Excus--ursian.
I could come up with some good reason why I haven’t written anything in 2 weeks. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I could probably even give the real reasons.
But I’m not going to. I’m going to distract you with the slight of hand, a wink, a wave…
I’m in a hotel room, in Asheville, North Carolina. DW and I went to The Biltmore Estate today. If you want a friendly review, I suggest you don’t read my information, and instead click Here.
I didn’t pay any attention at all when I first passed the link on to DW about this place. I thought it looked kind of neat, and that she would really like it. I was right, it does look kind of neat, and she did like it. I, however, would rather set poop on fire than go to the Biltmore. As I entered the grounds, I was struck with just how much I didn’t really want to go to this place. You drive through a newer brick archway that would look at home in an upscale home development. You follow the signs to the ticket building. It’s a large brick building with terra cotta type clay roofing. It’s grade A classy. I hate grade A classy.
You can’t actually see any of the grounds (I mean, technically, you’re on the grounds, which at this point consist of a hayfield, and some trees. Oh, and the brick monstrosity of a ticket house) until you’ve paid your $42 a person for a ticket. That’s $42 for the self guided tour. After waging a battle through the value added services that the ticket seller assails you with, you get back into your vehicle and follow the curvy driveway (asphalt, mostly maintained) to the parking lot. If you weren’t shocked at the amount of cars in the ticket booth parking lot, the sheer number in the 12 numbered and lettered lots for the grounds should give a nice jolt. I’ve been to airports with less parking spots. And for 2pm on a Tuesday, there are remarkably few open spots.
Now you have a choice. Walk the half a mile to the actual building, or wait for a bus (I’m guessing they have a 15 minute schedule, since the same people waiting when we were looking for parking, were still there when we walked past it) to drive you the same half mile. We opted to walk. You walk down an uneven rock/dirt/tree branch path (what exactly is the $42 going toward?) and through a brick (sensing a pattern yet?) gate. There it blows, in all it’s concrete and stone wonder. It is an impressive building, with an impressively long U-shaped driveway, going around a (I’m guessing it would be impressive if it were on) fountain. This massive building, and manicured lawn claims the horizon. It says “this view was breathtaking before anyone built, and now I OWN it”.
Dodging the shuttle bus traffic (OH, they’re all here at the building, that’s why those elderly folk are freezing at the parking lot stop), the cars exiting (because for some reason, you get to drive past the building after you’ve seen it, not before), and the horde of school children (oh gods, I count at least 6 busloads of them), you can make your way to the front enterance.
Or to the gift shop, because you know you need to spend a little more here.
Ticket in hand, you enter the building. DW called it pretty. I called it austere, and could feel myself being exploited by a decades dead blueblood. Although the man behind the building of the house wasn’t business savvy, apparently whoever runs it now is. The house is filled with people. You can’t stop, or turn around without being in someone else’s way. All of these people, paying $42 a head, it blows my mind. You get to walk around and look at an art collection from a distance. No touching. A sea of humanity flows between the velvet ropes, pushing you along, clipping out anything you’d like to take a few minutes to look at, stopping you in a hallway while some school marm herds her unruly flock into a line.
No, I don’t think I’ll be returning to “the country’s largest home” anytime soon. Or anytime not soon. Or anytime ever.