house to bedroom

I am in a room, now, that is the size of our living room (the room we did not remodel), but this room is filled with oil paintings, four torch-like sconces, and an entire wall of cherry wood cabinetry. The couches in this room are leather (yes, there are two, and the floor is hardwood. An ancient rug given to the room's owner by some East Indian friend, stretches the length of the floor. Outside the window, the world is in bloom -- pinks and purples and oranges and peaches and yellows. In the backyard, a swimming pool and more colors busting open the nostrils of spring. Across the street, there is a gabled house with a balcony, equally virulent blossoms, and sculpted hedges the shape of overgrown Chia pets.

We are sleeping in a room the size of our original house (640 square feet) with a hot tub on the balcony just outside our window. The view from our bedroom and the hot tub is to the east where we can count the peaks of the Cascades and watch the rowers on Lake Washington work their way against the wind.

It is as if we have been transported to a resort hotel and only our daily getting up and preparing for work reminds us that we have not yet retired to such a deluxe life.

I love our friends who own this house, but every day I am amazed at how the manuver through their lives without one turn of the head, or a nod of consideration that beneath them lies 6000 square feet of structure, four floors of opulence, and a house large enough to accommodate 6 full-sized bathrooms.

The irony of it all is that they live in the basement, two rooms they've remodeled to make it warm and cozy. They cook in their exquisite kitchen and spend time, as I am tonight, in their study, but the other 5000 square feet is relatively untouched -- a collection of furniture, art, and dust.

Each night they cook their meal at 8:30 and sit down to eat by 9. The food is purchased at a variety of stores, where Steven spends his days shopping for just the right herb or piece of meat or the special endive that is only sold in one store in the International District. This is only after four hours of golf for which he rises each morning at 4:30. 18 holes of golf every week day, no matter the weather, and then a day spent searching for basil and rosemary, tender duck or substantial pork.

The price of staying here is my helping to "Dog Whisper" their enormous German Shepard, Ben. Ben is a sweet dog who has never once been given boundaries or limitations. He has destroyed countless pairs of shoes, numerous garden tools, and has a special affinity for bathrobes of which he's torn up 7 in his 4 years of life.

So Ben and I rise at 5 and walk the lake path every morning and then again in the evening. We work on not fearing other dogs (Ben is enormous, but hides behind Steven when another dog approaches or lunges out of fear to bite the head off an unsuspecting lab, or his favorite, a yorkie... the smaller the opponent, the more he fears it.) Tonight, we walked past the neighbor dogs who lunge at the gate setting Ben into a frantic spasm of growling and barking. I immediately threw Ben to the ground and made him lie in a submissive pose until the two large dogs settled down and stopped their slathering and huffing. Then we walked past the gate four more times and nary a bark or snivel was heard.

A small success in a rather long day of work where the drama of friendships dominates the curriculum.

It makes me want to train dogs for the rich.

But there is something uncomfortable about this temporary home. I think it is guilt, but it could be just an unfamiliarity with wealth of this magnitude.

I do find it ironic that Doris, Steven's wife, is an art teacher. An art teacher living in a mansion. A living, breathing oxymoron.

And perhaps the oxymoronic experience is partly what I'm feeling.

Still...

...what am I to do, but take another hot tub, eat another arugula salad, and take the dog on endless walks to overcome his low self esteem. A dog with low self-esteem...

Only in America.