Category Archives: Travel

When I was a kid, one of the favorite places my Mom took me and my brother to was the Farmer’s Museum at Cooperstown, NY. Though we had to suffer through a top at the Baseball Hall of Fame (easily the most abysmally boring experience of my life), the reward was the fun of the Farmer’s Museum, especially the live animals and the recreated life of the 1800’s. Since we were a scant forty-minute ride from Cooperstown, Andy and I decided to take the scenic drive along Lake Otsego and return to a place that held such fond childhood memories.

The above work is entitled ‘Autumn at the Crossroads’ by Janet Munro. Painted as recently as 1992, it was a gift for the 50th anniversary of the Farmer’s Museum, and is a seasonably-appropriate piece for this time of the year.

Andy, framed.

In my experience it’s usually the case that one can’t return to childhood places without a bit of disappointment, a bit of displaced confusion over what once held us so rapt. This was the rare instance where the memories I held actually matched the experience we had. All of the wonder of the place remained intact, the thrill of seeing how life used to be lived still resonated, and at the end were the animals that always tickled my soul. (They’re coming up a bit later…)

The heart of Sharon Springs is the American Hotel. It is, often literally, the sole beacon of light rising from the bottom of Main Street. Staying there, one feels both welcomed and cared for, pampered and protected. From its cozy pub corner to the inviting chairs around the stove of the living room, it invites any and all. ‘Rest here’ it beckons, ‘Cheers!’ it cajoles, ‘Relax and enjoy’ it subtly demands.

The fruits of Fall have been pleasingly placed all around the main room, and a cozier place to spend this Halloween weekend could scarcely be conjured. I find a seat at the end of the bar and order a traditional martini, very dry with olives. A small television flickers in the background, foretelling the tracking of Hurricane Sandy, and a psychic sits beside me foretelling her own tales.

A few political ads flash across the screen, and under her breath I hear her say how much she hates Republicans. I mention my consternation at having passed a number of Romney/Ryan ads along the lawns of rural New York State. She says she doesn’t want to reveal what will happen with the election, only that the country needs to reach the bottom before it can build itself up, eventually admitting that she thinks we’ll be under Romney and Ryan. She adds ominously that she’s glad she’s past the point of menopause, otherwise she’d lose all her rights. It is not exactly reassuring, and though she qualifies herself by saying that psychics are only right 85 percent of the time (and she hopes she’s wrong), my mind is unsettled and bothered by her prediction.

Luckily we’re ensconced at a place of peace, and while some credit must be given to the impeccably mixed martini before me, much of what allows me to relax again is the atmosphere of the American Hotel. An affable swirl of friendly activity surrounds us, one in which guests are instantly assimilated into the warm light and contagious camaraderie.

This is one of those idyllic places of the world, where it feels like we’re delving deeper into a past that might have existed only in some happy imagination.

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…

Rescuing the tail end of the trip, the hallways of the Wynn and Encore provided a perfect resting stop for the hours before my plane departed. In the midst of the garish, over-bloated heat and hype of Vegas, there were glimpses of paradise here. The crowds parted in these long lobby-like spaces, and with no conventions in sight, the emptiness and quiet were a brief bit of relief.

After making it through the weekend, (and winning one more round of Roulette) I decided to treat myself to a celebratory cocktail at Parasol Down.

Drawn in by the colorful umbrage of a multitude of hanging parasols, I descended to the bar area, where the afternoon sun was beating down outside the windows, backed by a waterfall. It’s one of the wonders of Las Vegas that in the middle of the desert there is all this water – in the fountains, the waterfalls, the pools… and yet none of it is natural.

A pretty server with piercing blue eyes and dark hair brings me a cocktail menu and I decide on her recommendation – the Pear-A-Sol. Made up of Absolut Pears vodka, Belle Paire Pear liqueur, pear puree, and sweet & sour mix, it is a dream – like drinking the sweetest pear in liquid form.

It is the perfect ending to a perhaps-less-than-perfect weekend in Las Vegas. And then it is time to leave.

Given my absolute apathy toward all things political, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’ve never been to, nor had the desire to see, the White House. However, I knew it was something Andy would enjoy, and it looked close enough to our hotel, so I asked my Mom to work some familial magic with a cousin who has some connections to a Senator, and suddenly tickets for a White House Tour were ours. (My original request to Senator Kirsten Gillibrand was answered by a form letter thanking me for my comments, so I wasn’t getting them that way. Sometimes the world really does work based upon who you know, as opposed to following proper protocol that only results in an impersonal auto-response.)

The page of instructions regarding the visit was heavy with rules and regulations. No cameras permitted on the grounds, and no place to store them, so if you had one you couldn’t enter at all. All information on one’s photo identification had to match up exactly as given to the people doing the background screening beforehand. Obviously, no bombs, weapons, sharp objects, etc. allowed on the grounds. A small bit of fine print indicated one more thing, but I’ll save that for later, as I apparently didn’t really pay much attention to it.

The morning begins in a rainy way. We hop in a cab and arrive at the Visitor’s Entrance, where a small line is forming for the tour. We are, fortunately, half an hour early, which bodes well as someone (Me? My Mom? My cousin?) provided the incorrect birth-date for Andy, and it doesn’t match up with his ID. He is detained at the first security checkpoint, while I am hustled ahead to wait further along. Of course he doesn’t have his cel phone, so I have no way of knowing what exactly is going on, other than they screwed up his birthday.

Now, part of me can’t help but find this somewhat comically ironic, as some people would assume that if anyone were to be detained at the White House, it would be me, not my live-by-the-law-and-obey-all-the-rules-retired-police-officer husband, but such is the way the world works. After twenty minutes, his background check clears, and they must have realized he wasn’t a threat.

I kind of had to pee when we arrived, but I figured I’d wait until we got in. Security people were everywhere and none too keen about entertaining an antsy guy who had to pee. After the delay with Andy, I really had to go. So when we entered the East Wing and I asked the first Secret Service guy where the nearest restroom was, my bladder recoiled in horror when he said there were none here. I read the instruction page again and there at the very end was the little sentence that there are no public restrooms at the White House. What? Are you telling me that the President doesn’t go to the bathroom? What about the First Lady and all those teas? Tea makes you pee… Alas, it was not to be. For such a nice home, the absence of a proper piss pot is inconceivable. I mean, if this truly is the people’s house, let the people pee.

Thankfully, the glory of a self-guided tour is that it can be as long, or as quick, as one wants it to be. I was just as enraptured by the place as Andy though, and that kind of excitement and interest can douse a burning bladder for a few moments. We strolled through each room, taking in every press conference position or state dinner photo op we could recall. It really is something impressive to see, on a physical and emotional level. Aside from the beauty of each room is the history to go along with it our country’s history. One can’t avoid feeling at least a twinge of national pride when you see these places.

We went back out into the rain, where I snapped this shot with my cel phone, afraid to take any more for fear of being arrested. Then we found a bathroom and continued on our way. Wild relief.

A few more stops before lunch at the Old Ebbitt Grill – one of Washington’s oldest saloons (dating back to 1856) – where I had what may be the most delicious ramekin of crab artichoke dip I’ve ever experienced in my life. I ate the whole thing myself (after offering some to Andy, who declined). The scene was very old Washington – lots of rich wood, tufted velvet banquettes, and classically tiled bathrooms. Perfect for a rainy day. It was now time to head back for an afternoon siesta, and my first spa experience…

Ahh… heaven in a cocktail glass. Here we have the Pear Mandarin Martini, consisting of Absolut Pear, Pear nectar, Elderflower cordial, and lemon juice. It is, admittedly, a carry-over cocktail from Las Vegas, as is my modus operandi when it comes to cocktails – I’ll generally stick with a winning concoction for a certain stretch of time. Often it’s a seasonal thing, which is somewhat the case with the pears of late. This will do for now, and it will be peppered by the traditional gin or vodka martini until Negroni season begins again, usually by the end of the month.