An effort

There are very few good things about a high temperature of zero. The first is that it is warmer than five below. Five below is the point at which your nostrils freeze when you try to sniff. You know your nose is running slightly, but then when you breath in sharply through your nose, your nostrils freeze together. When you exhale it will thaw, but sniffle again and you've got the same snot-Popsicle problem as before.

The second good thing about five below, is the cozy mint-scented-hot-chocolate-in-the-afternoon-feeling one might experience if they are fortunate enough to combine that chilly day with an early quitting time.

Third? Well. It's going to warm up tomorrow. And the river is steaming.

Service

Before I was an innkeeper, I spent a lot of time trying not to judge people. I am the sort of person who just pegs things. I can, for example, tell a good restaurant from a bad one just by opening the door. We went to aa Indian and Mexican restaurant the other night, and I knew before we sat down that the food was going to be horrible. I was trying not to annoy Matt with my ruthless 'restaurant radar,' so I kept my mouth shut. Big mistake. The food wasn't just bad. It was gross. Matt and I had stomach aches all night.

So we agreed upon a new rule, if a restaurant 'specializes' in more than one cuisine, we keep moving. If the chef can't decide between Chinese and Italian, for example, we're better off at Burger King.

Thou shalt not judge, but I'm not a Christian, so I can judge whomever I please. Not really, but for an innkeeper, it's sort of part of the job. My guests just beg to be judged successfully. It's called great service.

Now, I have the benefit of knowing their permanent address before they arrive, and sometimes I get a glimpse at the make of their vehicle, which helps. Their age is another important factor. But mostly it depends on their clothing and the way they speak. I try to be equitable, but I'd be lying if I said I greeted everyone the same way. When people walk in the door, I make an educated guess about who they are and what kind of service they will find most satisfying. I know before they take off their coats what time they'll be down for breakfast, and what I'll find in their trash.

Mostly, there are the chatters. They are numerous. They are usually retired, and they eat early. In the hour before their dinner reservation, they like to stand in the kitchen while I'm kneading bread dough and tell me all about their nephew who is studying engineering at Perdue. When I offer eggs or pancakes they overwhelmingly choose the eggs. Over easy, or scrambled. They bring their own paperback novels and historical fiction to pass the evening hours and they will make themselves a cup of tea before they will chance disturbing me in the evening. Their wastebaskets hold empty bottles of nasal spray, used ear plugs and newspapers. I find the occasional ginger ale bottle, or snack food wrapper.

Then there are the young couples. There are fewer of them. They check in and go immediately to their room to test the quality of my furniture. They stay out late, and in the morning they wander casually into the kitchen after most of the guests have eaten and they ask me questions about the inn, the area, and my life. We joke around sometimes. We talk about our education, about the job market and usually about the friends whose wedding they are attending. In their trash I never find condoms or lube bottles - too obvious. Lots of tissues, though. And some freebie road maps or travel brochures, lightly used.

Occasionally, I get single older men. They are either traveling for business, or to get away from their wives. They have dinner at the restaurant, where they place an order with the bartender. They chew his ear about property maintenance or their latest hobby -kayaking, hang gliding or back country skiing. They leave very little behind. Empty wine or liquor bottles mostly, and the wrappers or tags from recently purchased things.

Of course there are the families- with their juice boxes and old batteries. Mostly, they are very considerate with their dirty diapers. If anybody is going to leave clothing behind, it's them.

The working couples on long weekends bring their laptops, and leave wine bottles and dog-eared guide books. The destination visitors - including older couples who haven't seen each other in a while are slightly less discreet with their empty lube bottles. They use the bathroses and leave half empty bags of pretzels or chips.

The single professional women wear only new clothes on vacation, I guess. They leave a lot of tags and packaging, and single-serving snack wrappers.

The skiers have yet to be pegged. Mad River Glen got ten inches of snow on Saturday night. In OCTOBER, so I guess I'll learn the skiers soon enough.

a life

Facebook makes me jealous. But only because I have cool friends. And they have pretty sweet lives. I log on, and find a childhood friend just got back from Norway. A college buddy is working on a fishing boat in the Berring Sea. I have a friend who works for the Parks Service in Montana. I am happy for them. Really. But sometimes I'm jealous.

The thing is, my life doesn't suck. I went to college in Alaska. I've traveled. Matt and I lived in Europe one summer. And now, I have my own beautiful place.

I'm an innkeeper in Vermont. And I'm sure there are administrative assistants in New Jersey, Sanitation workers in Phoenix or Customer Service Agents in Miami who would love to have my job.

Most of my guests would take my job if I offered it. Or at least that's what they tell me. Getting up at 6 am to bake banana bread and cleaning ten bathrooms a day might change their tune, but whatever. The thing is, it hasn't really changed mine. I am honestly not complaining. I know how lucky I am. I like this job. I like this place. This is without a doubt, the best gig I've ever had.

I'm just wondering. Does everybody do this? It's like that song in The Little Mermaid...
'the seaweed is always greener... in somebody else's lake.'

And it seems that maybe the crab was right. I'm working hard, meeting people and having fun in a place cool enough to attract vacationers. I'm not taking it for granted, I promise. In terms of the seaweed metaphor, my shit is green.


But I think no matter what shade of seaweed I'm currently viewing, I'll wonder if there isn't some greener variety out there.

I will always look at the vista-framed pictures of my globe-trotting friends and wonder if I would be happier on THAT mountain top.

In Miniature

I like little things. Not in a freaky way, like an old guy in a cardigan who builds tiny dollhouses with silk flower gardens and functional window blinds and lies to his social worker about it. Not like that. Just in a miniature condiments kind of way. And a travel size tube of toothpaste kind of way.

I hadn't actually considered offering room service at the inn, until I found this.

I don't stay in fancy hotels much. Camping is more my style. Even if I do splurge on a room, I hardly ever order room service. But if I did, I would ask for french fries, or scrambled eggs. With ketchup.

Then I would keep my fingers crossed that the establishment I chose is the kind of place that springs for mini ketchup bottles, instead of the type of place that serves their ketchup in a ramekin with a tiny spoon. Although they would earn a few points with the tiny spoon, the absence of a adorable little Heinz label wouldn't be easy to forgive.

And I am not the only one with an affinity for the mini. Check this place out. They have dedicated themselves specifically to the sale of items marked 'not for individual sale.' But I don't mind. It's nice to know you could spend $.34 on a single half-ounce cup of strawberry jelly, if circumstances dictated that you have exactly half an ounce of jelly and no more.

Anyway. I suppose it is my love of miniature things that led me to develop an affection for a particular piece of furniture in this house. It's in the Chittenden Room. Right now it's serving as a night stand, but at some point, in one of its former lives, it was a seamstress' side table. Small AND intricate. I love it!




Like a woodworker's heinz bottle.

Steak and broccoli

Matt, my boyfriend, and I were just coming into town. It was only the second time he'd met my family. We had made a long trip, and we were ready to be there, but we had plans to stop at a grocery store about half an hour south of my parent's house. The town where my parents live, where I grew up, is the kind of place where it's tough to find a head of lettuce after eight o'clock.

We were tired from the drive. I suggested we just stop and pick up a steak we could throw on the grill. And some broccoli. As we came into town my cellphone chimed. There was a message from my mother.

She told me they were on their way out for the evening, that we were more than welcome to join them at a friend's house for dinner, but if we didn't feel like it there was a steak and some broccoli in the fridge at the house.

Matt looked at me like I was some sort of suspect.

My mother and I had been living four time zones apart for almost five years. We still did things like pick up the the phone to call, only to find the other one already on the line. Even when I was living at home, my mother would buy a gallon of milk on her way home from work, and she'd end up putting it in the fridge beside the one I had purchased on my way home from school.

Duplicate groceries are the least of it.

New Job

My mother called me from Vermont. 'What do you think about innkeeping,' she asked. I had been employed as a personal assistant for less than three months. Previously, I had been unemployed, a waitress, the editor of my college newspaper, the scan coordinator at a doomed natural foods store, a printer's assistant, a misguided Masters student, a cook, unemployed, a substitute teacher, a 'childcare professional,' and as I believe I may have mentioned, unemployed.

'I'd probably like Inn keeping,' I told her. She told me about a property she'd seen for sale. There was an incredible kitchen, she said. Her catering company was expanding, it had outgrown its current kitchen long ago. We'd use the kitchen for catering, and to run the restaurant that was already on site, she said. But there happened to be a beautiful old farmhouse inn. Was I interested?

I planned a weekend trip, and we toured the property. The Inn had 8 guest rooms, the house had been built in 1824. The property was gorgeous, so was the restaurant in the barn. Downstairs in that barn there was a quarter-million dollar kitchen. The place was huge. Somewhat bigger than the closet that serves as the kitchen in my family's other restaurant.

We walked around with the Realtor, then with my real-estate-guru of a grandfather. On the plane I stifled my enthusiasm. I told myself not to get too excited. The property was held by the bank, and they were anxious to sell. A month later I moved in.

Since then I have been busily painting, moving furniture and baking. I have worked hard. And right now, I feel like I have worked my creativity right down a dusty hole. Like the Inn when we first walked through, it feels a little hollow in here. Maybe a bit mismatched. But, like the Inn, it has captured my imagination and my enthusiasm. Soon it will smell like zucchini muffins.

This will be the tale of the 1824 House Inn, and the girl who keeps it.