By:
Elizabeth Redhead Kriston
Have you ever entered a hotel lobby only to be greeted by the front desk agent in his underwear? No? Well, then you must reconsider the places you stay when you travel.
Before we were married, my husband and I started traveling together. Our first trip was a long week driving to Maine. We meandered up the never-ending majestic coast. The vistas were spectacular. The lobster shacks became a second home.
Aside from driving and eating our way up the coast, we decided to go without a plan. We thought it would be a fun adventure to find places to stop and stay along the way.
The first place we stayed, a colonial inn situated in a small, quaint town on the rocky coast was quintessentially beautiful. The cheerful, fully dressed desk agent assigned us to a small attic room with sloping ceilings, hardwood floors covered with oval rag rugs and a teeny attached bathroom that contained a tiny clawfoot tub/shower and a pedal stool sink. The room was appointed with a giant antique four-poster bed which took up almost the entire room and required a step stool to enter.
It was perfect. It was romantic. It was cheap.
The innkeepers were kind and helpful. They directed us to good restaurants and even gave us grass mats we could spread on the small local beach as we soaked in the waning late August Maine sunshine. The barkeep in the rustic basement bar, in his thick New England accent, regaled us with hilarious anecdotes and directed us to places up the coast we should see, including the best lobster shacks.
The intimacy of this inn charmed us. Being able to talk with and share stories with amiable locals made the trip so much better than if we had lodged at some chain hotel on the highway.
We felt like close friends to these strangers by the time we left. We launched out on the remainder of our journey armed with inside information and a better understanding of what it was like to be a Mainer.
After that experience, we decided to stay in Inns and B&B’s whenever possible.
Over the last 24 years, we have found quaint places to rest our heads and feed our bellies and souls in towns like Geneva on the Lake, Ohio; Napa Valley, California; Harpers Ferry, West Virginia; Ithaca, New York and more. All of these Inns offered unique experiences and many funny memories for Jim and me.
We learned lessons about life and different cultures like just put just a few drops of bubble liquid in a hot tub. If you forget, open all the doors and windows and scoop the mountain of bubbles out as fast as possible. Don’t sit in a hot tub while the wood fire place blazes especially after consuming lots of red wine. The drowsiness you experience is definitely a drowning hazard.
Simpler lessons were learned like, whipping cream cheese into eggs makes the most delicious scrambled eggs. However, not everyone who owns a B&B can actually cook tasty food. Mostly, we learned to sleep-in since breakfast isn’t until 9:00am.
We have met fellow travelers from all over the world. So many interesting people have entered our lives over croissants, fruit salad and French toast.
Alas, not all people who stay at or own small inns and B&B’s are nice or even sane, but that’s okay. It just creates more interesting stories and experiences. It makes each trip unique and special, like our most recent adventure.
Jim and I decided to use those dusty passports and travel “abroad.” That’s right, we journeyed all the way to Canada. Not just Canada but French Canada, Quebec. We wanted to experience a taste of Europe with a shorter plane trip. We landed in Montreal with dreams of experiencing French culture including delicious food. To make this dream a reality, we booked a room in a small inn in the heart of Montreal run by a French pastry chef.
Ken, before we arrived, was enthusiastic, responsive and accommodating via his email exchanges with Jim. He promised a comfortable stay in his lovely inn. He ensured that any and all dietary restrictions would be handled. He promised to get us to where we needed to be. He suggested restaurants and provided ideas for things to do and see on our long weekend stay.
Most importantly, he assured us that he would be happy to let us stop by early on our first day to drop our bags before we ventured out to explore his beautiful city of Montreal.
Perhaps the fact that he knew we would be arriving late morning that day was what made that first contact so confounding and concerning, or maybe not. Peeking around a slightly ajar door, Ken greeted us with a look of surprise on his face. “You're early”,” he bellowed as if this was news to him. “Hold on. I’ll be right back,” he blurted before slamming the door in our faces.
A minute later he returned and opened the door wide exclaiming, “Welcome! I’m in my boxers.” Having not slept the night before and after traveling for seven hours, we were a bit punchy. Glancing at Jim, I communicated through my bloodshot eyes, “Did he just say he was in his underpants?”
The question was and continues to be, what did he need to attend to when he disappeared back into his home after the initial greeting that did not involve pulling on some trousers? Was he naked and put on his boxers? Did he take his pants off? What was more important than dressing so he could greet his out-of-town guests who were strangers?
After three days, the answer became apparent. Ken preferred not to don pants. He not only greeted guests in his skivvies but he liked to cook breakfast in his undies. Yes, he wore an apron and a shirt, just not pants. Canadian health codes must be lax. Or, maybe all chefs prepare meals sans pants.
Ken’s tendencies for bare minimum went beyond just his clothing. The decor of his inn could be described as divorcee bachelor whose ex-wife took all the nice stuff. His ability to be kind and thoughtful was scant. His willingness to accept my gluten intolerance was marginal. Seriously, he taunted me and tried to bully me into eating the croissant he served me each morning.
Ken’s meager hospitality made relaxing at the inn impossible. He had only one small common area, the dining room, which he purposefully put the chairs upside down on the table after breakfast to discourage guests from lazing around where he might have to engage with them. He relaxed that unspoken rule if you offered to share a "good" bottle of wine with him. Then he was more than happy to shoot the breeze while standing around his kitchen, pantsless.
Not even the antics of Ken can convince me to return to boring, ubiquitous, boxy hotels. If we had chosen some grand hotel on the main streets of town, we would never have met Ken. I would have never known that not all innkeepers wear pants. I would have never known that Ken prefers the snug fit, but full coverage of the boxer brief.
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