So I didn't realize how long it had been since I last wrote until Ben (finally) emailed me and criticized me in his typically polite, English way for dropping the ball. My bad. But while we're talking abt. ppl. dropping the ball, let's talk abt. how I hadn't heard fr. Ben in so long that I had actually begun to worry that he was dead. Really. I didn't think much of it at first, esp. since I've had trouble keeping track of time recently, but then I realized it had been more than a month than I heard even so much as a mocking blog comment fr. him. And then I started thinking abt. all the thgs. that could have happened. Maybe he'd gotten mugged and shot on the gritty streets of London. Maybe he'd been hit by a bus while crossing the street w/o looking b/c he was too busy ogling some fit girl across the way. Who knows, maybe he'd gotten overzealous w/noodles at Wagamama's and had some sort of fit that caused him to collapse in a lifeless heap on the floor. Point is, I was worried and was beginning to debate at what point it was appropriate to call a friend's family to enquire abt. his mortality. "Hi, Gina, this is jules. I spent a few days at your house back in November? Yes, it was one of the most pleasant visits I've ever had. Is Ben dead?" riiight. Mercifully, *the*very*day* that I was going to choke back my uncertainty and call Ben's parents, he saved me the embarrassment and left an especially know-it-all comment on my blog regarding the Longaberger basket. Seems quite fitting, really. After all, the only person I know who is more likely than Daniel to come back fr. the dead (real or imagined) just to show off his useless knowledge is Ben.
Desperate for a bit of fresh air and time alone, I took a weekend trip to Biltmore a couple of wks. ago. I had wanted to see Biltmore, the largest private home in America, for most of my life, and since Eli was in the great white north visiting his family and Steve was having one of his many "friends" over for the w/e, I figured it was as good a time as any to go. I rented a car (a Dodge Stratus, which made me laugh b/c I kept thinking of that old SNL skit w/Will Ferrell and Sarah Michelle Gellar -- "I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!! I deserve some respect!"), found a great deal on a hotel, packed my bag, and got the hell out of town, leaving behind a petulant Steve ("You've known I want to go there, too, I can't believe you're going w/o me!") and the dull box that now confines my life. I arrived in Asheville, NC, late Fri. night, reveled in the wonder that was my surprisingly nice hotel room (it was so cheap!), and enjoyed a "What Not to Wear" marathon as I fell asleep.
The next morning I braved the Winter Weather Advisory and took off in icy rain for Clemson to spend an afternoon w/my misguided brother, who was experiencing what was perhaps the first real crisis of his life. Naturally the coping method I suggested (after sufficiently discussing the situation to feel confident that it was more or less resolved) was alcohol. Lots. So we hit up the bars at 2pm and were rewarded with a "You want all of those drinks together? For the two of you?" fr. the slightly-older-than-middle-aged waitress behind the bar. heh. I don't think she was reassured when the following exchange took place as we were lvng.:
Waitress, looking concerned and a little awed (I'm sure she thought we wouldn't be able to get off of our bar stools): Y'all have a nice day, okay? You're not driving are you?
Me, slightly buzzed and amused that this total stranger was so concerned abt. our well-being: Oh, no, ma'am, we're walking, don't you worry.
Trey, having more difficulty containing his drunken glee: Yeah, we're walking -- to the next bar!!
hahaha... riiight... So we did walk to the next bar, where we had a few more drinks before I deposited Trey back at his dorm. He had an RA mtg. to get to at 530, and I received a rather amusing text msg. fr. him as I was driving back to Asheville. It said, "Holy shit, I'm supposed to lead a discussion tonight and I'm drunk!" heh. I enjoyed my drive back more than the drive there. (I get anxious when driving somewhere I've never been before b/c I worry that I've missed my turn and will wander forever in an unknown land. When I was little I didn't want to learn how to drive b/c I thought that I would one day take the wrong exit and never find my way home again.) Most of the drive was on smaller roads wending their ways through the soft mountains of upstate SC/western NC, which were covered in a mist that hovered just above them, allowing one to enjoy the hazy effect without being worried by hazardous roads.
The next morning I woke up early to a cold but clear, bright day. I stuffed my face at the complimentary breakfast buffet downstairs, packed up the car, checked out of my room, and started out for Biltmore. Turning in to the gates, I knew that I was going to love it. And I also knew I was so glad to be there alone, at least for my first visit. The driveway is smthg. like five miles long, and you go about two miles of it before getting to the welcome center/ticket distribution place. I was already wondering how much a yr.-long pass would be. When I got to the front of the line and learned that the cost was significantly reduced for the month of Feb., I couldn't say no. So now I have yr. pass to Biltmore. Pls. come visit me so that we can go. When I finally made it to the parking area, I scoffed at the tourists herding together at the shuttle stop, shivering in the early morning chill and looking at me as if I were actually wearing a dunce cap when I passed them by, opting instead to walk the half mile to the house. (Honestly, it's no wonder ppl. in this country are so fat. We're weenies. Lazy, stupid weenies.)
I was mildly surprised to find that, upon reaching the house, I was more taken with the view and the landscape than with the house itself. I'd always thought I would run toward the house like Melanie running to meet Ashley in GWTW, so long had I waited and wanted to see it, but instead I spent the next three hrs. running around the grounds, taking more pictures of trees and snow than anyone would care to see. At one point, I had to force myself to put my camera away and put my hands in my pockets b/c I was losing all sensation in my fingers. The gardens were a bit stark since it was winter, but there were a few early buds peeking through, glittering in a coating of ice that had yet to melt in the morning sun, and the conservatory was was a happy hideaway of tropical warmth and color which my frozen hands were especially happy to see. After spending nearly an hr. in the conservatory, I took off through the rest of the gardens in search of the "Woodland Trail," which turned out to be a path through the woods and over the hills that reminded me so much of Kemback Forest outside of St. A's that I felt happier than I have since the last time I went for a walk there w/Marion, Olley, Eamonn, and Abdul. In fact, most of the landscape reminded me greatly of Scotland, which is perhaps why I enjoyed it so much. Lost in my recent malaise and ennui, I had nearly forgotten what it was like to get so much pleasure out of simply walking and breathing. I've been desperate to get back to Scotland since I left it, and it was...soothing to find smthg. comparable to (though not quite as good as) the country that has oddly become more like home to me than that in which I have lived most of my life.
One further factor that made the morning so pleasant for me was that there was no one else around. Perhaps due to the rather low temperatures, no one seemed interested in walking the grounds further than the conservatory, leaving the snow untouched, the songbirds without competition, and creating a solitude of the rare sort that leads one to think, if only for the shortest time, that the world is yours and it is happy. What's great abt. having no one around is that you don't have to hear them, don't have to be constantly subjected to the aural assault that is human communication. It was so quiet that as the temperature rose (slightly), the ice coating the leaves in the trees started to melt and the sounds of the forest were increasingly punctuated by the delicate crackling of the ice separating from itself and from the leaves, followed, after an anticipatory silence, by the determined click of the water splashing onto the hard, still-frozen ground. Fucking Zen, I tell you.
The house itself was, of course, stunning. Though it was overshadowed by its natural environment, I do think Biltmore may be one of the best domiciles I have yet visited. The place is categorically huge; there's no two ways abt. it. But it manages to get its point across ("I have more money and living space than God") w/o making you choke on it and also w/o making you forget that it's a house. When I went to see Versailles last spring, it was hard to be impressed, really, b/c you couldn't take it seriously as a place where ppl. lived and did normal living thgs. like dancing naked in your room, or arguing w/your siblings, or breathing. It was just *too* big. I know the point of Versailles was to be a stage on which the French monarchy could display its wealth and potency, but I think it served/serves that purpose rather too well. When walking through the chamber in which les reines francaises birthed their royal progeny, all I could picture was Marie Antoinette in full court dress w/her ridiculous three ft. tall powdered hair towering above, sitting bolt upright in bed, legs wide open, skirts pulled up just enough to allow a newborn babe to pass through w/o suffocating on her layers of satin and lace, and looking slightly bored with the whole thg. B/C I think that's what life would be if it was that contrived. Boring.
Anyhow, fast-forwarding a few centuries back to the material point, Biltmore isn't like that. It is unquestionably impressive, but you can picture ppl. living there. You can imagine what it must have been like for little Cornelia Vanderbilt to tear ass through those long corridors, squealing and sliding on the hardwood floors, and jumping on the beds that look smaller than normal beds only b/c the rooms in which they sit are so large. You can look out of the windows and understand why a Yankee fr. NY would want to choose that spot in the backwoods mountains of NC as the place on which he built his escape fr. everythg. real. The toilets and bathrooms are featured prominently in the tour b/c they were cutting edge for the time (all indoor plumbing w/flush toilets), so you are left w/no uncertainties abt. whether or not ppl. digested at Biltmore b/c you even understand the exact flushing mechanism involved in removing the end product of that bodily process. Point is, while jaw-droppingly amazing in its scale and accoutrement, it doesn't alienate you. It doesn't make you hate it b/c it's so much more than you will ever be, it isn't completely incomprehensible, and it isn't tacky, an unfortunate pitfall for many large homes. It's just pretty. And gracious. And looking at the art in there (Geo. Vanderbilt collected pencil drawings, mostly portraits [my favorite], including several by Duhrer) made me cry for the first time since seeing the Sistine Chapel three yrs. ago. (Made me cry over art, I mean, not made me cry for the first time in three yrs., as well you all know -- haha...)
So, yeah. I loved it. Eli and I are going together at the end of the month.
I plan to add more to this entry, but Eli is increasingly jealous of the computer, so I will publish what I have to this point and try to pick it up tomorrow. But b/c it's me, I probably won't get around to it until Mon. or Wed. when I have a huge break in my school day and like to do thgs. like post on my blog rather than use my time efficiently by, oh, say, studying.
Quote of the Day:
"I think that plastic bottle in the gutter is a form of American art. Americans are the white trash of the world." -- Eli, pretty perceptive for someone whose only experience w/foreign travel involved an M-16 and and a flak jacket he had to wear in 120 degree heat.
Desperate for a bit of fresh air and time alone, I took a weekend trip to Biltmore a couple of wks. ago. I had wanted to see Biltmore, the largest private home in America, for most of my life, and since Eli was in the great white north visiting his family and Steve was having one of his many "friends" over for the w/e, I figured it was as good a time as any to go. I rented a car (a Dodge Stratus, which made me laugh b/c I kept thinking of that old SNL skit w/Will Ferrell and Sarah Michelle Gellar -- "I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!! I deserve some respect!"), found a great deal on a hotel, packed my bag, and got the hell out of town, leaving behind a petulant Steve ("You've known I want to go there, too, I can't believe you're going w/o me!") and the dull box that now confines my life. I arrived in Asheville, NC, late Fri. night, reveled in the wonder that was my surprisingly nice hotel room (it was so cheap!), and enjoyed a "What Not to Wear" marathon as I fell asleep.
The next morning I braved the Winter Weather Advisory and took off in icy rain for Clemson to spend an afternoon w/my misguided brother, who was experiencing what was perhaps the first real crisis of his life. Naturally the coping method I suggested (after sufficiently discussing the situation to feel confident that it was more or less resolved) was alcohol. Lots. So we hit up the bars at 2pm and were rewarded with a "You want all of those drinks together? For the two of you?" fr. the slightly-older-than-middle-aged waitress behind the bar. heh. I don't think she was reassured when the following exchange took place as we were lvng.:
Waitress, looking concerned and a little awed (I'm sure she thought we wouldn't be able to get off of our bar stools): Y'all have a nice day, okay? You're not driving are you?
Me, slightly buzzed and amused that this total stranger was so concerned abt. our well-being: Oh, no, ma'am, we're walking, don't you worry.
Trey, having more difficulty containing his drunken glee: Yeah, we're walking -- to the next bar!!
hahaha... riiight... So we did walk to the next bar, where we had a few more drinks before I deposited Trey back at his dorm. He had an RA mtg. to get to at 530, and I received a rather amusing text msg. fr. him as I was driving back to Asheville. It said, "Holy shit, I'm supposed to lead a discussion tonight and I'm drunk!" heh. I enjoyed my drive back more than the drive there. (I get anxious when driving somewhere I've never been before b/c I worry that I've missed my turn and will wander forever in an unknown land. When I was little I didn't want to learn how to drive b/c I thought that I would one day take the wrong exit and never find my way home again.) Most of the drive was on smaller roads wending their ways through the soft mountains of upstate SC/western NC, which were covered in a mist that hovered just above them, allowing one to enjoy the hazy effect without being worried by hazardous roads.
The next morning I woke up early to a cold but clear, bright day. I stuffed my face at the complimentary breakfast buffet downstairs, packed up the car, checked out of my room, and started out for Biltmore. Turning in to the gates, I knew that I was going to love it. And I also knew I was so glad to be there alone, at least for my first visit. The driveway is smthg. like five miles long, and you go about two miles of it before getting to the welcome center/ticket distribution place. I was already wondering how much a yr.-long pass would be. When I got to the front of the line and learned that the cost was significantly reduced for the month of Feb., I couldn't say no. So now I have yr. pass to Biltmore. Pls. come visit me so that we can go. When I finally made it to the parking area, I scoffed at the tourists herding together at the shuttle stop, shivering in the early morning chill and looking at me as if I were actually wearing a dunce cap when I passed them by, opting instead to walk the half mile to the house. (Honestly, it's no wonder ppl. in this country are so fat. We're weenies. Lazy, stupid weenies.)
I was mildly surprised to find that, upon reaching the house, I was more taken with the view and the landscape than with the house itself. I'd always thought I would run toward the house like Melanie running to meet Ashley in GWTW, so long had I waited and wanted to see it, but instead I spent the next three hrs. running around the grounds, taking more pictures of trees and snow than anyone would care to see. At one point, I had to force myself to put my camera away and put my hands in my pockets b/c I was losing all sensation in my fingers. The gardens were a bit stark since it was winter, but there were a few early buds peeking through, glittering in a coating of ice that had yet to melt in the morning sun, and the conservatory was was a happy hideaway of tropical warmth and color which my frozen hands were especially happy to see. After spending nearly an hr. in the conservatory, I took off through the rest of the gardens in search of the "Woodland Trail," which turned out to be a path through the woods and over the hills that reminded me so much of Kemback Forest outside of St. A's that I felt happier than I have since the last time I went for a walk there w/Marion, Olley, Eamonn, and Abdul. In fact, most of the landscape reminded me greatly of Scotland, which is perhaps why I enjoyed it so much. Lost in my recent malaise and ennui, I had nearly forgotten what it was like to get so much pleasure out of simply walking and breathing. I've been desperate to get back to Scotland since I left it, and it was...soothing to find smthg. comparable to (though not quite as good as) the country that has oddly become more like home to me than that in which I have lived most of my life.
One further factor that made the morning so pleasant for me was that there was no one else around. Perhaps due to the rather low temperatures, no one seemed interested in walking the grounds further than the conservatory, leaving the snow untouched, the songbirds without competition, and creating a solitude of the rare sort that leads one to think, if only for the shortest time, that the world is yours and it is happy. What's great abt. having no one around is that you don't have to hear them, don't have to be constantly subjected to the aural assault that is human communication. It was so quiet that as the temperature rose (slightly), the ice coating the leaves in the trees started to melt and the sounds of the forest were increasingly punctuated by the delicate crackling of the ice separating from itself and from the leaves, followed, after an anticipatory silence, by the determined click of the water splashing onto the hard, still-frozen ground. Fucking Zen, I tell you.
The house itself was, of course, stunning. Though it was overshadowed by its natural environment, I do think Biltmore may be one of the best domiciles I have yet visited. The place is categorically huge; there's no two ways abt. it. But it manages to get its point across ("I have more money and living space than God") w/o making you choke on it and also w/o making you forget that it's a house. When I went to see Versailles last spring, it was hard to be impressed, really, b/c you couldn't take it seriously as a place where ppl. lived and did normal living thgs. like dancing naked in your room, or arguing w/your siblings, or breathing. It was just *too* big. I know the point of Versailles was to be a stage on which the French monarchy could display its wealth and potency, but I think it served/serves that purpose rather too well. When walking through the chamber in which les reines francaises birthed their royal progeny, all I could picture was Marie Antoinette in full court dress w/her ridiculous three ft. tall powdered hair towering above, sitting bolt upright in bed, legs wide open, skirts pulled up just enough to allow a newborn babe to pass through w/o suffocating on her layers of satin and lace, and looking slightly bored with the whole thg. B/C I think that's what life would be if it was that contrived. Boring.
Anyhow, fast-forwarding a few centuries back to the material point, Biltmore isn't like that. It is unquestionably impressive, but you can picture ppl. living there. You can imagine what it must have been like for little Cornelia Vanderbilt to tear ass through those long corridors, squealing and sliding on the hardwood floors, and jumping on the beds that look smaller than normal beds only b/c the rooms in which they sit are so large. You can look out of the windows and understand why a Yankee fr. NY would want to choose that spot in the backwoods mountains of NC as the place on which he built his escape fr. everythg. real. The toilets and bathrooms are featured prominently in the tour b/c they were cutting edge for the time (all indoor plumbing w/flush toilets), so you are left w/no uncertainties abt. whether or not ppl. digested at Biltmore b/c you even understand the exact flushing mechanism involved in removing the end product of that bodily process. Point is, while jaw-droppingly amazing in its scale and accoutrement, it doesn't alienate you. It doesn't make you hate it b/c it's so much more than you will ever be, it isn't completely incomprehensible, and it isn't tacky, an unfortunate pitfall for many large homes. It's just pretty. And gracious. And looking at the art in there (Geo. Vanderbilt collected pencil drawings, mostly portraits [my favorite], including several by Duhrer) made me cry for the first time since seeing the Sistine Chapel three yrs. ago. (Made me cry over art, I mean, not made me cry for the first time in three yrs., as well you all know -- haha...)
So, yeah. I loved it. Eli and I are going together at the end of the month.
I plan to add more to this entry, but Eli is increasingly jealous of the computer, so I will publish what I have to this point and try to pick it up tomorrow. But b/c it's me, I probably won't get around to it until Mon. or Wed. when I have a huge break in my school day and like to do thgs. like post on my blog rather than use my time efficiently by, oh, say, studying.
Quote of the Day:
"I think that plastic bottle in the gutter is a form of American art. Americans are the white trash of the world." -- Eli, pretty perceptive for someone whose only experience w/foreign travel involved an M-16 and and a flak jacket he had to wear in 120 degree heat.
1 comment:
Me, slightly buzzed and amused that this total stranger was so concerned abt. our well-being: Oh, no, ma'am, we're walking, don't you worry.
Trey, having more difficulty containing his drunken glee: Yeah, we're walking -- to the next bar!!
ROFLAMO!
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