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May. 27th, 2006 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
livingdebRobin arrived with only a two-hour delay. When I arrived an hour early, the big board explained that his flight was "on time." Since the flight was three hours long, something must have happened midair. But no. They had just sat on the ground a long time before taking off while some red tape involving using the backup gas system was unraveled.
We drove directly to the Smuggler's Notch Inn. This involved driving through Smuggler's Notch. Smuggler's Notch is a way to get through a mountain range that doesn't work in the winter even in the 21st century because snow plows won't work. It's steep. It's wiggly. It's narrow.
Actually, I think the problem is all the large boulders going right up to the edge of the road. The visibility is terrible, but at least there was virtually no traffic.
Eventually we got to a fork in the road where we had no clue which way to go. Robin stopped in a general store to ask for directions and they just pointed to the inn through the window. Oh, that was a nice relief.
I read in my one of my tour books that in this part of the country an inn is like a bed and breakfast, but it is full service, meaning that you can also get lunch and dinner there.
The Smuggler's Notch Inn is large, with a tavern, a bakery, a restaurant, a large porch with hot tub (being repaired), a very comfortable living room, and lots of rooms.
Our room had nice blue walls, two windows with blinds and flowery valences, a large bed and a twin bed with soft sheets and lots of pillows, creaky wooden floors, thick baseboards, and a general downward slope to the bathroom. It was prettier and much more interesting than the sort of hotel rooms I am used to, and it had much softer and prettier towels.
However, it didn't have some things that I have become used to in cheapo but frequently remodeled hotel rooms. For example, it didn't have light-blocking curtains. Or grounded outlets. Or little bottles of shampoo. There was a wireless internet connection available, but it was probably from a neighbor; I didn't use it. The windows opened easily, though, which was nice.
We walked around the place and went to bed early.
The next day we had a lovely breakfast and then drove to St. Albans. (This is pronounced ALL-buns, not AL-buns.) This involved going away from Smuggler's Notch, which was a much easier and quicker drive than coming up the other side. We decided to use this route when we went back to the airport on Monday.
We found the restaurant where Michael Hurley was to play, the Chow Bella, and parked. We tried again to get reservations and were told to just come back early, like 5:30 or 6:00. We decided to try for 5:10. Meanwhile, we checked out the rest of the downtown drag. Robin got to talking to a worker at a book and game store and bought two more books since he had gone through most of the other one he had brought during the delay of his flight.
We also found a natural food grocery store where we got, um, sodas.
We walked around a park where there was a palate-decorating contest which reminded me of the bench art we saw when we were visiting Zurich. Most were painted, some had fabric. Am I unpatriotic for not liking the one with the crocheted American flag on it, in hideous acrylic yarn? No, because the red was too orangy, which is un-American.
The best part was watching the kids playing in the fountain.
So we did make it back to the restaurant at 5:10. Then suddenly they had a reservation list they could add us to. And we got seats at the best table and found people to talk to and ordered supper before things got too crazy at the totally sold-out show.
The opening act was basically Michael Hurley's back-up band. His drummer was playing guitar and singing, and there was also a base-player whose back-up singing I greatly enjoyed, a violin player I enjoyed, and a banjo player who was also fine. The music was interesting, but sad.
For example, one song would have each verse mention something nice, like a good friend, and then end with the lament that he doesn't know where all the good friends go.
Michael Hurley's songs were mostly about food and sex. But I respected him more after watching him perform than I used to. He has really been practicing with his voice and guitar over the past few decades since he made the CDs Robin has, and is better at controlling voice cracks. His voice has a huge range and he's not afraid to use it. More importantly, he can make the most interesting, fun, lovely sounds with his vocal chords and electric guitar. He doesn't need a band at all.
Robin got piles of souvenirs including CDs, t-shirts, prints of some of Hurley's paintings, and copies of all of Hurley's graphic novels. I don't like Hurley's visual art products or writing. For me, all the charm is lost and only the crudeness remains.
We drove directly to the Smuggler's Notch Inn. This involved driving through Smuggler's Notch. Smuggler's Notch is a way to get through a mountain range that doesn't work in the winter even in the 21st century because snow plows won't work. It's steep. It's wiggly. It's narrow.
Actually, I think the problem is all the large boulders going right up to the edge of the road. The visibility is terrible, but at least there was virtually no traffic.
Eventually we got to a fork in the road where we had no clue which way to go. Robin stopped in a general store to ask for directions and they just pointed to the inn through the window. Oh, that was a nice relief.
I read in my one of my tour books that in this part of the country an inn is like a bed and breakfast, but it is full service, meaning that you can also get lunch and dinner there.
The Smuggler's Notch Inn is large, with a tavern, a bakery, a restaurant, a large porch with hot tub (being repaired), a very comfortable living room, and lots of rooms.
Our room had nice blue walls, two windows with blinds and flowery valences, a large bed and a twin bed with soft sheets and lots of pillows, creaky wooden floors, thick baseboards, and a general downward slope to the bathroom. It was prettier and much more interesting than the sort of hotel rooms I am used to, and it had much softer and prettier towels.
However, it didn't have some things that I have become used to in cheapo but frequently remodeled hotel rooms. For example, it didn't have light-blocking curtains. Or grounded outlets. Or little bottles of shampoo. There was a wireless internet connection available, but it was probably from a neighbor; I didn't use it. The windows opened easily, though, which was nice.
We walked around the place and went to bed early.
The next day we had a lovely breakfast and then drove to St. Albans. (This is pronounced ALL-buns, not AL-buns.) This involved going away from Smuggler's Notch, which was a much easier and quicker drive than coming up the other side. We decided to use this route when we went back to the airport on Monday.
We found the restaurant where Michael Hurley was to play, the Chow Bella, and parked. We tried again to get reservations and were told to just come back early, like 5:30 or 6:00. We decided to try for 5:10. Meanwhile, we checked out the rest of the downtown drag. Robin got to talking to a worker at a book and game store and bought two more books since he had gone through most of the other one he had brought during the delay of his flight.
We also found a natural food grocery store where we got, um, sodas.
We walked around a park where there was a palate-decorating contest which reminded me of the bench art we saw when we were visiting Zurich. Most were painted, some had fabric. Am I unpatriotic for not liking the one with the crocheted American flag on it, in hideous acrylic yarn? No, because the red was too orangy, which is un-American.
The best part was watching the kids playing in the fountain.
So we did make it back to the restaurant at 5:10. Then suddenly they had a reservation list they could add us to. And we got seats at the best table and found people to talk to and ordered supper before things got too crazy at the totally sold-out show.
The opening act was basically Michael Hurley's back-up band. His drummer was playing guitar and singing, and there was also a base-player whose back-up singing I greatly enjoyed, a violin player I enjoyed, and a banjo player who was also fine. The music was interesting, but sad.
For example, one song would have each verse mention something nice, like a good friend, and then end with the lament that he doesn't know where all the good friends go.
Michael Hurley's songs were mostly about food and sex. But I respected him more after watching him perform than I used to. He has really been practicing with his voice and guitar over the past few decades since he made the CDs Robin has, and is better at controlling voice cracks. His voice has a huge range and he's not afraid to use it. More importantly, he can make the most interesting, fun, lovely sounds with his vocal chords and electric guitar. He doesn't need a band at all.
Robin got piles of souvenirs including CDs, t-shirts, prints of some of Hurley's paintings, and copies of all of Hurley's graphic novels. I don't like Hurley's visual art products or writing. For me, all the charm is lost and only the crudeness remains.