There was a hint of change at the Equinox this year. The Harris Hawk on perpetual display, usually in the entrance to the lobby, had been replaced by a Christmas tree. My wife and I had also felt a surge in traffic in the historic town of Manchester, Vermont.
The hotel staff was also a little less the fixture they seemed in the past. One member asked me to spell my name, even after I introduced myself as “Harris, like the Hawk.” Another, when I asked why they had a hawk on display (it was moved temporarily to the entrance to the gift shop) when the hotel was famous for its falconry, told me I could Google it. I assume there is not much difference between a falcon and a hawk, but I will indeed Google it sometime before my return next year.
The weather was another change. It was summer-like both days we were there, about 60 degrees with bright sun. We walked around town without coats. I am writing from camp, in the Adirondacks, this morning, sweltering from the wood stove my wife insisted that I light last night. It’s a matter of ambience. The temperature didn’t even go down to forty last night; the grass is green and the lake looks like we could go swimming. This is a good thing, at the moment; but not necessarily long term.
The Champagne event itself was largely the same as always, except the lady who played the grand piano didn’t bother to change from staff uniform into a tux, as in the past; and there was no sign of either foie gras (probably political) or Beluga Caviar (fished out). There was still a wonderful variety of game and gourmet foods to assuage the stomach after copious wine.
I call the event a conduit, because it shakes me from the constraints of contemporary life. Part of the effect undoubtedly arises from the hotel’s history. Iran Allen, Ethan’s younger brother, used the hotel’s Marsh Tavern to organize and equip the Green Mountain Boys to fight in the America Revolution, after confiscating it from its proprietor, William Marsh. Marsh was solidly behind the American cause, but flipped to Tory after Burgoyne’s successful invasion, convinced the British would prevail. He cared about America, but he cared more about his tavern. He fled to Canada.
Mary Lincoln loved the restorative powers of the New England Hotel at the foot of mighty Mount Equinox. Mary suffered from melancholy. She brought her two boys to the Hotel for vacation one summer, and returned the next summer by herself. She made reservations for her husband to join her the third summer, but he was shot just prior to their scheduled trip. She never returned, but the two rooms she had reserved have since been called the Lincoln Suite.
Conduits like the hotel permit my unconscious mind to literally take over. If I had criminal intent, it would be dangerous, because I become completely possessed. The prefrontal cortex stops its chatter and I become timeless. If I were conscious, I would know I was entering the warp because there is always a gatekeeper: always a pretty young woman who adopts me as a protector (both ways) of sorts. She appears and when I glance at her, responding to the stimulation against my arm, her eyes connect like she has always been there. She stays with me and I always kick myself the next morning for not even speaking with her. Lynn stays, too, and is completely tolerant of the girl; probably anticipating her by this time. I am used to it, too, and I realize, alas, if I were conscious, the girl would not appear at all.
I remember a few things before the descent: Moet Chandon Nectar Imperial Blanc, non vintage; Moet Chandon Brut Imperial 1999; Pommery Brut Royal, non vintage; Cuvee Louise 1995; and Krug Crand Cuvee, non vintage 1.5 were my favorites. Touches of bret-like flavor, wonderful earth and complexity set these wines apart. My wife on the other hand, liked Dom Perignon 1998 and Taittinger Comptes de Champagne 1996 the best. So apparent were the differences in taste among wine lovers. A thought I held before going under was how senseless ratings are.
I prided myself on my pickup of a hint of TCA in the first bottle of Moet Chandon Nectar Imperial Blanc. I asked a well dressed older gentleman standing next to me if he were a connoisseur, for confirmation. He said no, but pointed to a man with a pony tail in a red flannel shirt. At my question to him, he snatched the glass from my hand, a man possessed in his own right, to answer the question that could not remain open to him for a nanosecond. “Indeed!” he cried; “Let’s see if the proprietor can agree.” He did. I though it unusual for a Champagne, but of course, they have corks, too – and other sources of contamination, like any other bottle.
Rob, with the pony tail, the older gentleman, Garry, Vicky, Colette, and the tall, masculine transvestite with his wheel-chaired female companion were all friends, and attend every year. We joined the group of pals at their table the next morning at breakfast and possibly became a perpetual part of their group, ourselves, talking fondly about the same time, same place again next year.