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October 2012

As I mentioned, it took a while to get into the groove of Sharon Springs. A few co-workers had looked at me quizzically when I said we were spending the weekend in that quiet town.

“What are you going to do there?” they asked.

“If all else fails, I’ll just read and relax,” I replied, though in the back of my head I was counting on there being more than that to do – a couple of bars, a cafe, a bookstore, a few markets, maybe some hotel lobbies.

It turned out I was wrong – so what then is there to do when there is really nothing to do?

While the scenery was certainly picturesque enough, with the last leaves of Fall still putting on a show here and there, and the final asters valiantly blooming in the chill, the gray drabness of the day did little to mitigate our restlessness. It would turn out to be the American Hotel itself that seduced and brought us around to the charms of the town, and a couple of stores that transformed simple living into an art form.

To be honest, up until this day I had only been peripherally aware of the Beekman Boys, and their Beekman 1802 brand. It always seemed a bit out of my reach, a tad too perfectly Martha Stewart-like for those of us without an elegant home in the Hamptons – or an impossibly grand mansion in Sharon Springs. Yet walking into the Beekman 1802 Mercantile immediately set my mind and heart at ease, beginning with the sweetly-scented surroundings and the tiers of handmade soap all around us.

The woman behind the counter smiled and asked where we were from – a trademark friendliness found in all the storekeepers we encountered. She asked if we watched ‘The Amazing Race’ that the Beekman Boys were currently competing on (we weren’t, but we will!) and went on to explain a bit about the handmade soaps on site. There were soaps for every month, created specifically with the season in mind, and made from the freshest goat milk and essential oils.

Here, in the midst of the smallest town I’ve ever visited, was beauty, and goodness, and simplicity ~ a way of life largely forgotten in the hustle and bustle of all that comprises modern-day living. In a single bar of soap was a reminder of all that we really need to survive, to live, and to love.

I think it was then that we turned the corner from our rushed existence into the sacred pace and space of Sharon Springs. At that moment we came to understand and honor the magic at work here. This wasn’t a place that was stuck in time – this was a place that had mastered time.

While the ‘After the Sun’ soap was designed for a day following full sun exposure, it seemed just as fitting a soap for a Fall moment as any other, and the fragrance of it – imbued with lavender and tea tree oil – was exquisite. They’d conveniently cut it into ten travel-size pats, a great idea of you’ve ever tried traveling with a new bar of soap. One of these lasted us through the weekend, sweetly scenting our shower experiences, and the bag where the remaining soap resided. If there’s one thing that makes and solidifies a memory, it’s a special fragrance. I’ll hold onto this one for those moments when I need to slow down and remember what really matters.

A dying tangle of hops winds itself all the way up to the second floor porch, and slightly beyond, its brittle brown fruit dangling like papery pine cones. The sign for the American Hotel is half covered in another vine, the remnants of a fruitful and verdant summer. A long line of grand columns runs along the porch, leading us to the front entrance.

Rocking chairs and seats open their arms, while pumpkins and corn stalks stand sentry at the steps that lead up from the sidewalk. It is a welcome visage, if slightly ghostly: there is not a soul in sight, and only the occasional car trundles along Main Street.

This, then, is our first glimpse up-close of the American Hotel, and a charming one at that. On this perfectly Fall weekend, amid the gourds and the mums, the stillness of Sharon Springs shouts giddily at us.

The winding valley that leads into Sharon Springs draws the traveler in with careful, deliberate steps. It’s beautiful in its somber autumnal way, but it’s the sort of beauty that slowly smolders, rather than exploding with gaudy color and instant awe. The hues are more nuanced, subtle gradations of shades – purples and plums, raw umber and slate, and the sky all sorts of gray and steel blue. There are some spots of color that remain – the warm crackling pops of pumpkin and squash, of lingering maple leaves and entwining bittersweet, and the lone garden flower bravely putting itself out in the midst of the dangerous frost.

I was raised close by – in Amsterdam, NY – and though I thought that was a quiet town, it was nothing compared to the stillness of Main Street in Sharon Springs. That said, it was a bit of a culture shock – not just for me, but for Andy as well. It actually took about a full day for us to gain our bearings and get a feel for the pace of the space, the way the town breathed, the way we would need to slow ourselves down, and readjust our pace.

It was a necessary realignment in perspective, and perhaps we both needed it more than either of us realized. The town, and specifically the American Hotel, had its magic to work, and we were soon enthralled to every enchantment it cast. Time passed differently here.

We departed at mid-day, and the sky, with its intermittent cloud cover and brief glimpses of blue, could not decide whether it would be nice or nasty. The foliage was already past its peak, but a few maples and birches held onto their leaves of golden yellow, brilliant in the scattered bits of sunshine, fluttering like golden coins on some belly-dancer’s get-up. Over the rolling hills and farmland of New York, we traveled West from Albany, along Route 20 – a simple and straight shot, and, off the Thruway, a peaceful and lazy drive.

Small groups of crows – solitary ones too – flew across the barren landscape, over the brown expanse of dried cornstalks, the tilled soil of beds turned over for winter rest, and one lone, shocking cover crop of mustard in bright lemon-hued bloom. A stand or two of pumpkins  was all that appeared for miles, and the houses came fewer and further between. The patches of blue sky were slowly covered by a thick gray cloud cover, and the day grew darker. Though we were in no danger of not arriving before nightfall, I grew anxious for warmth and safety, for a bed and bathroom, for a home-cooked meal. Soon enough, we wound our way into Sharon Springs, a sleepy little town that seemed to have already gone to slumber. Turning onto Main Street, we followed a curving road until the American Hotel winked at us from the right…