Simply Curious

An unexpected side effect of traveling without family is that, when you get back, they all want to know every detail of your trip. Even relatives I rarely talk to anymore insist on seeing all the pictures! (If you were really that interested you would have gone with me when I asked!) As an appeasement, I'm posting a play by play.

Friday

Someone (not me) was running behind, and showed up after 8 am, requiring a mad rush to the airport. Apologies to anyone on Dulles access road or the Parkway who got cut off by a yellow mustang. I was not driving. I, in fact, had my eyes shut the whole 10 minute ride.

Dashed from valet parking to United check in, envying children who could wear those wheely shoes. Fortunately no one was in line. The airport, in fact, looked deserted. Checked in and checked luggage with about 2 minutes to spare.

On the plane. Shocked by its lack of size. Felt like walking into a cave. (It was better once seated.) Wished I could understand what the pilot and stewardess were saying. Compared the takeoff to Brian's driving (very similar). Made a fool of myself by leaning over to the window and exclaiming "It looks just like Google maps!" (my last flight was, unfortunately, long before Google or online satellite maps were around.) We tried to guess what roads/buildings we were looking at before we got too high up to see. Entertained myself with Sudoku puzzles and the sky mall catalogs. Up in the air for less than an hour, apparently, and then we were in Charlotte. The stewardess excitedly announces that we had a 'perfect landing.' Wander off to grab our luggage, and then to get a rental car. Oddly enough . . . it's a mustang that's been reserved! Terry behind the counter proceeds to inform us that since I'm an insignificant other, I can't drive the car without paying them more money. (ok, so different wording, but still!) Go outside, admire bizarre floating woman holding a crown, and hop on the shuttle. Find bright red mustang. Argue about driving. Win shotgun. Sit down and realize I can't see over the bare, square, flat dashboard.

We stop in a town named Shelby for lunch, at a Cleveland Mall. (boy, do I feel lost.) Bought the proper cable for the MP3 player hookup, and set off again, this time with me at the wheel. Yes. I'm a bad girl. MP3 player has lots of European techno. After a while I comment on this and the fact that I can't sing along. Apparently the music choice was intentional. *grumble* The ride is fairly easy, once I get my seat in the right position (it was awkward, the headrest was in the way most of the time). I also realize that this car has more power than mine and I can pass people. Or not. It's a fair, calm drive, beautiful weather, not too many hills or curves or big trucks, except at one point where three of them decided to pass me.
Eventually we leave the interstate, I get a quick refresher course in left vs right, and then somehow manage to get to the inn.

The inn is located in a shady lot in a quiet section of town. Beautiful stonework with a lovely front porch and round windows in the attic. I drooled a bit. Inside was wonderfully decorated with antiques and bright colors. A wonderful staircase that split in four different directions. And the ceilings! A good 12 feet high. Such open space! The house felt bigger on the inside than outside. The guest room was full of antique quilts. Strangely, there were no light switches.

After turning off all the lamps, we headed back out and went up to Biltmore. Crept through a construction zone that later turned out to be Biltmore Village. (bah.) Drove through the entrance gate. Kept driving. and driving. and driving. Pretty fields, elegant woods, a babbling brook or two. Oh, a vistor's center? Show our tickets. Drive some more. You're sure there's a really big house here, right? I mean, c'mon . . . really big house must be visible from far away, right?

And then we come to . . . a parking lot. Ok. Park. Follow a footpath. Glance up, and wow, there's a chateau! It DOES exist!

We took the self guided tour, sans earphones. I was surprised at how dark it was in the downstairs rooms, although it was well past 3 pm by that time. We wandered in and out among people standing still, staring dumbly ahead, earphones on their ears. I gaped at chairs and windows and floors and fireplaces and walls. I was also amazed at the friendly, intelligent attendants in each room, able to answer almost any question Brian could put to them, and providing even more information, or joking with us. The tour flow was well planned; the house seemed to go on forever, right up to the observatory, which was the only place where we had to turn back and start heading back down . . . through a completely different section of the house. At one point we were in the basement (or somewhere near it) where I completely didn't see the bowling alley. Sure, I looked that direction, but my mind said: "no way is there a bowling alley there." We rounded a corner and came across a group of girls, softly singing "Spanish Ladies." I started laughing, and Brian promptly started singing the next lines. (strangely, the girls seemed to think the song came from the Master and Commander movie.) We wandered down towards the pool room, Brian still singing merrily, with their laughter (and mine) echoing after us.
hmm, other highlights from the first tour? I had read and drooled over the pictures in the Biltmore book I owned, so everything looked familiar to me. I accidentally pulled a Marylin Monroe in front of an oversized fan (darn those skirts!) I got to see an actual, functioning gargoyle (granted, it was at the end of a drain pipe.) I wished I had brought a pedometer to see how much ground we covered going up and down and around the building. We paused to get ice cream and peer into the stable cafe, before heading out to dinner.

Dinner was at a german restaurant, where I finally got to meet the waiter Brian had been going on about for months, to the point of becoming a running joke. He had the most beautiful blue eyes, and was completely himself, cynical and (flamboyantly) expressive. Poor guy had been having a rough time the past month. I enjoyed talking with him. Pity we didn't get time to meet up with him again.

To be continued . . .