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"You'll be staying in a quaint bed and breakfast!" I did my best to not crush the phone, gripped tightly in my now bloodless fingers, as the last syllables of that hellish sentence sank in. No… Please God… No!
I have had some experience with the "quaint" bed and breakfast, you see. I suppose you could say I have a hate-hate relationship with them.
In truth, the "quaint" bed and breakfast is not really "quaint" at all; its just a slick marketing dodge to sell you on the idea of paying to spend a night in the home of a total stranger. You get all the expense of a hotel or motel with none of that bothersome privacy or comfort; its like buying a nights stay at the home of your high school sweetheart. Sure, you paid to be here, but, its not really your house… and any strange noise in the middle of the night is liable to bring a sleepy parade of irritated strangers to your room demanding you explain yourself. (And just what do you think you're doing, mister? Do your parents know what you're up to? How would your pastor feel if he could see you right now? )
The new, "quaint", bed and breakfast was once called a boarding house. It was, as the name implied, a private home that took in boarders. Inconvenient, poorly accommodated, and usually cheap, it existed primarily because Motel 6 had not yet been invented. The new B&B is a real estate Ponzi scheme; a way of retiring for work weary 40 and 50 somethings while still generating income by begging total strangers to chip in and help pay the balloon mortgage on their pseudo-historical "dream home". While the community benefits greatly from not having a circle of viciously aggressive, panhandling, jobless, white elephant owners skulking about downtown (Please help! Antique furniture needs cleaning and re-upholstery, wood floors need refinishing, and the 18th century boiler has more leaks than a congressional investigation! Thanks, and God Bless!!!!) the weary traveler is the one who suffers.
This is nothing new. Travelers are constantly fleeced by one organization or another. Ever rented a car in a distant city? Astounding how many little "fees", "deposits" and "surcharges" magically appear on the final bill, isn't it? While each added charge seems small and harmless, when the final tally is received you often discover your cost has doubled. Airlines are getting in on the act now, too. You can fly for next to nothing… but if you want your clothes to ride along, well, that costs a little more.
But I digress. Back to my stay at the lovely home of my cherished non related relatives. The first moments were pleasant enough… the desk clerk had the patter and guile of a snake oil salesman. "We have so many regular business customers! People really love the sunny public areas! This place just oozes history!" Translation? "Your company is cheap… unless you camp out on the sofa in the hallway you'll never see the inside of the bathroom… Oh, and watch out for the ooze."
My latest B&B stay was no exception. I arrived early, so as to avoid the "you're on the third floor of this Victorian era tinderbox that has no elevator" discussion. I hauled my prodigious load of apparel and necessities across the muddy lawn (sidewalks are so overrated!) and up the broad porch steps (inclined planes are so overrated!) and into the regal foyer of what had once been a sumptuous residence. The place reminded me of my first house, a clapboard Victorian era construct in the Midwest. The similarity was striking; the lath and plaster walls and ceilings had soaked up layer upon layer of paint here just as they had in my old house, and here, as there, the walls still managed to look seedy, dull and unkempt anyway. The ceilings were cracked, the wallpaper faded, the hardwood floors were "distressed"… "distressed" meaning un-sanded, unfinished and showing their considerable age. My room was sizable and on the ground floor. It boasted an independent toilet and shower stall; I say boasted, because, like so many grand claims, these items failed to live up to their promise. I say independent because these fixtures seemed to possess their own unique ideas regarding their tasks and usefulness.
The toilet reminded me of my old home again… slow moving sewer lines plugged with years of root growth from the majestic oaks that lined the property insured that my ablutions would remain in my memory, vision and olfactory for most of my stay. A trip to see the huckster-ette ensconced behind the front desk resulted in the acquisition of a rubber belled plumbers helper ("I am so sorry… we are always having trouble with the plumbing. Why don't you just hang on to that…" as though I'd be in a hurry to bring it back, soggy and dripping, through the dining room…) In a matter of moments I had cleared the line. Knowing I was destined for a B&B, I had packed air freshener.
The shower proved troublesome. The stream of lukewarm water dribbled out with all the speed of a urinating rat with prostate trouble. The shower head, a cheap plastic bargain variety, was circled with hash marks and symbols that hinted at adjustment. A quick twist resulted in a boosting of the water pressure and a brief acceptable mist of tepid water, followed by a "pop", and a hollow "thunk" as the large white nozzle popped loose, striking me in the head. Undaunted, I cut the water off and repositioned the beast on its threaded perch. It popped loose again, missing my head neatly… and landing solidly upon my right great toe. Yelping and hopping in the plexiglas fishbowl enclosure, I regained my composure and opted to settle for the trickle, and safety. Displeased with the temperature of the dribble of liquid, I fiddled with the hot/cold adjustment… and came to grief again. This shower had two settings; scalding, and freezing. I emerged moments later, clean and unbowed, with burns on my back and frostbite to the extremities. Thankfully the cold kept my toe from swelling.
This is the problem with the B&B; the owners have taken the property description ad copy of the realtor who sold them this crumbling "fixer-upper" and tuned it to convince us we'll enjoy staying there. "Historic". "Majestic". "Cozy". "Charming". "Romantic". All these terms are wonderful, provided they are used to describe the area you're visiting, but when applied to where you'll be sleeping while visiting… well… not so much. The Grand Canyon is "majestic", but I don't want to sleep balanced on the edge of it while lightning strikes around me and raccoons paw through my suitcase.
Where B&Bs are concerned, if Washington, Jefferson, Franklin or Lincoln slept there, the odds are good you will make the acquaintance of descendants of the bedbugs, mites, fleas and roaches that accompanied them. They never seem to mention the terms used to describe the premises by, say, the health department… Words like "Condemned". "Unsanitary". "Infested". Or, my favorite, "Overrated."
The least comfortable night I ever spent on the road was at a small Midwestern Iowa B&B, an evening spent in fitful slumber while two mangy taxidermy nightmares, a one eyed, one eared moose and a poorly stuffed badger in upright snarling attack pose, glared at me from different angles… the room smelled like moth balls and stale urine, and the only accent artwork was a king sized tintype of a leering cowpuncher who seemed to have settled the west while remaining largely unsettled himself. ( I got the good room… down the hall I heard thrashing and skittering followed by squeals and screams as the boarders repelled a late night invasion of what, I hope, were squirrels.)
An ex-girlfriend of mine was responsible for my first B&B experience. She booked us for a night at a local one in honor of valentines day; a "dinner and evening of passion" package. The dinner caused indigestion, but we were assured we had the place to ourselves on a week night, so we persisted. The advertised Jacuzzi tub made more noise than a jackhammer, drowning out the TV or any attempt at conversation, and, finally, any thought of intimacy was crushed when, mid coitus, a schoolmarm from down the hallway began beating on the door and demanded to "talk to the girl" or she would be "forced to call the authorities". The girl in question spoke to her at length. I was busy. Packing.
Next time someone suggests a Bed and Breakfast, recall the least comfortable visit you've ever had at the home of a distant relative… then imagine paying for the experience. I'll pass.