Stress Relief

The marble top glowed in the sunlight, which drifted in through a wall of stained glass, and a skylight of soft frosted panes. The stained glass depicted scenes of Greek mythology, giving the room the feel of something much larger and more important than a meager reception lounge. Cold water trickled through a cascading series of copper plates, producing a soothing chime of ripples and splashes. It was an altogether unremarkable fountain, yet it still outclassed the Putrinskis like a wedge of walnut-encrusted Hautefort might outclass the judges at the Wisconsin annual cheddar festival. Completing the symphony of sight and sound were a variety of flora, ranging from arid cacti to tropical cymbidiums to lanky yet beautiful vines of jasmine; the environmental controls on the boat were obviously sophisticated enough to support both, and wafted the resulting mixture of perfumes delicately under the noses of the two gawking tourists.

"Ah, welcome to the Hypnos!" beamed an alert steward at post behind the registration counter. "Only a moment to check you in—no, don’t worry about your things, they’ll be brought below deck for you. Please, just a few formalities, and you’ll be on your own until tomorrow’s activities begin. We’re sure you must bee tired, having such an early start and all, and this is all about stress relief, after all." He motioned towards the counter, from behind which he produced a small sheaf of papers.

"Please read this, if you would. We’ll need an initial on each page, and your signatures here, here and… here. Please take your time. Would you like some coffee?"

"Please," they said together, and then Harold added, "Hypno? Does this boat belong to a magician?"

"Oh no, sir. Not at all. Not really, anyway," the steward chuckled to himself at this inside joke. "It’s Hypnos… with an ‘s’, after the Greek god of slumber. Remember, sir and madam, everything here is all about relaxation. That’s the goal. That’s the only magic trick here," and he chuckled again. Something about the steward rubbed Harold the wrong way, but then everything rubbed Harold the wrong way. He was like a porcupine, stuck firmly inside the hollow trunk of the cork-tree of life.

"If you could please be certain to sign every page," he corrected, noticing that Harold had begun to skim ahead through the paperwork. "Please."

"This thing has more pages than my mortgage."

"Well, it’s a formality but it is necessary, I’m afraid. It’s all about non-disclosure you see."

"Non-disclosure?"

"You will be shown the five most relaxing places on this whole planet," the steward reminded them.

"The whole planet?" parroted Harold.

"Yes, the planet Earth," the steward clarified, as if such a clarification had been necessary. "We can’t have you telling everyone about the five most relaxing places on the whole planet Earth, or they’d be swamped with tourists! They wouldn’t be the five most relaxing places after that. Would they?" and he tapped at the papers. Harold shrugged and went back to initialing, turning a page, initialing, turning a page. Several dozens of pages later, he reached the end, and signed, and dated. Marylyn signed too, and dated. The steward signed, as a witness, and then whisked the sheaf away.

"If you’ll follow me please." They were led brisky through well kept halls, paved with white plush carpets and dark polished wainscoting. "A lot of people feel they need to just talk, talk, talk about everything they see and do here. Maybe they think they can make money by telling everyone about our little secrets of relaxation. Yes, I think that’s probably it.