On Victorian Villas and Paris, Texas
Joey, I'm sorry but I think I burned your breakfast
Do you think you could settle for a few granola bars?
Oh why do you turn your back on me?
Is there something between my teeth that I cannot see?
Or are you just angry because I burned your breakfast?
(fade out on: Joey, I'm sorry but I think I burned your breakfast)
Long Island Lolita
The Nields © 1995 Peter Quince Productions/Ambivalent Fins
I was sleepin' like a rat
When I heard something jerkin'.
There stood Rita
Lookin' just like Tony Perkins.
She said, "Would you like to take a shower?
I'll show you up to the door."
I said, "Oh, no! no!
I've been through this before.
"
I knew I had to split
But I didn't know how,
When she said,
"Would you like to take that shower, now?
Motorcycle Nightmare
Another Side of Bob Dylan
1964
Several years ago I stayed at a lovely weekend retreat just
outside of Melbourne. This was in the days when the concept of weekend retreats in "restored Victorian villas" was a novelty. I remember the 4 star quality restaurant meals, the sitting room with log fire, grand piano and Scrabble sets. We all sat around in comfortable chintzy armchairs drinking red wine and winding down from a hard week in the city.
That was in the eighties, in Melbourne, Australia. Since then, "weekend getaways" have expanded in numbers. Unfortunately, the standards have declined in direct proportion to their rising popularity.
Last weekend we decided to have a relaxing weekend. Several hours searching the web resulted in a booking at a "Historic Victorian house in Long Island's wine country where the art of relaxation has been perfected".
So Thanksgiving morning, off we set in the bus to the north fork of Long Island. Arriving at our destination (the house was advertised as being located at Greenport) we parked our bags and started to ask around to find out how far it was from the bus station.
No one knew it. So we called them on our cell phone. We are out doing our errands, get a cab, we are two miles away, we were advised. So cab it was.
"I've lived here twenty years, and never hear of the place", the cab driver explained. With well over two miles clocked up, and $10.00 US poorer, we walked up the driveway to a rather deserted wooden house. After ringing the bell several times, a maid came to the door, threw up hear hands, and pointed to the servants' entrance. With no choice, we dragged our bags to the back door and were ushered in to a sitting room, where we sat for about 10 minutes till the lady-over-the-road invited us in for tea.
"I'm the sister in law", she explained. "They are running errands, and should be back in an hour or two.
As hospitable as she was, it wasn't exactly relaxing, sitting in her sitting room amongst her family members, watching soaps on a big-screen TV on Thanksgiving Day. "We'll go for a walk", we offered.
So off we set. After one hour we still hadn't seen a sign of civilization so we headed back. The two hours were up, and true to the sister-in-law's word, the rellies were back. We were shown to the "Rose Room". There were two chocolates on the pillow. About a quarter of the size of a Hershey Kiss. Well, the promo HAD mentioned chocolates. No TV, no phone, no Internet access, though the website promised it.
It was freezing, so we hit the sack, hoping life would improve in the morning. But the bitter cold precluded sleep
It being a no-smoking joint, at some stage my husband walked downstairs and walked several meters to the roadway where upon he lit up. On returning to the relaxing getaway, the hostess pounced on him and accused him of smoking in the house. Returning to the room, we both had a glass of the excellent wine we'd brought with us, out of plastic tumblers...
Things were not looking good. I wandered down to ask about the advertised internet connection. "We never had a need so there isn't one", was the reply.
There was nothing for it but to watch TV. We dressed and went downstairs to the TV room. We'd just about worked out which remote to use when our hostess pounced on us. "You've been smoking!" she accused, "I'll have to fumigate all the bed-linen, plus I'm allergic". We protested our innocence, but apparently to no avail. She stomped off, shaking her head.
So it was back to bed in the chilly Rose Room. The morning could only be better.
Around 9 am we went downstairs. Breakfast in this relaxing atmosphere was "included". Five seats were set at the dining room table. My husband Jo sat in one.
Another faux pas. Not only had we not smoked, but we'd not sat in our correct chairs! "You are sitting in MY chair", our host proclaimed as he came out of the kitchen. I was stating to feel like Goldilocks stuck forever in the set of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".
Now obviously this was not going to be the relaxing weekend of our Manhattan dreams. We booked into a motel. We called a cab. It'll be at least an hour, the dispatcher grumbled. OK I said, I'll wait. It'll be two hours maybe, he retorted. I'll wait, I replied. To which he hung up.
Country bliss. Manhattan was starting to look like relaxation incarnate.
Eventually we found the Silver Sands. Straight out of Wender's "Paris Texas" this motel proved to be our inner place of relaxation. And at at two thirds of the price.
We were greeted with a pleasant hostess who gave us cookies in a basket, and a bottle of local wine. There was a big screen TV in our spacious room. No chintzy dressing table; instead a coffee machine, a fridge and a microwave. Two double beds, a view of the sea. And internet access. "We'll drive you to town", just let us know", we were told. No fake carpet, instead 60's linoleum. Real heating. The Times every morning. American coffee. A telephone. One remote. Lamp bases filled with shells. No vanilla room-deodorant. No Scrabble sets.
Pure relaxation.
Kate Juliff
New York