The Weirdness That Binds

I just got off the phone with a man named "Bernie."

"Short for Beh-nehd, actually."

He's English, and the proprietor of a bed and breakfast in Lexington, Vermont, where my wife and I will be staying this weekend.

(If you're into fabric with frogs on it or antique typewriters, robbing our house might very well be on your agenda, then, this coming weekend. Please just try not to leave too much of a mess. And feed Finley.)

My conversation with Bernie lasted exactly 6 minutes and 26 seconds, but, two minutes into the conversation, we were fast friends-- united by our common association with another British hotelier, Basil Fawlty.

Ordinarily, I don't bring up 1970's-era British situation comedies like "Fawlty Towers" with bed and breakfast owners, but it just came up so naturally with Bernie, so organically. In truth, in faith, I just couldn't help it. It was so easy. So... right.

He was taking me through the list of rooms available.

"Well, there's the Pheasant Room, which, in my opinion, is the nicer of the two, but it's got two twin beds in it, and I don't know if that would suit your particular situation."

Instantly, my brain was flooded with images, dialogue, and memories of episode three of "Fawlty Towers," called "The Wedding Party" in which scandal erupts when an unmarried, lascivious couple try to rent a room with a double bed from the obsessively prudish and notoriously repressed Basil.

Basil: "It's against the law."

Guest: "What law?!"

Basil: "The law of England, nothing to do with me!"

Later in the scene, the guest temporarily relents, saying that he and his lady friend will take the room with the two twin beds, "if that's alright with the police."

I told Bernard that Mrs. Apron and I are, in fact, married, and that we'd take the room with the Queen-sized bed, "if that's alright with the police." Bernard howled with delight on the other end of the phone.

"Oh, God!" Bernie cried, "don't get me started on 'Fawlty Towers,' you'll have me going on all day. I've seen them all a thousand times! My favo(u)rite is the one with the Germans-- 'Don't mention the war! I mentioned it once and I think I got away with it alright!'" he quoted with precision. I couldn't help but chime in.

"A Prawn Goebbels, a Hermann Goering, and two Colditz salads!"

It was like talking to an old, um, gay friend. Not that Bernie's gay. He's just English. And I know they're basically synonyms. Basically. I didn't know that I was going to hit it off with the innkeeper at this place. I didn't even know he was an ex-pat. I swear to God. I didn't know.

I guess some people would be disappointed to know that their Southern-fried bed and breakfast isn't managed by some overalls-wearing good ol' boy named Hanky Lee, like they're somehow not getting the full, below-the-Mason-Dixon-Line experience, but I'm not disappointed. Not one jot. I'm elated. I am, however, a bit worried that they won't have any salad cream.

Stupid.

Table for Six

Everything about the bed-and-breakfast this weekend was perfect. The ambience was just right. A reconverted, reimagined, reconstructed 1850s barn-- vaulted cathedral ceiling in the living room complete with an impressive stone wall, exposed beams, re-purposed barn wood, rich and on fire, used as a plank kitchen floor. Our room was a violet heaven, tastefully appointed with period furniture, and none of the quaint vom you often find at bed-and-breakfasts, especially in the Lancaster County area.

The establishment sat on acres aplenty of farm land, complete with a horse (and eighteen outdoor cats-- some of whom used my car as a jungle-gym when we were asleep-- evinced by muddy paw prints all over my trunk, roof, and streaks down the windshield that they used as a sliding board). The entranceway was grand and comforting all at once, and so impressive was this B&B that it played host to not one, but two weddings this past weekend in glorious, sun-drenched weather.

The only flaw? As we were being given the tour, I spied only one table in the dining room.

It was like the scene in "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles" when Dell Griffith (shower curtain-ring salesman to the stars) and Neil Page are forced to stay in a shitty motel room together, complete with one bed.

"We serve breakfast at 9am."

Oh, no. One table, and one meal time means only one thing: we were going to have to sit with... and talk to......

OTHER. GUESTS.

For most people, this is no big thing. But, for an award-winning a-socialite, I was grief-stricken. See-- I don't really like... people. I'm used to B&Bs with several small tables in the dining room, and staggered breakfast times, so you can have the most available chances at avoiding other carbon-based life forms. But, at this one, it just wasn't going to happen. And so it went that we shared two meals with two couples in their early sixties-- the type who cracked open bottle after bottle of wine in the great room and played Harry Connick, Jr. on the BOSE at full blast, laughing and carousing until 11:30pm and then, in the morning, ask, "Did we keep you up last night?"

"This question," I said to my wife later, "is almost invariably asked by the type of person who would be overjoyed if you answered, 'yes'."