Getaways

I spent my divorcemoon at a dying honeymoon hotel in the Poconos

BY ALLISON ROBICELLI

The Washington Post

If the commercials were to be believed, in 1988 the epicenter of American romance was nestled within the heaving peaks of the Pocono Mountains in northeast Pennsylvania. At 8 years old, I had a limited understanding of sex and relationships, but it seemed as if the cathode rays from my TV emitted an undercurrent of lust every time an ad for one of the area’s honeymoon resorts lit up the screen.

I would have given anything to be a sophisticated adult taking my pick of allinclusive pleasures: romantic candlelit dinners, glamorous disco dancing, sensuous miniature golf.

“At beautiful Mount Airy Lodge, all you have to bring ... is your love of everything …”

One day, I would love everything so hard. I’d love someone so hard. We’d paint the Poconos velvet red while drunk on strawberries and cream. Our love would be titanic. It would feast on prime rib and all-you-can-eat salad bar. It would be worthy of the most colossal feat of erotic engineering the world has seen: a 7-foot-tall champagne coupe hot tub.

“For lovers only ... You’re never lonely ... You’re so close …”

When you’re 8, you believe everything you see on TV. You internalize visions of those happy couples, smiling as they water ski, holding hands as they horseback ride. You’ve been told that love is patient, love is kind; it endures all things and never fails.

But love can also be fickle. Love can be cruel. It endures what it can, but sometimes it burns out, too. That’s the part they don’t tell you on TV.

I grew up and got married, but by the time I made it to the Poconos this fall, my husband and I had split. My best friend had just dissolved her marriage, too, and we needed to run away: Away from the homes we held together while we were falling apart. Away from the jobs that demanded focus while our brains could do nothing but dissect our tragedies. Away from our kids. Away from ourselves.

The property we found was so far past its prime, full of reminders that without proper maintenance, love is destined to spoil. A mirror-covered bedroom was a kaleidoscope, forcing you to face yourself from every unflattering angle. The garbage-filled gazebo is a shed of emotional neglect.

When you come to a dying honeymoon resort to celebrate the end of a marriage, you can’t help but think everything is a metaphor.

It was the perfect place for our divorcemoon.

I didn’t think about the Poconos much during my marriage. I knew that most of the resorts had closed down, their shag carpets left to be reclaimed by nature. I wanted the image of the sexy, swinging honeymoon hotel to be preserved in my memory.

But when I got divorced, imagining a champagne glass hot tub infested by raccoons was a beautiful thought. I, too, was a feral animal mired in trash. Maybe there was still a place to stay amid the decay, where my brethren would welcome me with open paws.

I scrolled through the photos of abandoned buildings while crying under the covers. Penn Hills Resort, Mount Airy Lodge, Pocono Gardens, Strickland’s Mountain Inn — all left to rot in indignity while vandals and drunk teenagers had their way with the ruins. Ghostly shells of swimming pools, slick with mold and stagnant water. Round mattresses ripped to shreds, surrounded by crumbling columns of plaster and paint.

I was certain that love was dead in the Poconos, but I was wrong. By some miracle, Cove Haven — the couples-only resort where both the heart-shaped hot tub and the champagne glass hot tub were invented — clings to life by its chipped press-on fingernails.

Everything about Cove Haven was exactly what I expected. It was glorious and tragic, a forsaken oasis of dilapidated magic.

The food was abysmal, the water pressure lousy. The lobby was devoid of bustle and hum. The tennis courts were empty; the arcade silent; the miniature golf pavilion dark and desolate.

In another time, the heart-shaped outdoor pool would have been the place to be for the young and in love, overflowing with couples sipping frozen daiquiris. In our time, the bar was closed, and the only thing floating in the pool was a dead rat.

In place of the lovebirds that once strolled goo-goo-eyed around the property, there are now hundreds of deer who never take their goo-goo eyes off you; they lurk in the shadows, they circle your car, they greet you at your door like sylvan sentries looking for crackers.

Cove Haven was once able to keep the woods at bay; the wilderness limited to shirtless men from New Jersey pounding buckets of Bud. But the deer are reclaiming the land, and Cove Haven accepts this. The gift shop sells bags of deer food alongside campy T-shirts, pocket vibrators and gift boxes of lube.

Despite the deer outnumbering humans 18-to-1, we were still advised to make reservations for dinner in the Colosseum Dining Room.

At dinner we finally saw other people, most of whom looked old enough to remember a time when the dining room buzzed with coos and sweet nothings. In our time, though, there was silence. There comes a point in some relationships where you run out of things to say to each other. Every couple in the room seemed to have passed that benchmark at least 15 years ago.

We hit the salad bar and loaded our plates with tiny cubes of cheese. I wondered how many guests were silent because the spark was gone, and how many couldn’t speak because their mouths were busy working through the steak teriyaki.

In stark contrast to the bachelorette parties that ushered in our marriages, divorcemoon was uneventful, and was beautiful. We have aged past the point where we need to impress each other. We communicate in glassy eyes and exasperated sighs.

We are newly single moms to teenage boys. We don’t need to sit around and talk about our feelings. We needed to unpack the six different types of cookies we brought with us and soak in a hot tub until our fingers turned pruney.

Photo for The Washington Post by Allison Robicelli The giant squirrel at the miniature golf course knows you’ve been canoodling, and he approves.

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