part of the woods where we’d found the few the day before. Brian and my mom each found one on the trail right away so I had high hopes.

A good while later I was pretty dejected. Brian, with his eagle eyes, had found several. I’d bagged one — one I think he had stepped on; they’re that invisible. Following all the lore around the mushrooms, I’d peered along fallen logs, under May Apples, and had scoured a ridge. Then, as is my fashion, I’d been distracted. I heard a cat meow. What was a cat doing back in these woods? I’d wandered toward the sound until I saw the cat, who promptly disappeared. I’d lost my fellow hunters, and pushed my way through a briar patch to work my way back to where they continued their search under the dripping green canopy.

Wow!

Then. I swear, it was like a scene where the heavens part and the angels sing and the sun beams down. A single morel the size of my hand glowed 10 feet away. “WHOAH!” I bellowed. My mom heard me and started making her way to me. And then. Then, in the blink of an eye, the waiting treasure revealed itself to me. I was standing in the midst of the motherload. They were everywhere, the illuminated mushrooms so big some of them had fallen under their own weight. I fell into a sort of raptured fit, squealing, clapping, laughing, jumping, tears streaming down my face until I sunk down, fearing I’d literally wet my pants with glee. “LOOOOOOOK,” I shrieked, “there are so many!!!! They’re so big!” I was mad with my discovery, unable and uninterested in containing my delight. I couldn’t believe my eyes — it had to be a morel mirage.

Brian and my mom had arrived by now and we joined in a primitive jubilant rejoicing. “Don’t move!” we cautioned one another, “you’ll step on one!”

We gathered up the bounty, nearly hysterical with laughter and excitement. My hands quivered as I broke morel after morel off at the stem. How much of this adrenaline is evolutionary from finding an abundance of food, and how much is the thrill of the hunt? I don’t know, but if I could bottle and sell the euphoria that bubbled up when that motherload appeared, I’d make a bloody fortune. There were so many we even grew picky, leaving behind those that seemed past their prime, or were smashed. On and on the bounty went, along with our calls of  “bring the bag, here are two more,” “here’s another one!”

The loot!

We took careful mental note of where the magical mystery spot was, counting off paces from landmarks (it’s 20 paces from —– and another 30 from ——, then look for the split tree with all the dead bark at the bottom, next to the rivulet). Then with our mesh bag full to bursting (mesh so that you disperse the spores) we triumphantly emerged from our spot, bound for home and a kitchen.

Victory!

The loot weighed in at 2.3 pounds, almost unimaginable the previous day when we’d gleaned so few. The glee lasted throughout the day, sending little shivers of excitement every time I recalled the moment I entered that vision. After divvying up our shares, Brian and I headed for home, enjoying a most pleasurable discussion along the way about how to prepare them. We fell upon the idea of crepes with asparagus, gruyere, caramelized red onions and the morels.  I’ve had the good fortune (maybe all those four-leaf clovers) to have some staggeringly good meals in my life, but let me tell you. That dish, heaped as it was with the morels that I’d found ,was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever eaten.

Can’t wait for morel season next year!

Asapragus, gruyere and morel crepe

I expected to continue on indefinitely. Not that I especially enjoy waiting at the bus stop when it’s zero or 100 or raining, or prevailing on friends for a lift to the doctor, or paying 20 bucks for a taxi when I absolutely had to get across town (TARC is fine for getting downtown. not so much across the city). But it worked most of the time.

Then an exciting development. I took on another freelance job — editing Food & Dining magazine. Suddenly my time would be a lot scarcer.  There’s no magical way to put more hours in the day (and I love sleep too much to give that up) but there was one big time-suck besides Facebook. And that’s the bus. 45 minutes from my office door to my front door. Or 15 minutes by car. I made the decision in about a minute.

So I picked out a 10=year-old Volvo wagon (a car with 210,000 miles can fit in a traveller’s budget!) and I’ll take what’s likely my last bus ride home tomorrow. So long, TARC.

At the Leinster Inn hostel in London on our first trip

So I’m starting to look at our next trip and am poking around online and have already encountered the exchange I hear over and over. Person A on a travel forum asks: “what do you know about this [nice] hotel?” and person B responds, “Well, I’ve never stayed there. I prefer more authenticity.”

This theme pops up over and over among travelers, the idea that the cheaper your room, the more cred you have as a real traveller. It’s more authentic, people say, closer to real life, a truer experience, not so sterile.

Well, I’ve stayed in my share of hostels, guesthouses with concrete beds and paper walls, and other budget lodgings lacking anything from hot water to AC to heat. And  I’ve stayed (via Hotwire, points, or any other means I can rummage up) in posh hotels. And I have to say. When I’m far from home, figuring out my way around a foreign city, feet aching, and brain a bit tired at the end of a day, there is nothing like returning to a cushy bed, soft towels, and a shower with hot water and good pressure. And sound-proof windows. Without a halfway decent night’s sleep while traveling, nothing else matters. All the sights I came thousands of miles and spent thousands of dollars to see will blur together into a foggy string of places where I look for a place to sit down.

In a suite at Le Meridien, Bangkok (a free upgrade!)

Yes, the guest house owners of some places we’ve stayed have been among the highlights of our travels. But others were just as anonymous as the concierge behind the desk in the sparkling lobby of the name brand hotel. Either way, I’m paying to stay in a lodging full of other people from elsewhere, staffed by locals paid to tend to me.

Unless you’re staying with friends or family (which we’ve also done!), you’re a customer. And customers in a fancy hotel who step out the door and plunge into adventure are no less of a traveller than those who toss and turn in a budget inn, kept awake all night by fire alarms and banging doors (like our stay at the Leinster Inn hostel in London nine years ago).

In the end, I’m not in a city for the room. I’m there for the full experience – to see, taste, smell and otherwise immerse myself in the life of another world. A robe and slippers at the end of the day is just icing.

For the first five days I wouldn’t cross the street until a local went first. I’d cling to their shadow, marveling at how they simply put their palm towards traffic to part the oncoming sea.  After building my street-crossing confidence in Chiang Mai, I tried the palm trick myself when we returned to Bangkok, and was thrilled to find it worked.

One night we were meant to go out for a dinner cruise with our friend Mai, who sent her driver from a spot across town an hour before he was to pick us up at our hotel. We languished in our lobby for an hour waiting and finally went back to our room. An hour and a half later he arrived. He explained that in the two and a half hours it took to travel the few kilometers he didn’t move an inch for one hour.We walked to dinner that night.

On our final night we planned to have drinks at the Vertigo Moon bar atop the Banyan Tree in one part of the city and dinner at a traditional Thai restaurant just a couple kilometers and across the river an hour after drinks. Ha. We got into the  the taxi, pulled into traffic. And stopped. That glittering string of headlights  we’d admired as part of the metropolis from the 59th floor rooftop bar was sitting stock still. We moved about half a block in five minutes. The entrance to the expressway we needed was at a standstill. “Bad, bad traffic jam,” said the driver, shaking his head. “Very bad.” It was clear we weren’t going to make it to the restaurant in an hour, or probably even in three.

So we did what any traveler to Bangkok has to be willing to do. We cast aside our plans, got out of the taxi (watch for motorbikes! says the driver), and walked back to the Banyan Tree, where, as if by fate, their Japanese restaurant was having an unlimited sushi special. Bangkok always finds a way to redeem itself.