6. Scarlett
Scarlett
The Sapphire Keys Resort: Where Luxury Bales
Unpopular opinion:
Luxury resorts are overrated, overpriced, and overhyped.
If I had to guess, I’ve lost half of you by now. For the remaining half, you know what I’m talking about.
This is an honest review from a seasoned travel writer who has had the opportunity to stay at the Sapphire anonymously. I was blessed to indulge in every “luxury” that the Sapphire Keys had to offer.
Every room is a suite.
Not one or two but five different pools, and that’s not including the adults-only saltwater hot tub, complete with its own bar.
Sandy beaches are only a stone’s throw away.
Five-star restaurants serving imported caviar, meats, and seafood.
Unfortunately for the luxury hospitality industry, it’s run by men with fat wallets and not a pair of swim trunks in sight.
True luxury and the resort experience cannot be defined by marble floors or bamboo walls, or perfectly cooked Wagyu.
It’s in the details. Details focused on the actual needs and desires of its patrons.
After all, most of us normies max out credit cards for a little getaway at places like this.
We don’t willingly go into high-interest debt only to have the bath towels be too small for the average human body.
But it wasn’t just the towels at the Sapphire that fell short of my high expectations.
Expectations set by Bale itself. Expectations that fall short of what’s promised because the CEO is probably too busy focusing on logistics and sales to notice the things guests actually care about.
Burnt coffee in the lounge. Bartenders who never smile.
Lipstick smudges on a “clean” wineglass.
In my personal experience, and as someone who does this for a living, trust me, I have a lot of experience; Bale could do better. The towels were small, the A/C did little to cut the summer heat (probably time for an update on those units), and the glassware was dirty.
In an age when people want to experience travel at its roots by immersing in the true culture of new places, the infamous Bale brothers would be wise to go back to their roots.
To what Bale used to stand for twenty-five years ago.
Because if I had to guess, the original founders would roll over in their graves if they saw everything being swept under those Persian rugs.
Five hundred thousand views.
My entire life exists on social media. It may be a lot of edited videos and background music and double takes, but my job relies on posts of the places I go and the things I see.
And in the eight years I have been doing this, I have never had an article or a post with five hundred thousand views.
Go figure. It’s an anonymous article. At least… to most.
The one person I have broken the NDA for is my sister.
But only because she demands to know about my job all the time.
Every detail. Probably so she can decide for herself if whatever I am doing that week, whether it’s backpacking through Portugal or fighting with a bleach-scented towel at the Sapphire, counts as a real job.
A job good enough to drop out of college.
We sit at the Conch Shell Cafe, having lunch together. It’s been only two days since the article went live and viral, and she has a lot of thoughts on my secret job.
“That was pretty risky of you, Scarlett. Writing a candid review like that of Bale Resorts,” she says, and I swallow a bite of sandwich before looking up at her.
“That’s what reviews are, Claire. Honest opinions.
And my honest opinion about Bale is that they could do better,” I say, taking another bite.
She may have come here to examine my life with a magnifying glass, but I came here to eat lunch.
Lunch paid for with the nice little chunk of change I got for that article.
They even sent me a bonus once it went viral.
Whoever “they” is. Speaking of that, I need to check my email to see what resort they want me to review next.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and it will be somewhere far away from here.
“Better than the Sapphire Keys?” she asks, but it comes out like a statement.
“Have you ever been there?” I ask. “The towels left a lot to be desired,” I state as I reach for my peach iced tea. I take a sip and scrunch my nose, then grab a packet of sugar in the raw and tear it open.
“Listen to you being all bougie about linens,” she says. Then, “Are you sure you need that? I mean, that tea is loaded with peach syrup.”
“And yet it still just tastes like bitter black tea,” I say.
“Maybe I’ll write a review,” I snigger, blowing around her sideways jab.
My sister Claire has always been as skinny as a rail.
She takes after our dad, who could lose weight running marathons and eating ice cream sandwiches simultaneously (two things he often did).
I have my mother’s figure, shapely since I was a teen.
Of course, I always thought she was lovely. And she would have added the sugar.
“So, is everything you wrote true then?” she asks, taking a bite of her dry salad. It came with ranch, which she got on the side and hasn’t touched. I debate using it for my fries.
“About the towels? Yeah, they sucked. They didn’t even wrap fully around my body. Wild, considering how lovely the room itself was. I was basically naked when the stranger walked in.”
Claire drops her fork at that. “Wait. It was a man who walked into your room!?”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip, both still in shock about what happened and also unable to shake off what really happened.
“I thought it was housekeeping or something,” she sputters out.
“Housekeeping has keys,” I say.
“And so did this guy apparently.” She shudders. “You know what? You were right to write that article. In fact. You should sue Bale Resorts.”
I snort at that. “Yeah, because that’s a lawsuit I could win,” I mutter.
“I’m serious. Are they really that sloppy behind their shiny facade that guests are given the wrong room keys!?”
“In his defense, he looked pretty fancy. I was probably the one who wasn’t supposed to be there,” I say, continuing to casually eat.
My sister rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you were flirting with the guy who walked into your hotel room,” she says.
“Who says I was flirting with him?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve always been a flirt,” she says, and it’s not entirely untrue. It’s not that I go around hitting on guys. I’m not that kind of girl. I am at the very least sassy, though. A trait I also got from my mom. It comes with being a writer.
“Fine. We may have talked for a few minutes,” I admit.
“Did you sleep with him?” she asks, and this time I am the one dropping my utensil.
“Oh my god, Claire!” I choke out, my voice a little pitchier than I intended. I can also feel the heat in my cheeks, and I pray she assumes it’s just because we are on the patio and it is no cooler than ninety today.
“That’s not a no,” she says.
“I didn’t sleep with him!” I blurt out, catching the attention of several other tables. Now Claire is the one blushing. And I’m not lying. If you think about it, no actual sleeping took place.
“I’m kind of offended that you would just assume that,” I tell her, and then I receive yet another look.
“I have a hard time believing that your nomadic lifestyle isn’t free-spirited in all aspects,” she says, tiptoeing around what she’s really trying to say. That’s okay. I’ll say it for her.
“Being an influencer slash writer doesn’t make me a slut, Claire,” I say, and she nearly chokes, her pale cheeks blazing red.
“For heaven’s sake, Scarlett, keep your voice down,” she whisper-yells.
But let’s face it. It’s just another part of my existence Claire admittedly doesn’t approve of.
Here’s a quick history of the Moore girls. AKA Claire and me.
We both started out on the same path. She went to college, graduated with a Bachelor’s in English, became a teacher, got married, and popped out some kids.
And I did the same. Well, the first part.
I went to college, majored in English, made it all the way through the first semester of freshman year, and dropped out.
That part, if you didn’t guess, was not part of following in her footsteps.
But college wasn’t for me. I knew I was a good writer.
I also knew I wanted to travel. And in a world run by social media accounts that make money simply off living their life on camera, I decided I had a fair chance at making my dreams come true.
Even if Claire disapproved. And boy, did she ever. She still does.
She can’t stand what I do. Working for magazines and online blogs.
It’s the kind of life everyone dreams of…
sort of. Honestly, it can be a bumpy ride from time to time.
Traveling alone is expensive, scary, and not always Instagram-post-worthy.
Yet, I wouldn’t change it. Although I struggle to pay my rent or buy groceries often, I feel like I can’t change it.
It’s who I am. It’s an art, and artists are known for starving.
“New subject,” she says, clapping her hands together.
“Thank God,” I sigh, shoving my plate aside and garnishing it with my crumpled up napkin.
“What’s next on the job roster?” she asks, and I deflate a little. I’m not really sure how this subject is new.
“Well.” I nod. “With the success of that last article, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more coming my way.”
And cue the eyebrow ruffle. It’s like an unseen force is pinching the bridge of Claire’s nose, causing her to squint. “How does that work exactly?” she asks.
“They send me assignments. I sign an NDA. I complete said assignment. And they pay me. Generously, I might add.”
Generously enough that I don’t have to play eenie-meanie-miny-moe between my phone bill and groceries this week. My rent will of course be late, but Jaque, the landlord, has always been somewhat flexible about that. Though he is getting a little grumpier.
“But you still don’t know who they are,” Claire points out, nose still pinched. “How does that look on taxes? How do you know they’ll pay? Also, what about your brand? You’ve never surrendered to writing anonymously before.”
“I’ll probably still post things for my brand,” I tell her.
“Of the resorts you’re reviewing? You don’t think anyone will put two and two together that you always happen to be where those reviews are coming from?” she asks.
And yes. I have thought about this. Enough that I smile without worry.
“You know me,” I tell her. “I prefer the local scene over the all-inclusive. People won’t know the difference. My work will pay the travel expenses, and my brand will benefit. It’s a loophole.”
“It’s risky,” she says.
If you haven’t caught on yet, Claire uses that word to describe every aspect of my life choices since I was 18.
Major in English with an emphasis in journalism instead of education? Risky.
Drop out after winter semester because screw gen eds and student debt? Risky.
Sell my half-used textbooks to get a passport, a suitcase, and my first plane ticket? Risky and reckless.
Fortunately for me, I’ve never been very good at listening to my sister. Though her voice does like to haunt my dreams from time to time. Especially when my rent is due and I don’t know where my next job will be.
“It will be fine,” I tell her.
“You always say that.” She frowns.
But I smile in contrast. “And it always is,” I say, taking another satisfactory sip of my very sweet peach tea.
Later that evening I walk inside my apartment and lock the door, keeping the lights off.
I swear I saw Jaque taking out the trash (the apartment complex is four rooms above a bakery of all things) and I’m not really in the mood for our biweekly “Rent is due soon…” conversation right now.
I will without a doubt have the funds after the next job, which hopefully is written out in detail for me in an awaiting email from CB whoever.
I toss my things aside and step out of my knock-off espadrilles before grabbing a glass of wine and plopping down on the couch with my laptop.
As much as my sister worries, I feel like I have given her more reasons than not to believe in me.
Sure, my life is a bit unpredictable, up and down, and at times even risky, but I love it.
It’s in my blood, traveling around, seeing and experiencing the world from the views and lives of others.
The idea of being trapped in one place, specifically a crowded, urban place, makes my skin crawl.
Besides, opening these emails always feels a bit like a white elephant gift. You never know what is lurking under the funky wrapping pap–
“Shit.”
My voice echoes off the water-stained walls of my apartment as I stare at the email. I read the words frantically, then re-read them, still stumbling over the words.
Dear Miss Moore,
Thank you for your recent article reviewing Bale Resorts’ Miami location. You accomplished exactly what we were looking for and will no longer be needing your services. Best of luck with your future endeavors.
Conrad Associates
I blink hard and fast, like a butterfly’s wings right before it gets sucked into a jet engine. I don’t know if I read that right. Considering it’s all of about two and a half very straightforward sentences, I think it’s safe to say I’m reading it accurately.
There are no more jobs.
Which means two things–
I jinxed my luck in my overly flippant conversation with my sister.
And, “I am so fucked.”