I'm in Houston at the hotel attached to a spa/conference center. A track wraps around the whole campus (as they call it), a joggable mile of, if it's not Astroturf, something like it: soft green stuff with, in this case, a springy underlayment so you bounce up the slopes, which is okay, and down them, which is not such a good idea until you get the hang of it. Was Astroturf invented here for the Astros to play on, or am I totally making that up? Anyway, I went running this morning through the trees, under the edge of the parking structure (of architectural interest to me, though probably considered an eyesore by other joggers), past the tennis courts and the pool (where an aquatic exercise class was going on). All the hotels I've been in on this tour have been, as Sue Dunlap used to say, above my station in life. Generally it's fun, and it's fun here, but this one, because it's also a spa -- I've never been at a spa before, and this is for the very wealthiest Houstonians -- also carries an undercurrent of narcissism and self-satisfaction that's giving me a headache.