I think that the harshest aspect of the death of a loved one is the knowledge that a particular part of your life is gone forever. Most feel this sadness at the loss of a person. I, who have never lost anyone particularly close—other than grandparents whom I barely knew and an acquaintance who ran afoul of enemy fire—tend to feel that sadness from landmarks and memories.

When the great department stores of Baltimore, Richmond and Washington closed, I took it personally. Those stores were friends, neighbors in our cities. Hutzler’s was a wonderful pal, a place where you met friends for lunch, a place that everyone knew. You didn’t worry about the latest fashions, because Hutzler’s told you what they were and sold them to you. Miller and Rhoads was the arbiter of etiquette and elegance. When those stores closed, I shed as many tears for them as I probably would for a human friend.

And then there are places that aren’t quite so familiar, but are even more important.

The Hotel Chamberlin is one of them.

*Here is an article from the Free Lance-Star that has pertinent photos and is itself informative: http://www.freelancestar.com/News/FLS/2003/082003/08232003/1076200

The beautiful old Chamberlin opened her doors in 1928, replacing and older and clunkier Chamberlin that burned a few years earlier. In the aftermath of 9/11, the poor great lady seems to be gone forever—you see, her place of honor is plonk in the middle of Fort Monroe, at Old Point Comfort, Virginia.

This is one of the most perfect vantage points in the world. From the Chamberlin’s veranda, one can observe the serenity of the great Chesapeake Bay, watch the Hampton oyster fleet, keep an eye on barges headed up through the Hampton Roads to Richmond, and—most impressive of all—watch the mighty Atlantic Fleet of the United States Navy as it steams in and out of Norfolk across the Roads. All the while, you’re cooled with bay breezes and the Hotel’s superb cocktails. Unfortunately, the vantage point in question is also one that might be considered a terrorist target and so the Army has made it impossible for the Hotel’s tenure to linger.

There are, of course, more impressive resorts. The Cavalier in Virginia Beach is smaller but is actually on the ocean, rather than a sandy wash of the Bay. The Homestead out in Warm Springs is rather more grand, features lovely mountain views and naturally, its famous springs. The Greenbrier has it all down for snootiness.

The Chamberlin, though, was the Grand Hotel of my own glory days, and with its death a part of me dies as well. When I think of its beautiful dining room I think not only of the delicious Virginia and Maryland-style delicacies served therein, but of the Valentine’s Day dinner I spent there once with my then-sweetheart, and of the gigantic Stieff piano made in Baltimore especially for the hotel. I can’t picture the two-block long arcaded lobby without thinking of the countless hours I spent there waiting for friends, or the beginnings of dances, or cigarettes and drinks enjoyed there in leisurely fashion for no apparent reason. The low-ceiled and tiled pool—’28 vintage—and the nearby creaky game room, to which I once repaired with a onetime lover after a round of unmentionable activity for a game of…Q-Bert?!! And what of the Virginia Ballroom itself? I’m sure that I must have only ever attended six or seven balls there, but now it seems as though I was there every other weekend, decked out in my evening clothes and every dance a new cummerbund and tie from Berry-Burk up in Richmond—or, for a particularly elegant dance, full evening dress and the white pique that I borrowed from my roommate (and upon which I promptly spilled a staining, but delicious, julep).

Most delightful in memory is the winding verandah of the Chamberlin. Here, I truly held court. Whether in the aforementioned evening clothes or summer linen, I always ended up on the verandah. It was the charming place to take one’s Delta Gamma date. I remember sitting behind a potted palm (or something) with one DG sister wearing a pretty gas-blue taffeta dress—that was for one of my Senior fraternity dances; and walking down the verandah steps with another DG sister wearing blue lace who wanted to bond with the ducks in the water out front. (You know who you are!!) I remember sitting alone on the verandah with my gin-and-tonic, reading “The Arms of Krupp” and watching that famous Atlantic fleet, and I also remember interludes there with gentlemen of our Army who would be in awful trouble had anyone known what they’d been up to.

The Chamberlin was present for many of my happiest memories. It represented a way of life that was surely fading back then, in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, and is probably now dead and buried. No one wants a resort like the Chamberlin when flights to the Bahamas are cheap, and no one wants to have to wear seersucker suits to dinner. Fraternity and sorority dances grow ever less fashionable and Army officers who want liaisons can now do so readily without the cover of potted palms.

But it’s awfully hard to let go of something that you loved, and a time that you loved. I can survive, however unhappily, without Miller and Rhoads—but I’m not sure that I want to live in a world that doesn’t have a Hotel Chamberlin.

Everyone, cross your fingers some night, and hope for a reprieve, if not a revival, for the old place. Nothing would make me happier than to dust off the seersucker, put on white bucks and dance the night away in the Virginia Ballroom, with time out for juleps and a walk out on the verandah for one last time to wave at the Iowa as she sails out of port.

I wonder if Mike will ever forgive me for that ruined white vest?