Thursday, July 11, 2019

Enjoying The Mount and Hilary Hahn with Support from Mr. Puppy

Well, friends, yesterday began rather desolate, but by lunch time things were looking up. When I was trying to write yesterday's post, I received notification from my bank that my debit card was compromised and they had to cancel it. After screaming and weeping and several hysterical phone calls, I was able to fix things so that I can eat and get home--all 100% thanks to my mom! 

A very nice man named Brian was my Uber driver by about lunch time, and he drove me to the only ATM in town where, with the help of the fraud department of my bank, I was able to withdraw cash so that I could at least buy food for the next few days and not be stranded in Massachusetts for four days without any money or food. (Bear in mind, I don't know anyone for hundreds of miles.) It was a horrible, horrible, horrible way to begin the first real day of my vacation. 

When I returned to the hotel, I was walking toward The Mount (the Seven Hills Inn is on The Mount's estate, so I only have to walk for about 2 minutes to get to the actual house) when I saw the most adorable little dog. He was a white and grey shih tzu, and I had to pet him. I knelt down and offered my hand to him, which he sniffed before letting me pat his head. I then leaned down and said, "Mr. Puppy, I've had a rough day; I need a cuddle." As if the dog heard me, he put his front paws on my knees, got on his hind legs, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He nuzzled his cuddly little head next to my cheek for a moment before hopping down, rubbing his head next to my hand, then trotting off. It felt so good to cuddle this sweet little dog, and for a moment, I did think about stealing him. I mean, his tags did not have his name or where to return him.... Common sense took over, though, and I just decided to continue to The Mount--albeit with an extra spring in my step thanks to that sweet little puppy. 

There are some changes to The Mount since I last visited in 2016. For one, they have definitely expanded their programming. There is now a sculpture display all around the estate that includes statues and some odd spider web-esque doylies. (I'll have pictures for today's post later tonight.)

Out of curiosity, I took the guided tour of the house, and that is one of the not-so-great changes. I had a different tour guide from last time, and the woman yesterday clearly did not know what she was talking about. My guess is she memorized a script but had nothing to add. She misled the audience a number of times with either incorrect or insufficient information, and I thought she painted a false picture of who Edith Wharton really was and what her life was like. It took everything I had, but I reached deep within myself to keep my mouth shut. I hate inaccuracy, especially about someone I can objectively say I know a lot about, but I tried to remain quiet. 

The one time I did feel compelled to speak was when the tour guide said Wharton inherited $2.6 million upon the death of her father. There was a woman who was shocked by that amount of money, and thankfully the tour guide eventually admitted that that figure was in TODAY's money, not 1881 money. The woman was still shocked, so I felt compelled to speak up. (We were transitioning into another room, so I felt that I was not technically stealing the guide's spotlight.) I explained that the inheritance was not divided that way. Wharton's oldest brother, Frederick, inherited the bulk of the fortune, her other brother inherited a massive amount of the remaining fortune, and then the paltry remainder was divided into thirds, and Edith inherited one-third of the remaining money. For the most part, she made her money through writing. The woman was shocked and kept asking why the family would do that to her. When I said it was because she was female in 1881 and had two older brothers, she still did not understand. It made me feel like I was teaching again and dealing with an 18 year old with no understanding of history. 

The guide failed to discuss Walter Berry, Wharton's contentious relationship with her mother, her novel Summer, which is set in Massachusetts, and so much more. The silly woman from earlier also did not understand why Wharton sold her house after her divorce if she loved it so much. (She claimed to have read The Age of Innocence, but I had to fight the nerve to ask if she actually read the book or just Wikipedia, since, you know, Countess Olenska becomes an outcast simply for considering divorce.) 

The guide did not explain this well, only saying it was because Teddy Wharton (Wharton's ex-husband) was still living in Lenox. She left out that little detail about Wharton's class being unmerciful toward divorced women. In truth, Wharton was shut off from many parts of the old New York society simply for seeking a divorce. The guide also failed to mention the impetus for the divorce: After having affairs with women all over Europe, Teddy embezzled $50,000 from Edith (and that's in 1910 money!) in order to set up his mistress in a swanky Parisian townhouse. When he confessed, that was the final straw for Edith. Although he did pay her back eventually, the humiliation and betrayal was too much. Why the guide left this out is beyond me--unless she just didn't know what she was talking about. 

There were so many glaring errors and so much misleading information, but it would take me several blog posts to enumerate them all. Suffice it to say, I was extremely disappointed in the tour. 

The house is utterly gorgeous, though! I was here last in May of 2016; coming in the summer is glorious. Just look at these grounds: 



















When I was last here, they had only planted some tulips in the fountain garden. Look at all of those flowers! It was utterly beautiful.

The interior of the house is beautiful, too, although I took far fewer pictures of the inside. Back in 2016, I took so many pictures that my camera died! I have enough between the two visits to relive this trip (ahem--the GOOD parts) for a long time to come. Here are a few shots of the inside: 











So beautiful!

I stayed at The Mount until about 4:00, when I returned to my hotel room to prepare for the second great event of the day: the Hilary Hahn concert!

I started playing violin when I was 10 years old, and I will always remember my dad's enthusiasm. He came home from work that day at the end of fourth grade when I decided to play violin (a departure in my family, since everyone did marching band), and brought me a gift of two CD's: Isaac Stern's performance of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto in D major and Mendelssohn's violin concerto in E minor (one of my favorites); and Sarah Chang's debut album. I'm about to cry writing this, but I remember most affectionately how my dad sat down with me, giving me the CD's, and telling me how proud he was that I chose violin, and that playing violin was something I could do for the rest of my life. Today, when I go to rehearsal for the Lake Murray Symphony Orchestra back home, I think back to that conversation. 

I've been a Hilary Hahn fan for quite some time. I've had her second album, from 2000, since, well, 2000! The church music director, Frank, when I was growing up, gave me that album (I was 15). He said, "Laura, she's a young girl like you and playing the violin. You should look into her."

Well, ya'll, I got to tell Hilary that story last night!

She performed at the Ozawa Hall at Tanglewood. The concert began at 8:00 pm, but the grounds opened at 6:30. I was there at 6:25. 

Look at how beautiful the grounds are! This place is the only one that rivals Scotland for being the most beautiful place I've ever been. 









The concert hall itself was gorgeous as well. Might I add, I was seated on the FRONT ROW of the balcony overlooking the stage. Unfortunately, we were prohibited from taking pictures during the performance, but these shots should give you an idea of how well I could see her:





It was a packed house, for sure! And the concert was magnificent. I sat with my mouth open for most of the time. I doubt I'll ever have the opportunity to see such a true master of her art up close like that. Here is the program: 


The Sonata in A minor was beautiful and probably my favorite; it's hard to choose, though, given she was spectacular each time. The Grave movement in the first sonata was so beautiful it made me cry. She stopped after the second movement, though, ending it with her bow in the air as she does when she's reached the end of a piece. Everyone clapped, a little confused, then she got the audience quiet enough to say, with her hands cupped around her mouth, "I'm having a makeup issue. I'll be right back." She ran to the back stage, and everyone clapped. 

As a woman, I am floored she was able to play so faultlessly and beautifully...with makeup in her eyes! To put it in perspective, here is a clip of that movement from her CD:


She didn't even squint! Instead, she played with just as much passion and precision as she gave to the rest of her performance. She's not just a master of the violin; she's a frickin' bad ass. 

The rest of the concert was majestic. The stars came out, so all of us got to watch this lovely, talented woman play solo Bach as the sun went down--no orchestra, no accompanist. Just Hilary, her violin, and Bach. 

She had a standing ovation--and I don't think the Tanglewood crowd does that for everyone. And she earned it. I usually dislike standing ovations, but this was one of the only times in my life in which I stood because I wanted to, not because of pressure from everyone around me. She had several curtain calls, then came out and played an encore. The only bad thing about the concert, truly, was that it had to end. 

I sat next to two lovely women. One lady was probably in her 50's, and she brought her first violin teacher with her! They were so sweet and were just as amazed as I about Hilary's persevering through the makeup snafu--to say nothing of being overwhelmed by her talent. 

When the concert ended, I stood in line to meet her, and it was worth it! I stood next to a couple who had retired recently and enjoyed going to as much cultural stuff as possible. The man told me he had every one of Hilary's CD's. They were from a town in Massachusetts I can't remember the name of, and they said they like to spend three weeks each summer in Hilton Head. They were lovely--and they even drove me back to my hotel so I wouldn't have to worry about Uber! So kind!

We were at the tail end of the line, but it only took about 40 minutes for us to go through. Hilary sat at a table wearing a chic sparkly black cloak as she signed CD's. She said she didn't do pictures, and I completely understood. She looked exhausted.  

Nevertheless, I talked to her for a moment; she was lovely and warm. When I told her the story about the CD, she said, "You've had it all this time? Wow!" I shook her hand and told her that it had been an honor to hear her play and that I loved the concert. She thanked me graciously, then it was the next person's turn. 

I will keep this forever:


Whew! That was a long post! Truly, though, yesterday felt like three days in one, and talk about extreme emotions all day. Good God! 

I do think yesterday serves as a strong reminder that good things come out of bad things, and that, as long as you have a loving family, you have all the riches in the world. 

I planned this trip as a way to cheer myself up over my dad's death, and despite the debit card debacle, this trip has been most rewarding. I look forward to seeing what the day brings!

Peace, 
Laura

Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Adventures in Bullshitting

Well, readers, I made it! I awoke at 2:30 am yesterday and endured two flights, two bus rides, a Lyft ride, and lots of rudeness and bad food in between--but I'm here! As the title suggests, this journey has not been without bullshit; rather, this trip has been a masterclass study in bullshit. In addition to encountering stinky people and fecklessness along the way, I also received a call from my bank this morning informing me that my debit card was compromised and they must cancel my card. But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

My new friends Grey and Marta graciously offered to pick me up at 3:30 am to drive me to the airport, and I definitely owe them. I had a nice ride to the Columbia airport, which, despite its small size, is clean and efficient. The first flight went to Atlanta where I had a layover for a few hours, then I flew to Albany, NY. 

Atlanta being Atlanta, their airport certainly had some...interesting people. While riding the escalator, I saw a young kid--he had to be no older than 20 or 21--wearing a sweatshirt that read "Virginity Rocks." I stared at him, thinking at first that SURELY his shirt really read "Virginia Rocks"--I could understand that shirt--but no, it did indeed read "Virginity Rocks." He was riding the escalator on the opposite side of me, and I know he saw my face when he rode past me. Let's just hope my sleep-deprived face did not reveal too baldly what I was thinking (that's probably a wasted hope, though). 

I did look this up, certain the kid must be part of some kind of Christian fundamentalist group, but apparently there is a whole line of merchandise from some Youtube star I've never heard of, Danny Duncan. Evidently, he makes prank videos that have "gone viral," then decided to make a line of clothing with "Virginity Rocks" in order to send a "positive" message. Seriously! You can't make this shit up! This dude has a whole website devoted to this stuff, and he's even going on tour. Considering he's neither a stand-up comedian nor a musician, I have no idea what this tour will entail. And I'm assuming the "69" part of his web address is meant to be some kind of crude joke, but I don't get it. I don't even try to pretend to be "down with the kids" these days, and I can't even imagine people wearing a "Virginity Rocks" shirt when I was in college. But, hey, if escalator boy wants to ensure a prank video guy gets rich by wearing clothes that scream to the world he's a virgin, who am I to judge?

Anyway, once I flew out of my nice, clean South, I entered Albany's airport--where the people are rude and smell bad, and there's garbage on every corner. There was this nasty brown carpet all over their airport, but they did have classical music playing very loudly over their speakers. (Atlanta had the kind of tinkle music I associate with medication time in One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, which did not fill me with confidence in the flight.) 

I rode the city bus to a Chili's, which was an adventure, too. A man with one hell of a thick New York accent rode with me. He was probably about my dad's age, but had a huge earring and a giant lump protruding from the back of his baseball cap that could only be a man-bun. He looked like he'd been rolling dirt, but he was pleasant enough--although my conversation with him was the first indication that I wasn't in South Carolina any more, Toto. 

He asked me, "So, you from here or you just gettin' in?"

"I'm just getting in," I said, and before I could say anything else, he continued talking. 

"Yeah," he said, "this place is a shit hole. I mean, a shit hole. There's garbage all over the place--I never seen so much garbage in my life. I mean, it's a shit hole."

He continued elaborating on the "shit hole"-ness of Albany, and I listened, more intrigued by how he spoke to me than the said shit hole details. I can't speak for other regions, but in the South, I would not expect a guy to just start using an expression like "shit hole" with me during the first conversation. I like to cuss as much as anyone, but I certainly don't talk like that as soon as I exchange pleasantries. The man was friendly, though, and it turns out he wasn't wrong about the dirtiness, which I'll get to momentarily. 

Once I got to Chili's, I ate a massive hamburger. It was so greasy, but I was hungry. The bun was way too little or the patty was way too wide; I'm not sure which. 




The upside was I got to watch Wimbledon, specifically, the mixed doubles match in which Serena Williams and Andy Murray played together--and won! 

From there, I took Lyft to the Albany bus station, which was a study in dirtiness. Look at the debris all over the road; the man on the bus was indeed correct. 





Eventually, my bus arrived, which entailed a scenic ride through the Berkshires. I listened to the Hamilton soundtrack--the man did live in Albany--while riding through the lush countryside. Truly, this ride was the most satisfying part of the journey. The bus was clean and comfortable, the view was lovely, and the bus driver was all business. When I arrived in Lenox, I felt excited and happy, so I decided to return to their gorgeous public library. 






The cell service here is sometimes spotty, and I had a mini-freak out when I could not reach Uber or Lyft. Thankfully, the request eventually went through, and I arrived at my hotel. 

Whoever designed the website for the Seven Hills Inn is a genius in advertising. Look at that website! They made the inn look like the most glorious, regal hotel in the world--as if it were a Biltmore of the North. 

Well, reality has a way of biting you in the ass. This hotel is nice, but don't think for a moment that this is in any way a world class resort. My hotel room was described as a Queen's suite with a "deep-soaking" tub. Ahem, let's look at that tub:



Not exactly the magnificent hot tub I was expecting. The room is quite small, and there is no refrigerator or microwave. Clearly, they expect you to spend as much money as possible. The view is great, though. 





Still, I won't complain about the room. It's a nice, quaint little place to relax. What I will complain about is the website's claim to having a restaurant. That "restaurant" features a box lunch of cheese and hummus--and you can get it from the lobby's mini-fridge! Yummy!

Clearly, after running on only two hours of sleep, I needed something more substantial than a cheese and hummus plate. So, after searching and searching and searching and searching online, I FINALLY found somewhere that would deliver: Papa John's Pizza. 

I called and ordered myself a medium pizza, and I gave them my address. The pizza guy promised me he would be there in 30-35 minutes. When almost an hour had passed, I got a call asking me if I was in Pittsfield or Lenox. When I said Lenox, the pizza guy said he went to the wrong town. About 40 minutes later, I finally got my pizza...and I saw that, although I had ordered a medium and the guy on the phone had said I was getting a medium, the dumb asses had apparently made me and charged me for a large! I no longer had the strength to complain, even though my pizza was...warm-ish. 

The final indignity came this morning when I began writing this post. I got a text from my bank saying my freaking debit card had to be cancelled because someone evil had decided to compromise the hell out of it. It's straightened out now (I'll spare you the details), but suffice it to say this trip can only go up from here. 

As I said, this journey has been a morass of bullshit, but it's certainly been a test of my strength and creativity. I'll end this post with one of my favorite Hamilton songs and one that captures how I feel right now: "Ten Duel Commandments." Oh, if it were only the 1790's...