Loving the Craziness: Villa Zorayda

When people used to ask me what my house looked like on the inside, I used to say "early crazy." Because the people we bought the house from were a little...eccentric.

A few details: our living room had one paneled wall, one stucco'd wall, and fake beams on the ceiling. There was white Z-brick in the dining room. If you're not familiar with Z-brick, it's the "easy to install, brick veneer system for the amateur decorator" (http://bit.ly/7GgPQO).

If you are familiar with it, you know it's short for craZY-brick.

Anyway, I've seen some crazy crap in houses. But nothing in suburban Baltimore prepared me for the Town Hall of Crazytown in St. Augustine this past weekend. Villa Zorayda (http://www.villazorayda.com/).

I've been to villas before: the Morning Star Villa in Cape May (www.vrbo.com/52705), Villa de la Roca in Zihautenajo (http://www.villadelaroca.com/). I think there's a difference between the ones that are a villa (said like "bridezilla") or a villa (rhymes with "be-a", as in the southern "be-a de-ah and pass the be-er"). Based on my limited experience, the difference seems to be about two grand a week and a trip through customs.

Villa Zorayda in St. Augustine is a villa; rhyme it with gorilla. It looks like a gorilla may have decorated it. With a box of crayons.

The villa was built as a winter getaway in 1883 by Frank Smith. It's a sturdy structure, to be sure. Frank figured out a way to combine crushed coquina shell (it's the heavy, non-porous rocks found on the east coast of Florida) and poured concrete to create a fortress of a house. (His frenemy Henry Flagler used the same method when he built the Ponce de Leon hotel across the street).

Frank modeled the building after the Alhambra Palace in Granada, Spain. And by model, I mean like scale model, because the whole place is built to 1/10th the scale of the original. 

St. Augustine has a lot of Moorish/Spanish influences. Frank helped start that design bent. In addition to the Villa Zorayda, Frank built the Casa Monica (now a great hotel run by the Kessler Group, http://www.casamonica.com/), which is just up the street. It's a whole little Spanish enclave in that area, with the Ponce and the Lightner Museum (http://www.lightnermuseum.org/..

Let's get back to the craziness of the Villa Zorayda itself. The outside of the building hints at it with its red and yellow accents dotting the cement facade of the building. But it's the inside that is really nuts--a confetti of primary colors on every possible surface. And stuff--there is stuff everywhere, from china sets to statues, to pierced metal lamps to paintings. Vases, and screens, and Victorian furniture. With all the colors, and all the stuff, it's hard to take it all in.

Here's a photo that you can study to see some of the treasures.

As I look at it, I realize the one thing that it needs. A nice wall of stylish white Z-brick.

New Year, Old Tricks

Earlier this week, I shared with you my love for all things Belsnickel.

For the record, the lonely travelers I was talking about were rural Belsnickels. They terrorized children that lived down long lanes, in drafty old farmhouses. Children who had to milk cows and help can beans. Children who spent most of the winter carrying water to thirsty animals. Children who were probably too tired to get in much trouble anyway.

Urban Belsnickels, on the other hand, traveled in packs, gathering under street lamps to dance, sing or ask for donations (it really is uncanny how all of these Belsnickel guys sound just like my Uncle Dave). They could be quite destructive, blocking streets with "old barrels, hogheads, grocery boxes, wheelbarrels, harrows, plows, wagon and cart wheels" (from the Pottstown LaFayette Aurora in 1826). If I came to an intersection, and found that it was blocked by huge piles of hogheads, I think I'd find an alternate route. Fast.

As time went on, many of these hooligans wore masks and performed short skits. The revelry delighted some and annoyed others, with the editor of the Pottstown Ledger writing on December 26, 1873, that "This bellsnickle business, which is becoming more of a rough and rowdy of the Christmas season each year, might as well be omitted altogether."

The dancing around with the masks was called...*wait for it*...*here it comes*....MUMMING!!!

Sound phamiliar, phellow Philadelphians?

While it was omitted altogether from Christmas, mumming found a place on New Year's Day in the Philadelphia Mummer's Day parade. Where it delights some and annoys others to this day.

How are you spending new year's day? Any resolutions that are fit for public comment?

I'm headed off to find some pork and sauerkraut, like any good Pennsylvania Dutch girl (I might cover my bases, since I'm spending the day in the south, and throw in some collards and black-eyed peas...because I can use all the luck I can get!)

Happy New Year!!!!

Glories of Christmases Long, Long Ago

Christmas itself is a time capsule, with a crumpled old green bow on it.

Like...the ornament I bought from Charleston in 2002, the first time I had shrimp and grits (as opposed to the ornament I bought in 2005, which was the first time I liked shrimp and grits). The Christmas plates and canisters that my mother-in-law gave me one year, without any hints or suggestions (see, Mom, I told you I liked them!). The wreath I made with my friend Mary Jane, who could wrestle pine cones onto a wire form like no one's business.

It's why it's the most wonderful time of the year (assuming you like Charleston, Christmas plates, and my friend Mary Jane).

But I'm not interested in talking about recent history here. I'm talking about Christmases *long*, *long* ago. Like the song. Like this blog--historic.

In Pennsylvania, during the 18th and 19th century, Santa was not exactly a fat jolly giggling man but a frightening, evil, masochistic man (or woman) who was looking for free liquor and an excuse to hit young children. I know, I know...it sounds like your Uncle Dave after his football team loses. But hang with me here.

In the wild and unchartered pre-Santa Claus days (Thomas Nast didn't do his first Santa cartoons until 1863; see them at http://www.sonofthesouth.net/Original_Santa_Claus.htm), a mischievous and occassionally belligerent Christmas elf made his rounds of rural children. Dressed in patched and baggy clothes, often the clothes of the opposite gender (not that there's anything wrong with that), the Pennsylvania Dutch Belsnickel rewarded good children with fruit and cakes, while the bad children were punished with whips from the Belsnickel's lash.

As a "gut Dutchie" from Pennsylvania, I grew up with stories of the Belsnickel. Or Bellschniggle. Or Belsh Nichel. We Dutchies aren't much for spelling. Apparently, all of the names stem from the German "Peltz Nicel," meaning "Nicholas in furs," which referred to the bearskin coat or skunk-skin cap that often accessorized the Belsnickel's disguise. When he didn't wear a cap, he wore a tall pointy hood, probably to keep him warm in the Pennsylvania winter.

The December 26, 1826 issue of the Pottstown LaFayette Aurora described the Belsnickel as "a mischievous hobgoblin that makes his presence known to the people once a year by his cunning tricks of fairyism. Christmas is the time for his sporting revelry, and he then gives full scope to his permitted privileges in every sharpe that his roving image can suggest."

Again, a little bit like Uncle Dave.

I have loved Belsnickels since I was a little girl. Maybe because I was a good student, and I would have killed to see the bad kids hit with a stick while I feasted on nuts and oranges. Maybe because I've always wanted a fur hat of my own, or at least a fur muff that I could wear when I went skating like a scene from Currier &Ives. (Full disclosure: I can't ice skate. I just like the costumes).

Boyertown, Pennsylvania has a craft show each November called "The Belsnickel Craft Show." Oddly enough, there are very few Belsnickels there. (Check out the attached link: http://www.visitpa.com/things-to-do/event-calendar/event-details/index.aspx?id=21307024 . For the record, that's an honest-to-goodness, full-blown Thomas Nast Santa Claus there on the right. Not a Belsnickel at all. Someone should really tell the show promoters).

But once, years and years ago, I managed to find a humorless chalkware Belsnickel amongst the crocheted pot holders and funny looking wooden things. I bought him and brought him home, where he could glare at me from a side table.

He looked lonely there, so I bought a couple more, finding them at Christmas stores, in catalogs, at yard sales. I amassed my own little army of angry, arm-folded villains.

This is only about a quarter of my collection. It grows a little each year, and moves around the house: some on the side table, some on a dresser. Some I hide in the bathroom to scare my husband when he steps out of the shower.

There are Belsnickels made of papier mache. Belsnickels made of chalkware, poured in old chocolate molds. Some are--don't tell--some kind of resin concoction. I have two cast iron ones, too...the scariest thing about them is the damage that they do when they fall off a dresser and on to my toes (which is why they're typically the ones that I hide in the bathroom).

They're my favorite part of the time capsule that is Christmas. They remind me of my childhood, and of my family's origins in Germany, and of my many happy years as a credit-card-carrying member of the "Ladies for Economic Recovery" club. They remind me that you can travel across time as easily as you can travel to grandmother's house.

Sometimes more easily; especially when the road to grandmother's house is covered with 20" of snow.

Merry Christmas! From my time to yours!!

PS--The Belsnickels featured above are rural Belsnickels. Meet their urban hip-hop brethren in my next blog, New Year, Old Tricks.

The Root of the Problem...

Many people have asked me just how I've gotten this way. And I don't just mean psychiatrists, either. Normal, concerned individuals have asked: Why do you love historic destinations so much? Do the old portraits make you feel pretty by comparison? Do you think mustiness is a treasured perfume? Are you just against hotel chains on principle?

The answers, of course, are yes, no, and yes. But there is a deeper reason.

I love old buildings, old portraits, and old furniture because of this:

Yes, that's the childhood home. It's been in our family since the 1700's, when my great great great great great grandfather bought it from Thomas Penn. Apparently young Thomas inherited his Pop's stake in Penn's Woods (along with his brothers) when William passed in 1720.

My brother owns the house now, and--to assert that it was his house and not Dad's anymore--he just removed the plaster and re-pointed the house in June. When I was a kid, the house was white plaster with black shutters. I was afraid that the hidden stone would be ugly (Why would someone have covered it with plaster? I asked my brother more than once as he planned the project). I was wrong, obviously. The stone is beautiful.

The inside is even better: the house boasts

• drawers built into the front windowsills (so the lady of the house could pay the help without actually having to stand on the porch with those lowly ne'er do wells)
• hand graining (if you look closely at the wood grain in some rooms you can find rabbits and ducks and other little critters), and
• a fireplace built with a stone from every county in Pennsylvania (my great great grandfather got around quite a bit while his wife was in Europe. Ahem).

My room was in the "back" of the house, facing the driveway and the old barn. I wallpapered it myself around 1979, and I rearranged the furniture as often as I used to apply pimple cream.

And that's why I am the way that I am.

Please tip your docent on the way out.

Smile and Say "Trees"

At the risk of going all stand-up comedian on you, I have to ask: What is the deal with tree lightings?

I mean, HTG is all about spiked hot chocolate. And I love a cute cashmere scarf as much as the next girl (assuming that the next girl is one who really really likes cashmere scarves).

But standing in the cold for an hour, waiting for a tree to go from a dark silhouette to a dark silhouette with little lights on it?

Frankly, I've found you can get the same effect by standing in front of said tree with your eyes closed for about 30 seconds, and then opening them.

Ooooh. Aaaaah. *applause and laughter and squeals of delight*.

Now where's that hot chocolate?

Having said that, I did go to the annual tree lighting at the Physick Estate in Cape May, NJ. I did it not for the spiked HC, but for the free house tour that they offered as part of the festivities. (Full disclosure: I was in the house's dining room when the docent cried that the tree lighting was in 2 minutes. I looked at her with pity and said "I'm exactly where I want to be." She laughed and said "You couldn't get me to stand outside in that cold for nothing." Which I thought wasn't very Victorian, as well as not being very good grammar).

Cape May does trees exceptionally well. Many of the bed and breakfast owners put decorated trees on their porches, so that you can enjoy them without craning your neck to peek in the lace curtains at night. Which HTG has done. And she has been caught doing it.

And she has not been offered spiked hot chocolate afterwards.

But, for those of you who like the tree lightings, here is a before:

and an after:

Hand me the butterscotch schnapps.

Too Cool for School?

HTG hates Washington, DC.

It has nothing to do with the Redskins, or whatever political party is in office (well, sometimes it's the political party in office). It's more the stupid layout of the city--the circles, the non-parallel roads, the inexplicable one-way streets. Pierre Charles L'Enfant, a French-born American architect laid the city out in 1791. Presumably while he was drunk.

It's enough to make me say "Freedom Fries" next time I'm in the McDonald's drive through.

So, when I had a recent event there I freaked out a couple of days before and decided to spend the night to avoid the morning traffic.

I made an online reservation for the Helix Hotel (http://www.hotelhelix.com/). The website said it was off of Logan Circle, so it was convenient (the capital is actually walkable from this location, but I had piles and piles of crap to take with me for the meetings with the 18-year-old legislative assistants who actually run our country and write our legislation).

I was driving towards Barrack's house when I realized that I hadn't eaten dinner (bear with me--I promise this story is going somewhere. And not just in a slow-moving circle, like the DC beltway itself).

When I called the hotel to see if they had room service, Austin Powers picked up.Yes, that Austin Powers. He sounded drunk, too. "Hi, baybee, and welcome to the groovy Hotel Helix," he said.

Uh oh.

I frantically pounded the "O" button, and finally reached a person...who thankfully did not talk like Greg Brady in the episode where he wants to prove that he's a swinging grown up dude with blue glasses and a fringed suede vest, mamma. The live human informed me that there was room service available until 11.

I was worried, of course. I'm not that cool. I don't like any of Mike Meyers' movies. I was the fat kid in the swinging 60's (really the early 70's), the one with ugly printed blouses and home sewn corduroy pants.

I was not Hotel Helix material. Not 40 years ago. And probably not now, either.

The lobby was dark, and mostly empty, and I could barely see when I walked in the lobby. Luckily, there were two strips of purple neon behind the front desk, or I would  have stumbled around in my granny shoes trying to feel my way for 30 minutes or more. As my myopic eyes adjusted, I saw that the staff at the front desk was cool looking, with quirky glasses, and the kind of attention to detail that suggests they were junior stylists. Or gay. Either one is quite intimidating when I'm not looking my best.

To be fair, the staff was very very nice. They seemed sympathetic at the amount of brochures and annual reports I was balancing on my suitcase. They were pleasant as they reminded me that they would need my car keys to valet my car (who would leave their car keys in the ignition in DC?)

Most importantly, they didn't make fun of me, at least not until I was safely on the elevator. I strained my ears listening for their clucking, but heard nothing as the mirrored elevator doors closed behind me. I tried not to look at my bedraggled reflection in the doors.
It didn't really matter. Had I primped for an hour, and pulled out my most stylish heels, the cool factor of this hotel would still have been way beyond me.

I ended up in one of 178 newly decorated guest rooms (in addition to them, there are 12 specialty rooms--including some with bunk beds and another 18 suites that cost as much as my mortgage). My room had a desk and television and sofa in one part of the el-shaped room, with the king-sized bed in the other part, gauzily hidden behind drawn curtains. It made the room feel even larger than it was.

Behind the bed there was a full-scale mural of a man surfing, and the bed was covered with a very cozy looking sheepskin throw.

I kicked off my shoes and started to explore. The bathroom was quite small, but in the hallway leading to it (I guess technically the suite was U-shaped), there was a very cool bright orange frigidaire that served as the mini bar. Above that, a reproduction of Andy Warhol's 1964 print, Jackie. I was starting to get it: the hotel was like our former first lady...elegant and refined, but portrayed with a bit of wit. Okay, Austin, I'm a little slow. In addition to being uncool.


I loved the artwork over my desk...a numbered photograph of Ken in his pajama bottoms chasing Barbie in his pajama top. My own Ken doll was not with me that evening, but I thought the photo was funny and I felt myself relaxing a little bit as I laughed.

As I hung up my banker pinstripes in the closet, I saw the best part of the room: two freshly laundered bathrobes--each available for purchase at the front desk--one in a wild zebra print and one in a sexy leopard. I loved them both...especially the way they stood in stark contrast to my Congress-ready suits.

A couple of minutes later, eating the nice crispy calamari from room service, I started to think that maybe I could fit in here. I could cut my hair with manicure scissors, and move in to a funky place like this. I could walk downstairs to the cool  lounge, and talk to the hipsters drinking neon-colored drinks out of martini glasses.

Or I could slip into the leopard print robe, snuggle up under the white sheepskin throw, and try to work on my English accent. It's a start anyway, baybee.

The Scariest House in America

Historic travel girl has been in some pretty scary houses in her time. The house she grew up in, where the cabinet doors were always open in the morning and sometimes the piano played at night (Seriously. It's Halloween, folks, not April Fool's). Then there was the second place my husband and I renovated, where a young guest said he didn't want to visit us any more because there was a mad little boy in the back bedroom and he didn't want to see him again. (It was just as well, as I thought that said young guest was a brat, and I was already trying to figure out how to never invite his parents again. Thanks, mad little ghost boy).

The third place we renovated, and then rented out, wasn't scary to me, but I did receive a call from my cleaner in 2008 to tell me that our departing guests felt a departed guest and her "female presence" in the yellow bedroom. The cleaner then asked me what I wanted her to do (???!!!). I told her to run the vaccuum cleaner extra long in that room--if something/someone was in there, and she/it wasn't paying rent, it/she needed to go. I'm not sure if our cleaner did this or not...but I have looked diligently for a presence, and the only presence I felt in the room was after my husband had a seriously gassy night.

But despite a long history of houses that make your arm hairs stand up, I must admit that the scariest house I ever visited was....*frightening pause here in the background music*....the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose (http://www.winchestermysteryhouse.com/) *clap of thunder* *photo turns to black and white then back to color then back to black and white again*.

Enough with the fancy visual effects. Here's the story on the house.

In 1884, Sarah L. Winchester began building a home. She had plenty of money to do it, as she was a widow and the sole heir to the Winchester gun fortune. Somehow, maybe it was all the sawdust from the building project (lord knows that can make me batty after a week or two), or the opium that they used to prescribe back then, but the widow Winchester got the idea that the ghosts of all of the Indians that had been killed by her family's guns were conspiring to haunt her.

If that's not nutty enough, she then got the idea that she could build a house that was so confusing, so messed up, and so utterly ridiculous that even the most persistent ghost would hang it up and go float around in an uncomplicated two-bedroom flat in town...just because it was easier to get around.

AND...get this woman a case of multi-vitamin valium, stat...some fortune teller told her that she would die as soon as she finished building the house. And Miss Sarah believed her.

So, wacky widow Winchester set the boys to building. They kept going for another 38 years.

What would a contractor do for 38 years? Well, if it's one of the contractors that I've worked with, they might spend half of that time smoking on the porch and waiting for the kitchen cabinets to be delivered from Home Depot. But her contractors were more savvy. They built staircases that went nowhere (they literally disappear into the ceiling). They put in doors that opened directly to the outside, where you would plunge to your death if you snuck off the tour and decided to explore things on your own. They made teeny-tiny rooms that no one could even stand in.

They weren't lazy. During that 38 years, they built or installed: 1,257 windows, 950 doors, 47 fireplaces, 40 staircases, 52 skylights, 6 kitchens, and 2 ballrooms. I guess the lady wasn't much for dancing.

The tour of the house is as fascinating as it is frightening: there are 160 rooms, and it doesn't take long before you're completely turned around and you have no idea where you came from. It is very easy to lose your bearings and get completely lost.

But be careful and stay with the group ...because if you're lost, imagine how lost and angry the ghosts must be. *lightning crackle* Bwaaa haaa haaaa.......