Pocono Resort Article

LAST SPRING, our family got its first taste of resort living when we vacationed at Caesars Brookdale in Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains. (See USA TODAY's "Going Places," September 2002). The ultra-large suites, all-inclusive amenities, in-house activities, and scenic countryside were very much to our liking. Besides Brookdale in Scotrun, Pa., which primarily is designed for families, Caesars has a chain of couples-only resorts throughout these vista-rich mountains: Cove Haven (282 accommodations on 130 acres in Lakeville); Paradise Stream (164 accommodations on 110 acres in Mt. Pocono); and Pocono Palace (189 accommodations on 350 acres in Marshalls Creek). As my wife and I savored our post-vacation memories over the summer, we made a mental note (and promise) to ourselves that we would return, sans children, to one of these high-altitude hideaways.

For years now, as my sort of revenge of the overwhelmed, I've wanted to slip away (as in out of town) for Christmas. To heck with the extended family; forget the obligations; who cares about the mad rush at work? And for years, my wife (thankfully, I suppose) has stopped me from putting this devious Yuletide travel plan into action. This year, though, I felt gratified in that we had at least reached some sort of compromise on the issue. Our romantic weekend at a hilly retreat was scheduled for just 12 days before Santa's annual visit. So, I told myself, be happy that you're at least getting away for a few days during the Christmas season.

As a person completely mystified by the attractiveness of a warm-weather existence, I was heartened to hear that our destination had almost a foot of snow on the ground while the temperature had not risen above freezing in more than a week. While a cozy session by a roaring fire was front and center in my mind, so was the fact that the area was renowned for its excellent snowmobile trails and downhill snow tubing runs. (We believe in leaving skiing and snowboarding to those who apparently don't mind spending their winters either in traction or encased within a body cast.)

We set out late Friday morning under cold and foreboding skies. Surely, those dark gray clouds portended the arrival of more snow, if not near our home on Long Island, then certainly at our destination in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Well, almost. The temperature was in the 30s, but never did dip below that magical freezing line of 32[degrees] Fahrenheit. So, our hoped for blizzard-to-be tamed out to be a chilly, snow-melting rain. Although that meant the snowmobiles would remain mostly unattended on the Pocono Palace golf course, and a proposed hiking trip at nearby Bushkill Falls was off, the wet weather created no hardships. In fact, it provided one more reason to stay to ourselves in our lush honeymoon-style suite.

Pocono Palace offers seven levels of accommodations: Roman Towers, Champagne Towers by Cleopatra, Fantasy Apple, Garden of Eden Apple, Lakeside Chalet, Fairway, and Club Lodge Room. All have king-sized beds and whirlpools. We opted for the Champagne Towers, which is practically the same as the newly created, top-of-the-line Roman Towers, minus the mountainside view. (While I enjoy a good view--of nature--as much as the next guy, that isn't what I'd come to see.)

We were toying with the idea of staying at The Garden of Eden Apple, which is windowless, but we couldn't resist the promise of a four-level suite that included a seven-foot-high champagne glass-shaped whirlpool; a heated, glass-enclosed, heart-shaped swimming pool; dry sauna; massage table with heat lamp; combination shower/steam bath; round, king-sized bed with lighted celestial ceiling (the latter feature exclusive to the Towers); log-burning fireplace (in the separate living room); refrigerator; two 27" VCR-equipped TV sets; and an ancient Egypt motif of wallpaper, murals, framed prints, and imported tile.

Just minutes after arrival, we were greeted by a delivery of champagne, scented candles, bubble bath, and a heaping platter of strawberries arranged around a generous mountain of whipped cream. They obviously read my mind. Dinner, an all-you can-eat extravaganza at Caesars (as is breakfast) was still hours away, but the bubbly and fresh fruit tided us over as we enjoyed the luxury of our suite, although the vast array of light switches was a challenge that we never quite mastered, even by the end of our stay. Actually, it became quite amusing as it always took at least a couple of tries (and sometimes more) before we used the correct switch to get the desired light to turn on (or go off, as the case might be).

Dinner, which is served in the Venus Court Dining Room between 6 and 8 ., turned out to be a scrumptious International Buffet in which, as is my usual practice, I had two of everything, including dessert. (The next night was even better, as the entrees were steak and lobster.) Since we had barely beaten the 8 . seating deadline, it was getting late by the time we were through eating dinner.

Rather than digest back at the Towers, we decided to check out the entertainment at the Gladiator Night Club, where a dance and show band was playing, to be followed by a comedian. At Brookdale, we really had enjoyed what little we saw of the nighttime entertainment. Because of the kids' early bedtimes, however, we did not see as much as we had hoped. So, freed from the restraints of children, it was with great anticipation that we entered the nightclub at Pocono Palace. We were not disappointed. The band was extremely talented, and, this being a couples-only retreat, the in-between-songs patter was generously sprinkled with double-entendres, much to the delight of the enthusiastic gathering. Enjoying the music and our drinks, which were quickly refilled by the attentive and--in the Caesars' tradition--provocatively clad female servers, we opted to stay for the comedian. While his routine was a bit uneven in spots, it was funny and generated plenty of laughs.

It was getting on near midnight, and although the band was slated to play at least another couple of hours, we headed back to our suite. Refreshed, relaxed, and refueled, we enjoyed the warmth of the swimming pool and the romantic glow of the celestial lights until the wee hours of the morning.

Realizing most of its guests are indulging in late-night fun, Pocono Palace wisely has established liberal breakfast hours (8-11 ., although coffee is available at 7) as well as a breakfast-in-bed option. While dining the evening before, we were seated by ourselves, but this, as we learned the following morning, is the exception. Caesars usually doubles or triples up couples at a single table. The thinking is--correctly so, judging by the exuberant chatter all around us--that since couples obviously spend an overwhelming amount of time in their rooms together, they probably crave a little outside adult conversation upon emerging from their dens. We, however, share every meal with our offspring, so we were a bit tentative about our "adult" conversation skills, doubly so since the ages of the couples ranged from those of young lovers to old married folks who had been together 30, 40, even 50 years.

At Saturday's breakfast--Caesars' usual generous assortment of eggs, omelets, bacon, sausage, cereal, toast, bagels, and various muffins and Danish pastries--our fears were eased when we met a pair of extremely polite and soft-spoken newlyweds who were wrapping up their one-week honeymoon stay at Pocono Palace. (Nearly 16,000 couples spent their honeymoon at Caesars last year.) He was from Northern California and had met his wife, a native of Maine, while she was stationed on the West Coast. She had left the Air Force a few months prior, and had hoped to honeymoon in Europe, but he was reluctant because of the volatile terrorist situation, so they happily settled on Caesars before going back to California to enjoy civilian life together. As they spoke, my wife and I exchanged knowing glances. No words were needed to convey what we were simultaneously thinking: "My, how young they look. Are they even old enough to get married?"

Conversation at the next morning's breakfast was a bit more randy. We shared a table with two couples who were slightly hungover and obviously had come to the resort together and had side-by-side suites. A crash and a scream the night before from the one couple's room had provided the assumption by the other couple that some sort of sexual gymnastics had gone awry. No, as it turned out, the woman simply had fallen while trying to take a dip. The second couple then spoke to each other in hushed tones, before the female blurted out groggily, "Really? I don't even remember being in the pool."

After Saturday morning's repast, we bid the honeymooners good luck and farewell, as they indicated they were going to work out at the gym. We could only laugh at such a notion. Ah, the enthusiasm of youth, we thought. Little did we know that their destination--The Arena, Caesars' 32,000-square-foot, multilevel, indoor sports and entertainment complex--was to hold the biggest thrill of the weekend for us (discounting, of course, the time we spent in the champagne glass whirlpool).

Shooting for a free night's stay

Since the steady rain had turned into a heavy mist, we decided to walk off our morning food festival on the quaint trail that rims the large lake on the property. To beat the 11 . breakfast deadline, we had left our room hurriedly, leaving behind our hats, raincoats, and hiking boots, so back we went to gear up properly. To get to the trail, which was behind the building, we walked through the Arena, where we heard the sound of echoing basketballs in the gym.

Caesars, as we learned during our Brookdale stay, is big on providing social activities throughout the day. Each morning, a new itinerary is available at the front desk, in which the start times for things such as Bingo, Giant Volleyball, Miniature Golf Tournament, Speed Pool, TV/Music Trivia, and the "X"-Rated Newlywed/Not-So Newlywed Game are listed. We pulled out our activity sheet and saw that the "Basketball shot for a free night" was about to begin in the gymnasium.

I figured that to win a free night would require hitting a shot from half-court, and I was right, sort of. The women would shoot from half-court. The men, meanwhile, were pumping up bombs from the three-point line, but at the far end of the floor. In other words, we guys would have to sink a basket that was required to travel a distance of more than three-quarters the length of the court.

Margaret sauntered over to the sidelines with some of the other women to watch the practice shots. A small handful looked like they had a really good chance of earning that free night's stay. Many of their long tosses arced accurately off the backboard and rim, although none went in. On the female side, there was this one woman who had to be the heavy favorite. We had spotted her the night before burning up the dance floor with some real smooth moves. She looked no less impressive with a basketball. Most of her half-court hook shots were oh-so close to going in.

The men, meanwhile, didn't have the luxury of taking conventional shots. For the ball to travel such a long distance, you pretty much had to throw it like a football. For me, this was a real problem, since I hadn't thrown a football (or softball or baseball, for that matter) for years (no exaggeration). Moreover, I was always the worst at basketball. (That's really saying something, too, because I'm no champion at any sport, although I keep insisting to my wife after each disastrous athletic endeavor--usually hockey or tennis--that I do have some athletic ability.) My poor hoops play was acutely revealed during the previous spring's vacation, when I spent some time playing basketball with the kids. Even Margaret, who takes great delight in good-naturedly lampooning my (lack of) physical prowess, was taken aback at how bad I actually was.

During the warm-up session, I couldn't even reach the basket. I wondered aloud--and got a good laugh doing so--if they'd give two free nights to anyone who swished his shot. My arm and shoulder were stiff from inactivity, so, to compensate, I came up with a sort of half-throw, half-shotput motion. I told Margaret that I'd consider it a moral victory if I could just reach the backboard. Gritting my teeth, I finally threw one with all my might, and the ball sailed over the backboard. Okay, I thought, at least now I know I have the range. To my satisfaction, my last few practice tosses were closing in on the basket.

Anthony, a Pocono Palace social director, now was on the scene. The first thing he did was clear the sidelines of spectators: If you were in the gym to watch, forget it. You must participate, he commanded. So, the small gathering of reluctant women, including Margaret, took their place in line. Anthony explained that if you sunk your one-time shot, you could either extend your visit by an extra day or come back for a free night some time in the future. Lastly, he intoned, following each attempt, the other participants were to give a round of applause to the shooter, no matter how near or far his or her shot was from finding its mark.

The ladies, of course, were to go first. Twenty or so lined up and none even came close--this included a couple of previous winners as well as the "dancer" who had looked so impressive during warmups. Now it was the guys' turn. There were about 30 of us. I noticed that the ones who had been the best in practice gravitated toward the back of the line. I ended up in the number-four spot.

Not surprisingly, as the competition had worn on, the obligatory applause for each shooter seemed to grow fainter and fainter as we all sort of wearied of the whole process. The three shooters in front of me all failed, so it wasn't like I could embarrass myself, short of falling down or letting the ball slip out of my hands.

Some people had tried a kind of running start, letting the ball fly just as they reached the line. I opted for a simple one-step and let-it-go approach. As the ball left my hand, it felt--and looked--good, although Margaret would later tell me I had an extremely pained expression on my face. The shot hit the side of the rim, bounced up, and fell harmlessly away. Yet, I was heartened by the big cheer from my fellow guests. That was the closest anyone had come and the applause showed it. I made my way toward my wife when Anthony's shouts stopped me mid-stride. He called me under the basket and in hushed tones told me that if someone hits the rim or backboard and no one else makes the shot, that person would get a second attempt from a closer distance. I also couldn't return to Margaret, but had to stand alone until the last individual had gone and, most important, could not repeat what he had just said.

I felt the stares of the other participants as the contest wore on, with ultimately no one making the shot or really even legitimately threatening to do so, even the studs at the end of the line. Anthony then announced to the curious crowd that I was to get a second shot from a closer distance, and that this definitely was it. No more chances. I figured he would then walk the ball to half-court. Instead, he stood at the three-point line above the top of the key and handed me the ball, informing everyone that no one had captured this contest for two months, an unprecedented stretch without a winner. I bounced the ball twice, looked up, and without hesitation, took an old-fashioned two-handed set shot, and sank that baby as easy as pie.

The whole place exploded with shouts and hand-clapping. I actually felt kind of "doofy" and embarrassed, standing there getting showered with applause. I walked over to Anthony, shook his hand, then made my way to Margaret and planted one on her. (She told me she almost came running out to hug me, but thought better of it.)

We subsequently took our little hike and quite enjoyed recounting my just-completed heroics. The funny thing is, my wife, despite my horrendous showing the previous spring and in warm-ups, claimed she wasn't all that surprised I hit the rim with the long shot. She was, however, shocked that I made the second attempt. "Weren't you nervous with everyone watching?," she wondered. Nah, I explained, as long as I didn't throw an air ball, I was happy.

At the end of our walk, Margaret informed me that, while there was a certain endearing humility in my braggadocio, nevertheless, my 15 minutes of fame were up, and the rest of our stay was to be, as originally planned, about us, not about my pair of lucky tosses. Fine, I replied, just as long as she understood that when we come back for our free stay, I will end the suspense early by hitting my first shot and winning us an extra night on the house. I hope so, she concluded, because it won't be long until we can use another weekend away.

Wayne M. Barrett is Managing Editor of USA Today.