On Wednesday, I vacated my home and blog for a couple of days. Children were deposited at their grandparents and a suitcase was over packed with bathing suits, pointy slingbacks, and a dinner jacket. Then we drove off to Mohonk.
Mohonk House got its start at the turn of the century, when Captains of Industry and Self Made Men would come up from New York to enjoy a weekend of pampering and self-improvement. They would take energizing swims in the glacier etched mountain lake and then embark on hour long hikes that would culminate on a cliff overlooking fields and farms. After, there would be tea and a formal dinner waiting for them, as well as rocking chairs on an enormous porch where one could appreciate the sublime beauty of the natural surroundings and read the dailies that were brought into the lodge on the morning train.
And that's just the way it still is. No TVs in the rooms. Morning to evening there are activities arranged to stimulate one's mind, body, and soul. Amazing meals. No blackberries or laptops in the lobby. The occasional little sign reminds visitors of the proper foot gear ("No heels on the croquet lawn") or behavior ("litter lessens beauty"). There is a resident minster, because the founders of the lodge were devout Quakers.
The first day there, Steve was recovering from a virus, so we took it easy. We drank tea and read on the porch for several hours. We walked around taking pictures of the woodwork and admiring the old photographs that line the hallways. Carnegie and Taft and Rutherford B. Hayes, as well as forgotten naturalists, industrialists, and other great thinkers of the time.
As we dressed for the formal dinner, we settled into this historic throwback. Steve's very into odd facial hair, so he thought it would be quite nice to be an industrialist with a handle barred mustache wading into the mountain lake in a full striped bathing suit. I should prefer to be the ambitious girl working her way up the social ladder by manipulating men with old family names. An Edith Warton sort of heroine.
After dinner, we watched Casablanca on the lawn.
And the next day, we hit the hiking trails with one very challenging scramble that made me scream like a little girl. When faced with certain death, some people show great stoicism. I babble. Oh, God, Steve, I"m going to die. I'm going to die. My head is going to burst open like a ripe melon. Like a melon that Letterman has thrown of the Ed Sullivan theater. There's no way my foot is going to make it across that gap. I'm too little. That's a 60 feet drop, I tell you. Death. Now.
We stayed until I felt too guilty about my parents being stuck with my kids. It was a fantastic trip that rearranged my priorities. Hardly looked at the computer or TV in days. But now I'm back. With a yard of e-mails and four sticky notes of chores to deal with tomorrow. I suspect that nice vacation feeling is going to dissipate soon.
Now, I'm conspiring to see how we can afford to go again. There's a kids stay free weekend coming in December. Hmmm.
In the meantime, this week should have several politics-heavy posts. Lots of stuff caught my eye in today's paper. Good stuff on the parties, foundations, the Internet. I've also been reading Joe Trippi's last book and Harry Potter, so I'm bursting with lots of half baked ideas that will surely arrive here in some sort of incoherent, typo-filled manner. Lucky you.
