THE INN THING
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Anyone traveling I-95 from Maine to Florida understands the easy convenience of zipping off, say, at Exit 282 and overnighting in East Podunk at a Hampton or Hilton.
I’ve stayed at 100+ interstate-side lodgings over the decades, and I know the routine by heart: a plastic key card that takes three inserts to finally turn green and open a door heavier than my side-by-side Whirlpool refrigerator, scratchy spill-resistant brown tweed carpeting, fake cutlery for rubbery scrambled eggs, and a Keurig that doesn’t always perk. Sometimes that’s just necessary because the drive is not the journey.
The polar and preferred opposite for me is a country inn which exudes unique charm and personality, even sweet quirks. This week, Mr. Wonderful and I drove north to Bar Harbor, Maine for an anniversary getaway. We spent a sun-filled afternoon having lunch and strolling around this beautiful town hugging Frenchman Bay (with a fantastic Sherman’s Bookstore only two blocks from the waterfront), then headed south to overnight at the Blue Hill Inn.
A lovely young woman greeted us and personally walked us to our quarters. She handed me the metal key which easily opened into a lushly wallpapered room with signature Victorian furnishings. A vintage oriental area rug topped wide planked pine floors, a fall-onto-me plump bedspread blanketed the four poster, and a welcoming note from the chambermaid caught my eye and warmed my heart. Even the window shades were made of fabric, not plastic, and the curtain fabric featured colorful crewel embroidery.
In one of the two parlors, Mr. Wonderful eyed the baby grand piano with interest. I checked out the autumnal-themed jigsaw puzzle spread on an oak table. There were no elevators anywhere, just a blue-carpeted staircase leading to the upstairs rooms. Felt like home.
That night as we prepared for bed, I noticed a bookcase filled with enticing Pinetree State reads — including Henry David Thoreau’s THE MAINE WOODS. But the long drive north had rendered me sleepy-eyed, so I plugged our phones, hearing aids and iWatch into the convenient multi-plug receptor, then drifted into a cozy sleep.
The next morning we wolfed down blueberry pancakes served on a table covered with a floral tablecloth, a posy of sunflowers and a tiny yellow and green gourd — simple but special. Plus banana bread, fresh fruit cocktail and endless coffee.
I can’t help but compare our experience there with the countless nights we’ve spent at roadside motels on our way to somewhere. Yes, the inn’s pine plank flooring creaked a bit. For sure, the thin walls didn’t mute the sound of people walking out the front door. And there was no television in our room — yaaaay!
During our stay, daughter Lisa telephoned to check in. When Bob told her we were at the Blue Hill Inn, she quickly replied, “I stayed there 38 years ago with Mom! I remember it well.”
And that perhaps is the most lasting aspect of spending a night or two at a country inn — the experience fills and remains in our personal Memory Banks. I couldn’t tell you which Hampton featured breakfast grits or which Hilton touted pet-free accommodations. But etched in my mind is a B&B in Ennis, Ireland where we listened to the owner’s young daughter practice piano. And an inn en route to the Australian outback where we ate a lamb dinner with the owners. Not to forget the Blue Hill Inn in Blue Hill, Maine where charm, simplicity and a fabric DO NOT DISTURB sign eased the hectic pace of our every day life.
