Einstein defined insanity as, “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” If there was any doubt, by that definition, I am insane.
Around Valentine’s Day, about every three years or so, I surprise my wife with a romantic weekend at a Bed & Breakfast. Coerced by quaint, and waylaid by warm muffins, it’s once more into the breach my friend. When I do come to this decision I envision it sets in motion some cosmic Candid Camera. And I turn into Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast.
Our first time..“The Inn at Lareau Farm is a classic Vermont farmhouse nestled on the banks of the Mad River.” Nestled? How can you resist nestling? After a long drive, Kira and I pull off Vermont 100 North and are greeted by the soft-spoken owner of the inn, “Welcome to the Lareau Farm Inn, I am Sue, my husband and I bought this place 15 years ago and fixed it up. This is the main sitting area, feel free to come downstairs in your pj’s and sit by the fire and read your book…This is your room...Tomorrow’s breakfast will be Canadian Bacon and Vermont cheddar cheese omellettes, served with….”
The first night goes fairly well, and in the morning the breakfast is unbelievable. We spend Saturday skiing Sugarbush. Satiated by skiing and enlivened with an après ski buzz we go back to the inn. Kira opts for a nap. I don my sweatpants and sweatshirt and head downstairs. There are a few guests reading around the fire and looking very New Englandy. Cheese and crackers are laid out, hot chocolate and cider, are available. Sue and her husband are flitting in and out of the room. I hear them snipping at each other in the kitchen. A few door slams and some sharp words later, Sue comes in.
The other guests head off, eventually it’s Sue and I. I can tell by her unsteady gait, and ruddy complexion, she’s been drinking. I figure her for 60. Her faded Levi’s and work shirt, show me the flower child still in her. She lies on the rug in front of the fireplace, and begins to pet her gorgeous, golden retriever, Orvis. She’s snuggling with the dog, and feeding him crackers. We chat about the Mad River Valley area. She suggests we have dinner at American Flatbread. Sue begins to feed the dog crackers from her mouth, slowly, teasingly. “Did you know that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s?” She says. I have seen people feed their dogs like this before and it always strikes me as odd. At some point she lays on her back, tilts her head and Orvis begins to lick around her mouth. I can see the pooch knows the routine, reacting to her cues. Next, she opens her mouth wide and sticks her tongue out. Orvis was rounding first and heading for second as I high-tailed it upstairs.
Dinner at American Flatbread almost cured my “hair of the dog.” It was that good. Sunday morning we were up and out early for the long ride home. I swear Orvis was checking Kira out as we crossed the parking lot. On the way home we recounted the weekend, the pros and cons of the B & B. Kira, not wanting to ruin my little gift, tip-toes around the issue but she keeps saying, “Do you really think we are B & B people?” Not picking up on the clues, I keep saying, “What’s not to like? Beautiful house, nice bed, great food?” To which Kira says, “Yeh it was nice and all but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in someone else’s house.”
Valentine’s Day a few years later, always the optimist: the inn I chose was recommended by a friend. It’s another ski trip for Kira and I. This time to Sunday River. I don my Chevy Chase costume and we are set for scene two of National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast. For brevity’s sake we’ll dispense with the description of the inn.
After a 7 hour drive, we are escorted, coldly to our room. Finally in our room I say to Kira, “Did we do something wrong? Were we supposed to be here earlier?” Kira says, “I don’t know but I definitely got the feeling we were putting her out.”
After unpacking, we head down to the living room. The place is quiet, we are the only guests in a very large Victorian. The husband is stoking the fire as Kira and I sit down. “So what’s the weather supposed to be like for the next couple of days?” I ask in my friendly-tourist voice. The owner, still staring into the fire says, “Supposed to rain for the next 4 days, last time we had rain like this we had a guy from New York lose one of his ski boots in the parking lot. Never did see that boot again. If you guys get all muddy, I’d appreciate it if you come in through the mud room.” He says this with an edge, emphasis on New Yorkers and you guys. I look at Kira and gesture what gives? Kira tries a volley, “What a beautiful home you have here, I’ve always loved old Victorians.” Ethan Frome then begins to tell us that they have owned it for 15 years and that the only way they could afford the house, was to run it as an inn. Then his eyes focus right on me and he says, “And you two are our last guests. We never have to do this ever again. The mortgage is all paid for and we can have our house all to ourselves.” I could see as he looked past me that we were going to pay the price for all of the obnoxious guests who had ever stayed at the The House of Mirth.
When we are alone, Kira says, “This is ridiculous. We are paying good money for this place and these people are treating us like crap. Why don’t we go somewhere else?” I agree. At some point I pull the owner aside and I say, “You don’t really seem like you are up for guests. Maybe we’d be better off if we went to another inn?” To which he says, “You’re not getting your money back. We won’t give you a refund. We will provide the services you paid for, if you stay.”
On Saturday, Kira and I skied in the 38 degree rain, for about two and a half hours. I don’t know if you’ve ever skied slush but you really don’t ski it. And after driving 7 hours and envisioning a winter wonderland, you can imagine our moods. At some point, ski clothes saturated, a couple of drowned rats, we cut our losses and head back to the inn. Edith Wharton is there to make sure we come in through the mud room. Reluctantly, she agrees to dry our ski clothes for us as they would never dry in our room. No snacks, no hot chocolate, no smile. We slink up to our room to seethe and snooze.
Dinner that night was at some Mexican place right in The Village of Bethel. We wind up closing the place, which in Bethel, Maine was midnight at best. Back at the gates of hell, buzzed and obnoxious, we clomp and giggle our way up to our room. At the door to our room, I realize I don’t have the key. I check all of my pockets. “Do you have the key?” I ask Kira. She pats herself down. “No.” “Shit, we have to go back to the restaurant.” Off we go, 4 miles down the road and by now they’ve pulled the sidewalks in. We pull up and I realize the staff has cleaned up and gone home, already. I place one hand on the window to cut down on the glare. I place my face against the glass. There it is, right next to the napkin holder and the small bottle of Tabasco sauce, our key.
So we head back to see Beelzebub about how we can get into our room. We are in the living room, calling out quietly, hoping to wake someone. This doesn’t work and we begin to get annoyed. Kira coaxes me to explore the house. I walk through the French doors into the kitchen area. I could swear I saw a rabbit stewing in a pot. You have to know that it’s dark, really dark. As I walk I am calling out to the owner, “Hello. Hello. Can you help us? We seem to have lost our key.” I am reaching and probing my way around. Through a door, no luck, it’s the pantry. Back into the kitchen, through another door, I call out again, “Hello, anybody…” Suddenly a dog barks viciously at my feet but I can’t see him. I bump against something. A woman screams, “WHO’S THERE?” She sits bolt upright in bed and pulls the sheets up to her chest. “WHO IS IT? HONEY DO SOMETHING!!!!” I am frozen, hoping Cujo doesn’t decide to bite me, praying Ethan Frome doesn’t have a gun in his bedside nightstand. “It’s Jim Spinner, it’s Jim Spinner.” I stammer. “I’m really sorry, it seems that Kira and I left our key…..I’ll close the curtain on this scene here.
At breakfast the next morning, I apologized profusely, and they didn’t say anything, not a word. No, “Don’t worry about it.” No, “It’s happened before.” Nothing, just thrusting of breakfast plates at us. I am sure, some nights in Bethel, Maine, Ethan and Edith recount the tale of their last guest in The House of Mirth.
The ride home from Bethel, Maine was a long one. At that point I was 0 for 2 on the Bed & Breakfast front. You have to understand my wife, she gets so keyed up for these trips. And truthfully she’s relatively easy to please. In the car, we replay the weekend, seething at the treatment we received. Again that phrase, “You know Jim, maybe we’re not B & B people?”
Of course you can figure out now I’m not a quick study. I must have this mythic Bed & Breakfast weekend in my head. A few years go by and I try AGAIN. In retelling this I don’t believe it myself. Back to that Einstein thing…
Another Valentine’s Day and I am going to surprise Kira. This time it’s going to work. New Hampshire is the answer. I do research, I check websites. I find, The Cutter’s Loft Inn. This is the one. I read the reviews, both of them. On the drive up, Kira is quiet, I try to reassure her, “Don’t worry Sweetie, this place is great, you’ll love it. Look at the pictures! And it won an award!”
Kira and I, playing The Griswolds again, arrive at The Cutter’s Loft around dinner time. We are greeted by our hostess, and by the smell. I look at Kira, we both notice it. Not sure what the fragrance is but my synapses recognize it. Sadie escorts us through her living room, up the stairs to a bedroom over the garage. It’s clear that this room was put there for this express purpose. I can see that our inn keeper thinks she is an entrepreneur; that she has been reading all of the B & B trade magazines. Entering the bedroom, I am expecting to see her son getting out of bed and heading to the shower in his boxers. Sadie is telling us about the gas powered fire place, which is on wheels. I am wondering why she fails to mention the pink, fly swatter hanging on a nail by the door. No need. I can see that, either someone was a crack shot or nobody has been in this room since the Clinton administration. All of the flies are dead, more than likely of old age.
As soon as we are alone, Kira gives me the look. The, you screwed up again look. “I am leaving. I am not spending our only weekend away in this place.” I don’t even try the, It’s not so bad tack, I agree. I also know that I can’t tell this woman, who is so proud of her business acumen, that after our initial look at the indoor/outdoor carpet and the upright aluminum shower with the plastic curtain, we would like to check out. I just couldn’t do it. “I don’t care.” Kira the shark says, “I’ll do it. I’ll tell her. This is bullshit. This is false advertising! We are staying in her guest bedroom! Look at the dead flies!” We sit on the bed, and it sags, Kira gives me another look. I hear Pat Sajak selling someone a vowel downstairs in the living room and I say, “Let’s go get a bite to eat.”
We go to a local pub/restaurant for dinner. Kira is fuming. You have to realize, by this Valentine’s Day we have kids. This is our first weekend, first NIGHT away in a really long time. Wild eyed she says, “We’ll tell her we got an emergency call on our cell and we have to leave. Then we’ll go get a room somewhere else.” I hesitate. I think Sadie will see through it. I feel so bad. “I don’t think I can do that Sweetie. You can see how hard she’s worked, she’s so proud of herself. She’s such a sweet little old lady. She reminds me of…” And it hits me. “I know what that smell is! It smells like your Aunt Ann’s house.” The light bulb goes on over Kira’s head, “My god, you’re right! That’s what it is!” Now this isn’t a bad smell so much as a family smell, a Thanksgiving with relatives smell. NOT the smell you want on your first romantic getaway in two and a half years.
After a nice dinner and a few drinks I convince Kira that checking out would break Aunt Sadie’s heart. She relents and we make the best of our stay at The Cutter’s Loft. On Sunday morning as we are checking out, Aunt Sadie is begging us to sign the guest book. With Kira looking over my shoulder, we read the names in the guest book, both of them. And I realize that my guess that the last person to stay at Cutter’s Loft was during the Clinton Administration wasn’t far off. Wanting to write something funny, but not wanting to hurt Aunt Sadie’s feelings I write, “Just like staying with family.”
On the way home Kira puts her foot down. Never again she tells me. “We are not B & B people. Next time you want to surprise me call 1 800 Marriot!”
Around Valentine’s Day, about every three years or so, I surprise my wife with a romantic weekend at a Bed & Breakfast. Coerced by quaint, and waylaid by warm muffins, it’s once more into the breach my friend. When I do come to this decision I envision it sets in motion some cosmic Candid Camera. And I turn into Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast.
Our first time..“The Inn at Lareau Farm is a classic Vermont farmhouse nestled on the banks of the Mad River.” Nestled? How can you resist nestling? After a long drive, Kira and I pull off Vermont 100 North and are greeted by the soft-spoken owner of the inn, “Welcome to the Lareau Farm Inn, I am Sue, my husband and I bought this place 15 years ago and fixed it up. This is the main sitting area, feel free to come downstairs in your pj’s and sit by the fire and read your book…This is your room...Tomorrow’s breakfast will be Canadian Bacon and Vermont cheddar cheese omellettes, served with….”
The first night goes fairly well, and in the morning the breakfast is unbelievable. We spend Saturday skiing Sugarbush. Satiated by skiing and enlivened with an après ski buzz we go back to the inn. Kira opts for a nap. I don my sweatpants and sweatshirt and head downstairs. There are a few guests reading around the fire and looking very New Englandy. Cheese and crackers are laid out, hot chocolate and cider, are available. Sue and her husband are flitting in and out of the room. I hear them snipping at each other in the kitchen. A few door slams and some sharp words later, Sue comes in.
The other guests head off, eventually it’s Sue and I. I can tell by her unsteady gait, and ruddy complexion, she’s been drinking. I figure her for 60. Her faded Levi’s and work shirt, show me the flower child still in her. She lies on the rug in front of the fireplace, and begins to pet her gorgeous, golden retriever, Orvis. She’s snuggling with the dog, and feeding him crackers. We chat about the Mad River Valley area. She suggests we have dinner at American Flatbread. Sue begins to feed the dog crackers from her mouth, slowly, teasingly. “Did you know that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s?” She says. I have seen people feed their dogs like this before and it always strikes me as odd. At some point she lays on her back, tilts her head and Orvis begins to lick around her mouth. I can see the pooch knows the routine, reacting to her cues. Next, she opens her mouth wide and sticks her tongue out. Orvis was rounding first and heading for second as I high-tailed it upstairs.
Dinner at American Flatbread almost cured my “hair of the dog.” It was that good. Sunday morning we were up and out early for the long ride home. I swear Orvis was checking Kira out as we crossed the parking lot. On the way home we recounted the weekend, the pros and cons of the B & B. Kira, not wanting to ruin my little gift, tip-toes around the issue but she keeps saying, “Do you really think we are B & B people?” Not picking up on the clues, I keep saying, “What’s not to like? Beautiful house, nice bed, great food?” To which Kira says, “Yeh it was nice and all but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in someone else’s house.”
Valentine’s Day a few years later, always the optimist: the inn I chose was recommended by a friend. It’s another ski trip for Kira and I. This time to Sunday River. I don my Chevy Chase costume and we are set for scene two of National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast. For brevity’s sake we’ll dispense with the description of the inn.
After a 7 hour drive, we are escorted, coldly to our room. Finally in our room I say to Kira, “Did we do something wrong? Were we supposed to be here earlier?” Kira says, “I don’t know but I definitely got the feeling we were putting her out.”
After unpacking, we head down to the living room. The place is quiet, we are the only guests in a very large Victorian. The husband is stoking the fire as Kira and I sit down. “So what’s the weather supposed to be like for the next couple of days?” I ask in my friendly-tourist voice. The owner, still staring into the fire says, “Supposed to rain for the next 4 days, last time we had rain like this we had a guy from New York lose one of his ski boots in the parking lot. Never did see that boot again. If you guys get all muddy, I’d appreciate it if you come in through the mud room.” He says this with an edge, emphasis on New Yorkers and you guys. I look at Kira and gesture what gives? Kira tries a volley, “What a beautiful home you have here, I’ve always loved old Victorians.” Ethan Frome then begins to tell us that they have owned it for 15 years and that the only way they could afford the house, was to run it as an inn. Then his eyes focus right on me and he says, “And you two are our last guests. We never have to do this ever again. The mortgage is all paid for and we can have our house all to ourselves.” I could see as he looked past me that we were going to pay the price for all of the obnoxious guests who had ever stayed at the The House of Mirth.
When we are alone, Kira says, “This is ridiculous. We are paying good money for this place and these people are treating us like crap. Why don’t we go somewhere else?” I agree. At some point I pull the owner aside and I say, “You don’t really seem like you are up for guests. Maybe we’d be better off if we went to another inn?” To which he says, “You’re not getting your money back. We won’t give you a refund. We will provide the services you paid for, if you stay.”
On Saturday, Kira and I skied in the 38 degree rain, for about two and a half hours. I don’t know if you’ve ever skied slush but you really don’t ski it. And after driving 7 hours and envisioning a winter wonderland, you can imagine our moods. At some point, ski clothes saturated, a couple of drowned rats, we cut our losses and head back to the inn. Edith Wharton is there to make sure we come in through the mud room. Reluctantly, she agrees to dry our ski clothes for us as they would never dry in our room. No snacks, no hot chocolate, no smile. We slink up to our room to seethe and snooze.
Dinner that night was at some Mexican place right in The Village of Bethel. We wind up closing the place, which in Bethel, Maine was midnight at best. Back at the gates of hell, buzzed and obnoxious, we clomp and giggle our way up to our room. At the door to our room, I realize I don’t have the key. I check all of my pockets. “Do you have the key?” I ask Kira. She pats herself down. “No.” “Shit, we have to go back to the restaurant.” Off we go, 4 miles down the road and by now they’ve pulled the sidewalks in. We pull up and I realize the staff has cleaned up and gone home, already. I place one hand on the window to cut down on the glare. I place my face against the glass. There it is, right next to the napkin holder and the small bottle of Tabasco sauce, our key.
So we head back to see Beelzebub about how we can get into our room. We are in the living room, calling out quietly, hoping to wake someone. This doesn’t work and we begin to get annoyed. Kira coaxes me to explore the house. I walk through the French doors into the kitchen area. I could swear I saw a rabbit stewing in a pot. You have to know that it’s dark, really dark. As I walk I am calling out to the owner, “Hello. Hello. Can you help us? We seem to have lost our key.” I am reaching and probing my way around. Through a door, no luck, it’s the pantry. Back into the kitchen, through another door, I call out again, “Hello, anybody…” Suddenly a dog barks viciously at my feet but I can’t see him. I bump against something. A woman screams, “WHO’S THERE?” She sits bolt upright in bed and pulls the sheets up to her chest. “WHO IS IT? HONEY DO SOMETHING!!!!” I am frozen, hoping Cujo doesn’t decide to bite me, praying Ethan Frome doesn’t have a gun in his bedside nightstand. “It’s Jim Spinner, it’s Jim Spinner.” I stammer. “I’m really sorry, it seems that Kira and I left our key…..I’ll close the curtain on this scene here.
At breakfast the next morning, I apologized profusely, and they didn’t say anything, not a word. No, “Don’t worry about it.” No, “It’s happened before.” Nothing, just thrusting of breakfast plates at us. I am sure, some nights in Bethel, Maine, Ethan and Edith recount the tale of their last guest in The House of Mirth.
The ride home from Bethel, Maine was a long one. At that point I was 0 for 2 on the Bed & Breakfast front. You have to understand my wife, she gets so keyed up for these trips. And truthfully she’s relatively easy to please. In the car, we replay the weekend, seething at the treatment we received. Again that phrase, “You know Jim, maybe we’re not B & B people?”
Of course you can figure out now I’m not a quick study. I must have this mythic Bed & Breakfast weekend in my head. A few years go by and I try AGAIN. In retelling this I don’t believe it myself. Back to that Einstein thing…
Another Valentine’s Day and I am going to surprise Kira. This time it’s going to work. New Hampshire is the answer. I do research, I check websites. I find, The Cutter’s Loft Inn. This is the one. I read the reviews, both of them. On the drive up, Kira is quiet, I try to reassure her, “Don’t worry Sweetie, this place is great, you’ll love it. Look at the pictures! And it won an award!”
Kira and I, playing The Griswolds again, arrive at The Cutter’s Loft around dinner time. We are greeted by our hostess, and by the smell. I look at Kira, we both notice it. Not sure what the fragrance is but my synapses recognize it. Sadie escorts us through her living room, up the stairs to a bedroom over the garage. It’s clear that this room was put there for this express purpose. I can see that our inn keeper thinks she is an entrepreneur; that she has been reading all of the B & B trade magazines. Entering the bedroom, I am expecting to see her son getting out of bed and heading to the shower in his boxers. Sadie is telling us about the gas powered fire place, which is on wheels. I am wondering why she fails to mention the pink, fly swatter hanging on a nail by the door. No need. I can see that, either someone was a crack shot or nobody has been in this room since the Clinton administration. All of the flies are dead, more than likely of old age.
As soon as we are alone, Kira gives me the look. The, you screwed up again look. “I am leaving. I am not spending our only weekend away in this place.” I don’t even try the, It’s not so bad tack, I agree. I also know that I can’t tell this woman, who is so proud of her business acumen, that after our initial look at the indoor/outdoor carpet and the upright aluminum shower with the plastic curtain, we would like to check out. I just couldn’t do it. “I don’t care.” Kira the shark says, “I’ll do it. I’ll tell her. This is bullshit. This is false advertising! We are staying in her guest bedroom! Look at the dead flies!” We sit on the bed, and it sags, Kira gives me another look. I hear Pat Sajak selling someone a vowel downstairs in the living room and I say, “Let’s go get a bite to eat.”
We go to a local pub/restaurant for dinner. Kira is fuming. You have to realize, by this Valentine’s Day we have kids. This is our first weekend, first NIGHT away in a really long time. Wild eyed she says, “We’ll tell her we got an emergency call on our cell and we have to leave. Then we’ll go get a room somewhere else.” I hesitate. I think Sadie will see through it. I feel so bad. “I don’t think I can do that Sweetie. You can see how hard she’s worked, she’s so proud of herself. She’s such a sweet little old lady. She reminds me of…” And it hits me. “I know what that smell is! It smells like your Aunt Ann’s house.” The light bulb goes on over Kira’s head, “My god, you’re right! That’s what it is!” Now this isn’t a bad smell so much as a family smell, a Thanksgiving with relatives smell. NOT the smell you want on your first romantic getaway in two and a half years.
After a nice dinner and a few drinks I convince Kira that checking out would break Aunt Sadie’s heart. She relents and we make the best of our stay at The Cutter’s Loft. On Sunday morning as we are checking out, Aunt Sadie is begging us to sign the guest book. With Kira looking over my shoulder, we read the names in the guest book, both of them. And I realize that my guess that the last person to stay at Cutter’s Loft was during the Clinton Administration wasn’t far off. Wanting to write something funny, but not wanting to hurt Aunt Sadie’s feelings I write, “Just like staying with family.”
On the way home Kira puts her foot down. Never again she tells me. “We are not B & B people. Next time you want to surprise me call 1 800 Marriot!”
Wonderful, Spin. Hilarious. Kira is such a good sport!
ReplyDeleteNow I am axious to hear some of the 1-800-Marriot stories......
ReplyDeletefunny! Life is supposed to be fun and you definately find it! Without these experiences where would the blog be? Great stories, great writing, you have a wonderful wife....and may I suggest Embassy Suites? Well worth the money....
ReplyDeleteI may be looking for a new income source, soon.
ReplyDeleteSo, if you ever want a SouthCoast, Massachusetts getaway (2 1/2 - 3 hours, max) on a lovely private vineyard in scenic South Dartmouth, 1/2 mile from the ocean... Fabulous tourist destination od Whaling capital of the World, Neew Bedford... WELL- we have a futon-for-you in our "skylight room" (kitchen/ONLY leaks when it rains, and it is SO beautiful in the sunlight)...just let me know.
We'll give you a GREAT price.
Cats to "snuggle" with (NO mouth licking, please!)
THIS year, try an IOU "at the place of your choice" ?
You always make me laugh, these days, Spinner.
And I needed it tonight!
Spinner,
ReplyDeleteI'm at Sugarbush now, ready this while I have my AM coffee! Club Sugarbush...not bad at all. Condo. There's a little inn here too; Sugarbush Inn. Perhaps a weekend at The Pitcher Inn, Warren would make up for lost time. If it's skiing you're looking for...this is the BEST. Great story! Kira is a terrific sport & you have the best intensions. Your friend's place in South Dartmouth sounds terrific!
Keep 'em coming.
Sara G.
James,
ReplyDeleteDecember 27th,not February (rescheduled from September); celebrating your 8th anniversary, not Valentine's Day. My sympathies for your faulty memory and your "humor" - please take your medication.
Aunt Sadie
P.S. You have been written out of the will.