Next month Ben and I are heading to Los Angeles to recoup the vacation I won by writing a story about a kitchen nightmare I experienced. This is not the hell we are headed for.
Rather, because I bought a vacation from Marriott Resorts over a year ago that we weren't able to use, we transferred that package to their resort nearest LA, where we'll stay for a few days before heading to the London Hotel in Hollywood.
Here's a clippy from an e-mail from the Newport Beach tourism board:
I stroke a cashmere scarf so soft that my hand seems to float weightlessly upon it. Today the good life is mine as I sail through my private island, cloaked in contentment.
Newport Beach is perhaps best known for its unrivaled life of privilege. Mariner's Mile must be experienced to be believed with its endless stream of exotic automobiles and lavish yachts, and its restaurant row boasting million-dollar views These are the vehicles used to transport their owners to the mansions and boutiques of Balboa and surrounding islands.
But perhaps the island you prefer is Fashion Island with its 200 specialty boutiques, just waiting for your discerning perusal.
Yeah, I'm going there. Maybe sunshine and salt air will cure the hives I'm sure to break out in.
(This image is taken from Shop Till They Drop and shows the tin shacks that Bangladeshi garment workers live in, unable to afford better.)