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.
