(Today's post is in celebration of National B & B Day--at least in Great Britain. Cheers! J)
Travel. Through the years Rice and I have enjoyed plenty of getaways, near and far. My earliest memories of travel as a newlywed involved stays at motels and motor lodges. Our honeymoon included several nights in Paradise, Michigan. The “paradise” part sounded so romantic to this young bride. We stayed at Curley’s Motel. Google it. It’s still there. It also appears to have the same furnishings as it did in July 1979. It kept us sheltered, though, as did another motor lodge we stayed at, this time in Normal, Illinois. We had visited old friends there from Rice’s alma mater. Upon packing prior to checkout, I peeked under the bed to make sure I hadn’t accidentally left any shoes or unmentionables. Surprise, surprise. I found an unmentionable a previous guest or staffer had left. It was a bong—a BIG bong—which research tells me is a filtration device frequently used for smoking cannabis. Another amazing memory. As our income improved and our family grew, we started opting for stays at The Holiday Inn or The Embassy Suites. On special occasions, though, when it was just Rice and me, we often liked to stay at what I call a traditional bed and breakfast or inn. This is different from the now popular AirBnB, which we’ve also used. A traditional bed and breakfast inn offers just that—bed AND breakfast, usually prepared by and shared with the host, who is onsite. Recently, I asked Rice to reminisce with me about some of our bed and breakfast adventures. I suggested that I’d name an inn and its location, and he’d give me a one- or two-word description of the memory it brought to mind. To start, I said, “Gables Inn, Santa Rosa, California.” Rice’s reply: “Happy hour!” Immediately, I was taken back to our visit to wine country, staying in a sprawling country inn, and joining the host, Mike, for breakfast in the morning, and for wine and cheese and conversation when he rang the cow bell for the daily 4 o’clock happy hour. Let me give you another one: “Briar Rose Inn, Boulder, Colorado.” Rice’s reply: “Buddhists!” With that one word, I was whisked back to a peaceful stay at an inn run by Zen Buddhists who cut the lawn with human-powered mowers and dished up delicious organic breakfasts. Plenty of flax seeds; no bacon. For our third round, I said to Rice, “Rippon Kinsella Inn, Springfield, Illinois.” “Decrepit,” he replied. “The facility or the innkeepers?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. Our stay at the Rippon Kinsella was indeed disappointing—and a bit sad. When we booked it, it was because it reminded us of one of our best bed and breakfast stays ever—at the Annapolis Inn, in Annapolis, Maryland. On the surface, these two inns had so much in common. Both are historic Victorian homes located on tree-lined streets. Both are appointed with period antiques and serve three-course breakfasts. Both are located in U.S. capital cities. The similarities end there, though. The Annapolis Inn was luxurious. It had Italian linens, heated towel racks, and a therapy spa tub. Its owners served a different breakfast daily on fine china and dished up vibrant, sassy, entertaining stories. Rippon Kinsella was, well, decrepit. It had mismatched sheets, thread-bare towels, and a shower that barely trickled. Its owners served the same breakfast and dished up a rehashed conversation two days in a row. I got the sense that they were just plum tired. These days I confess that I like lush lodgings. I adore a bed and breakfast, but only if it offers accommodating accommodations. Sometimes the tried and true is the safest bet. There’s always The Hampton Inn, which Rice describes as ubiquitous—or ever-present. Just please don’t suggest a return trip to Curley’s Motel. One visit was enough—even if Rice’s description remains sweet: “Utter bliss.”
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