Tags
colonial williamsburg, jefferson, monticello, pancakes, red roof inn, southern food, the ordinary, witch
When my fifteen year old companion and I went to the hotel office for an iron, the employee gave me a miniature ironing board with legs just tall enough to stand on top of the bed. “What’s that, a baby surfboard?” my friend asked. I toted it back to our room and struggled to iron a long skirt which couldn’t get around the board. So much for saving money.
The room came with a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, but after seeing the ironing board, I distrusted the hotel’s culinary skills.
The mountains surrounded us as we arrived at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home, and began our slave-themed trip. The house reflected the intelligence and brilliance of a man who regularly studied science, politics, architecture, botany, and religion. In the front, Jefferson had mixed plaster and sand to get the look of stone columns, and experimented with paint to make pine doors look like mahogany. He had a weakness for wine and a habit of loaning money to friends who didn’t repay, which always kept him in debt. Jefferson was a great man, and yet a slave owner. It was interesting to contemplate the irony.
Bees were in abundance, everything in bloom, while we waited in line outside the Ordinary, a country buffet near Monticello, housed in a log cabin.
A customer nodded while exiting. “It’s worth the wait.” The fried chicken crunched like rock candy and was juicy inside. There were mashed potatoes, pickled vegetables, and all the trimmings. My friend finished her meal with homemade vanilla ice cream drizzled with fudge.
We drove to Williamsburg, taking the back roads along the James River to view the old plantations, one of which was built in 1614. Then Route 5 wound through town, left, then right, then left, zigzagging, and somehow we made it to our next hotel.
Red Roof Inn was beautiful, clean, and smelled wonderful. My companion hadn’t seen a heat lamp before, and it became her favorite companion to her bubble baths.
We were in the middle of watching “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs” when havoc began. It was like a bulldozer plowed through the hotel, making our floor shake. We heard children in a nearby room run to and fro, jump on beds, slam doors, bump walls, and scream, amid barking. The noise kept up from dinnertime until 11:30 at night, when our phone rang one and a half times. I would have to speak with the staff.
We woke in the morning to a coating of green pollen over the world. Sneezing, we went to the office and mentioned our neighbors.
“The people below you are good guests,” the employee contended. “Teachers. They wouldn’t make noise.”
I gaped. “You should have heard it.”
“Oh,” she said, touching her chin. “It must be the family next to you. They have two children and a dog.”
Are you sure it wasn’t a herd of buffalo?
“The teachers complained too. They thought it was you.”
That would explain the phone call. “Is the family leaving today?” I hoped, remembering we would stay for three days.
She shook her head. “They’re here for the week. I’ll speak to them.”
At the Colonial Pancake House, the menu had bacon strip pancakes, cornbread and buckwheat pancakes, Virginia ham, grits, biscuits and gravy, and malt waffles. “Hey y’all,” the waitress greeted. “What would you like?” I ordered the banana chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and a lake of maple syrup, and we ate like hogs fattening for slaughter.
Colonial Williamsburg was around the corner. There were special events planned for the next evening: a concert at the Governor’s Palace and a witch trial. We paid extra for the events and then wandered the historical town.
If we’d known what the next evening would entail, we’d have run for the hills.