After my recent whining about the death of one of my favorite hotels, I suppose I’d better follow up with one success story. After all, does anyone really want to hear day after day about the death of beauty, honor, glory and tradition? Well, some of you nasty li’l Reds might, but I’m not listening to you.
When I was a tiny little Marylander, I was hauled down to the sainted land of the Old Dominion by my father. Dad had little use for the Holy City, to his eternal discredit, but loved the Tidewater and loved the Valley even more. (Those who are not from our world: the “Valley” is that of the Shenandoah River, and the most beautiful valley one might possibly imagine—and yes, I’ve seen the Loire, and in comparison, it’s crap.) Although Dad always wanted to go to Williamsburg to visit the scenes of his youthful debauchery, my mother, who had sense, wanted to visit Richmond, which is a stylish city and at that time still had fashionable department stores.
In Richmond we always stayed at either the Hotel John Marshall or the Hotel William Byrd. The “John” was the downtown “hotel du choix”, the “Byrd” was mostly just convenient to the train station.
When we visited, I couldn’t help but notice a gargantuan, smoky, ruined hulk at the corner of Franklin and Adams. It had burn marks from a fire. It had two hideous clock towers that looked as though Vlad Dracul himself had picked out the décor. And my father pointed out that “that old thing should have been torn down twenty years ago”. But, in my perverse way, I loved it. I told my father then that I would stay in that hotel one day.
God looks out for perverted people. The Hotel Jefferson, which always WAS the most beautiful hotel between the North Pole and Rio de Janeiro, reopened. Unfortunately, its newer sister, the John Marshall, is closed—one can no longer make a choice between “the John” and “the Jeff” in Richmond. Now, I’m not going to argue really, because for every hotel like the Jeff, there are about twenty Johns. I love the John, but let’s face it, you can’t tell the damned thing from the Lord Baltimore or the Mayflower or the Monticello or… well, you know.
Well, now the Jeff has been reopened for fifteen years now, more or less. And guess what else? The Main Street Station has reopened as well. So now I can actually leave Baltimore on the train, and realize one of my fondest dreams. This is a pretty boring dream, as these things go. All I ever wanted to do was to alight at that gigantic, grand Main Street station and descend the big brownstone stairs, redcap with trunks in tow and hail a cab.
“The Jeff, please!”
When I was a tiny little Marylander, I was hauled down to the sainted land of the Old Dominion by my father. Dad had little use for the Holy City, to his eternal discredit, but loved the Tidewater and loved the Valley even more. (Those who are not from our world: the “Valley” is that of the Shenandoah River, and the most beautiful valley one might possibly imagine—and yes, I’ve seen the Loire, and in comparison, it’s crap.) Although Dad always wanted to go to Williamsburg to visit the scenes of his youthful debauchery, my mother, who had sense, wanted to visit Richmond, which is a stylish city and at that time still had fashionable department stores.
In Richmond we always stayed at either the Hotel John Marshall or the Hotel William Byrd. The “John” was the downtown “hotel du choix”, the “Byrd” was mostly just convenient to the train station.
When we visited, I couldn’t help but notice a gargantuan, smoky, ruined hulk at the corner of Franklin and Adams. It had burn marks from a fire. It had two hideous clock towers that looked as though Vlad Dracul himself had picked out the décor. And my father pointed out that “that old thing should have been torn down twenty years ago”. But, in my perverse way, I loved it. I told my father then that I would stay in that hotel one day.
God looks out for perverted people. The Hotel Jefferson, which always WAS the most beautiful hotel between the North Pole and Rio de Janeiro, reopened. Unfortunately, its newer sister, the John Marshall, is closed—one can no longer make a choice between “the John” and “the Jeff” in Richmond. Now, I’m not going to argue really, because for every hotel like the Jeff, there are about twenty Johns. I love the John, but let’s face it, you can’t tell the damned thing from the Lord Baltimore or the Mayflower or the Monticello or… well, you know.
Well, now the Jeff has been reopened for fifteen years now, more or less. And guess what else? The Main Street Station has reopened as well. So now I can actually leave Baltimore on the train, and realize one of my fondest dreams. This is a pretty boring dream, as these things go. All I ever wanted to do was to alight at that gigantic, grand Main Street station and descend the big brownstone stairs, redcap with trunks in tow and hail a cab.
“The Jeff, please!”
posted by Daniel | 12:59 AM
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