1st February, 2023

Kismet

Do you ever wonder if, at times, there is something or someone directing your movements? I do.

Several years ago, Jay and I were driving down from Vermont to the Boston airport. We had traveled to Vermont because Jay was asked to produce an album with the Von Trapp Family Children for Maria Von Trapp, one of the daughters of the famous Captain Von Trapp. Maria was writing a book about the folk songs of her homeland in Austria and she wanted to include a CD. It was a great trip. A successful recording. And now we were on our way back home.

We stopped in Woodstock, Vermont, a quaint little village with lots of artist shops and good restaurants. Jay walked into a quilt shop and bought a gift for his daughter. We enjoyed a leisurely lunch. I looked at my watch. We had an airplane to catch and it was looking more and more like we would miss it. Jay seemed unaware of the time, which was unusual for him. It seemed to me as if he didn’t mind if we missed our plane. Even more unusual for Jay. But being comfortable with spontaneity, I sat quiet and waited to see what would happen. Soon it was evident we would miss our flight. Jay acted a bit surprised. As if he didn’t really realize we would actually miss it. I’m not sure I buy that. Maybe he just didn’t want to rush that day. Who knows? Whatever the reason, I was in for a bit of fun.

“Can you get on the phone and look for a place to stay?” Jay asked me. I began my mission. Only this was Columbus Day weekend (Now known as Indigenous Day) and it is a big deal on the east coast. I could not find a room. Not anywhere. Jay kept driving and I kept calling. Hours later, still no luck. We passed Boston and Jay headed for Cape Ann. “Keep trying,” he told me.

It was getting dark. Finally, I got in touch with a woman who said she had one room left. “Do you want to take my credit card to hold it?” I asked. “No,” she answered. “I will take that when you get here.” I asked her for directions and she said, “Just call me after you cross the bridge and I will give them to you then.” Whew. What a relief. We had a place to stay. Until we didn’t.

We crossed the bridge and I called her back. I put her on speaker so we could both hear her directions. “Oh honey, I’m sorry,” she said in a syrupy voice that made me believe she wasn’t really sorry. “I made a boo-boo. I don’t have a room after all.” I could see the steam rising from Jay. “Do you know of anyone who might have a place?” She gave me a number. I called. It rang and rang and rang. No answer.

It was after 8pm. We were hungry and tired, and Jay was grumpy. Actually, we both were grumpy. Now what? Jay kept driving, aimlessly, and we bickered back and forth. I saw a sign for a motel and asked him to pull over. “But the sign says no vacancy. What’s the point?” Jay argued. “I know. Just pull over. Maybe they might know of someplace that has an opening.” I countered. Begrudgingly, he drove into the parking lot.

Inside were two older ladies. I told them our predicament and one of them shook her head no while the other had an idea. She picked up the phone and made a call. The man on the other line said he had a room for $75 cash. “Do you want it?” she asked. I went back out to the car and asked Jay. He looked at me as if to say, Really, $75 cash? We were both wondering what we were getting ourselves into. “It’s our only option, Jay.” “Fine,” He answered.

The lady who made the phone call said the inn was just up the road a bit, in Gloucester. She was leaving and we could follow her there. It was very dark by then and clouds were gathering. The road was curvy, but we managed to stay close behind. She flashed her lights at the place we should turn. The driveway was up a slight hill with oak trees on either side. At the end was a two-story house much like other New England bed and breakfasts we have visited. There on the covered porch was the silhouette of a man sitting in a rocking chair. There were no lights on in the house and there was only one car in the parking area.

We stepped out of the car. The wind had picked up and there was definitely a storm on the horizon. We met the man in the rocking chair and gave him our $75. He handed over a room key and directed us to the side of the house. “Is there anywhere open to get some food?” Jay asked “We’re starving.” He told us about a nice pub just down the street that would still be open. “Bar food, but good food,” He added.

We walked into our room and were instantly overtaken by the smell of must and mildew. It was old. Everything in the room was old. Old wallpaper. Old curtains. Old furniture. The bed wasn’t fluffed up and welcoming with quilts and throw pillows. It had two very flat pillows, a sheet and one blanket. The bathroom was tiny. One person could barely fit in the shower. On the towel rack was one small towel, worn thin from years of use. I took a deep breath and looked at Jay.

We noticed a door opposite the door we came in. Thinking it might lead to the living area of the bed and breakfast, we opened it only to find a room filled with furniture covered with sheets. A dozen or so ship models were scattered about. Cobwebs were present and it looked as if no one had lived there for years. We backed into our room and locked the door.

Outside, the man in the rocking chair was still there. It was as if he intuited our needs and gave us two umbrellas as the rain began to fall. We said thank you and goodnight and drove off to dinner.

The pub was packed. Like with all bars, there were televisions everywhere. You have to love New England sports fans. They are certainly faithful. There were three games on. The Patriots were playing. So were the Knicks. And I think the Red Sox were either in the playoffs or it was the World Series. It was quite a festive atmosphere.

By the time we got back, it was pouring. The man was still in the rocking chair on the porch. We bid him goodnight, again, and went to our room.

The next morning the sun was shining. The dark rain clouds had dispersed and were replaced with white billowy ones moving quickly across a blue sky. There was a cool breeze. A perfect October morning. The man in the rocking chair was on the porch. Did he ever move? Does he live here? Does anyone? We took some time to speak with him.

“No. It is no longer a working inn,” he told us. “But one time it was quite the place. Famous writers stayed here like Louisa May Alcott and Ralph Waldo Emerson. “Where are you from?” he asked us. When we told him we were from Malibu he said he had a daughter who lived in Los Angeles. “She works in television. She is an associate producer.” That piqued my interest. “That is what I do,” I told him. “What is her name?” I didn’t know her but knew of her. To top it off, both Jay and I had worked with his son-in-law at Paramount Studios. Suddenly, the mysterious shroud that had covered this man disappeared. Jay and I decided to stay another night.

What was it that took us from Vermont to Cape Ann and to a “random” motel to meet a woman who knew of a man who might have a room who was related to someone we had worked with at home? Kismet? One has to wonder.