I’m worse than the average person when it comes to free stuff. If a company is giving away something for nothing you’ll find me nudging others aside to get to the front of the line. I blame it on my dad. Like Fagin’s Artful Dodger he dispatched my three younger brothers and me to raid airplane lavatories — this was in the golden age of flight — and steal travel size bars of soap and even bottles of cologne. That is until the airlines wised up and removed the tops.
He owned an ad agency and was constantly being showered with promotional t-shirts, caps, mugs and anything else you could slap a logo on, from gift companies soliciting his business. We lived in a gracious apartment with paintings and tapestries but our glassware was ostentatiously tacky. It came in an eye-popping array of colors, space age materials and, typically, writing on the side of the vessel that stated “Your message here.”
Hence, I was probably more receptive than most when my friend Bruce returned from the guest registration desk at Smugglers Notch in northern Vermont last week with some exciting news. Club Wyndham, which serves as sales agent for the resort’s condominiums, had invited him to a presentation the next day on the benefits of joining its points program. In exchange for ninety minutes of his time he’d receive a voucher for an eight night/seven day vacation to one of their 4,100 + affiliated properties spread across the United States and the world.
Bruce had already signed up. He said that if I was interested I could do the same. I felt the dopamine rush as my family history jumped to accept the offer. I’ve always been the sucker who paid out-of-pocket for vacations. Yet I know people who haven’t paid for a trip in years. They simply attend sales pitches such as the one I was offered, feign interest, and walk away with a cool trip at some exotic location.
Bruce quickly chickened out, as I assumed he would. If you’re a serious skier taking ninety minutes away from the slopes constitutes the ultimate sacrifice. On the other hand, I was looking for an excuse to bag it. Come lunchtime I knew my legs would be pleading for mercy. Worst case scenario I’d be delaying my afternoon nap.
I also suffered no trepidation that I’d sign away my 401(K) no matter how persuasive Wyndham’s sales people. Back in the 1980’s I went undercover for Cosmopolitan magazine and survived The Forum. Described as a kindlier, friendlier version of EST, the intensive self-actualization training known for not permitting bathroom breaks, I was subjected to two full weekends of high pressure sales tactics. By comparison, this should be a piece of cake.
The following day I was met by a well-dressed young woman; not for her the bulky skiwear that constitutes Smugglers’ dress code. She explained that before our one-on-one there would be a group presentation describing the company’s portfolio and point system.
Most of it went over my head because I've never been good at math. I can grasp the basic concept of a time-share condo such as the one where we were crashing, courtesy of Bruce’s sister Carla. But once our instructor started to discuss vacation points, travel perks and Wyndham’s archipelago of related companies I got lost and confused.
Next came the one-on-one. I feared electrodes might be attached to my head to get me to capitulate but my personal sales rep — I’ll call her Caitlin — was pleasant as she asked me how I like to travel and my idea of a dream vacation. She also wanted to know how much I spent a year on travel. I made up a number. Not because I was being disingenuous but because — my bad — I’ve never added it up.
I also didn’t share my dirty little secret: I don’t love resorts. My taste runs to remote cottages on the North Sea and once grand hotels. As Caitlin showed me splendid properties from Hilton Head to Taos, the water slide at one property caught my eye and reminded me of the time that my wife and I followed our daughter, a senior in high school, to Atlantis in the Bahamas on spring break.
I hated the place. The pristine white sand beach in the TV commercials was the size of a postage stamp. None of the other guests seemed to care. They were there for the river rapids, the eleven swimming pools and the opportunity to snorkel with sharks in a tank. “We have water slides at a lot of our resorts,” Caitlin boasted, assuming I was an aficionado.
Already past the ninety minute mark she asked whether I was a shopper? Finally a question I could answer unequivocally. “No,” I said emphatically. I hate to shop. If everybody was like me the economy would collapse.
But that’s not what she meant. She wondered whether I was a secret shopper sent to evaluate her performance. I’m not sure what gave her that impression but I assured her that I wasn’t. I was there for the free vacation.
Caitlin consulted her supervisor and returned with a work sheet based on my travel spending habits. She suggested a six-figure investment with a five-figure deposit to purchase 200,000 points. I politely demurred. I explained, rather persuasively I thought, that I’d never make such an important decision without first consulting with my wife.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
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