Chicago Weblog

Last weekend we visited the grand estate of George Vanderbilt, Biltmore.  I probably would have enjoyed the trip more if I hadn’t been suffering the allergy attack from hell.

We got up extra early on Thursday to catch the tour bus.  The pickup point was not in what you would call the best part of town; I cleared out the car and hoped that it would still be there when we returned.

We settled into our seats, which were more comfortable than airplane seats and had a lot more room.  A lot more.  However, the driver then had to fight his way through rush hour traffic to pick up some more passengers with the upshot that after an hour on the bus we were right back where we started.  Live and learn.  Next time we will sleep in an extra hour and then drive to the last pick up stop.

The ride to North Carolina was fine.  All the passengers were grey-hairs, except for one young woman who was traveling with her mother-in-law.  The bus stopped frequently for us to stretch our legs.  At one stop, I talked with a couple of guys who had just pulled a 1936 Silver King tractor out of a ditch and were taking it home to restore.  It looked like they really had their work cut out for them.

Biltmore, if you’ve never been there, is a staggering 250 room mansion built at the turn of the twentieth century by a grandson of Cornelius Vanderbilt, a famous nineteenth century robber baron.  This grandson, George, had inherited enough money to do anything that he wanted, and what he wanted to do was read books, travel, entertain, and build the most impressive mansion imaginable to go along with those activities.

And truly, the house and gardens are magnificent.  He hired the greatest house and landscape architects available, and the results show.  I particularly like the way the grand staircase and wintergarden asymmetrically flank the main entrance.  And the banquet hall with the triple fireplace and seventy-foot ceiling was a nice touch:

A wintergarden is always a nice touch above the thirty-fifth parallel, but we didn’t get to see much of it, as something had crashed through the glass roof the day before and they were busy making repairs.

But as we went through the rooms, looking at all the old tapestries and European-influenced interior design, I couldn’t help but be struck by the contrast between what was going on here and at the World Columbian Exhibition, which was built at about the same time.  We had seen a special exhibit at the Field Museum on the Columbian Exhibition.  The World Columbian was open to all; it showed the wonders of all corners of the current world, and the promise of the wonders of the future.  Biltmore was only available to a select few, and although George had a very inquiring mind (the libraries in Biltmore contain about 23,000 volumes), you get the feeling that there really isn’t much original here.  I suppose this is what is meant by the “Gilded Age”.

They did have a nice old car.  I like the kerosene back-up headlights in case the electric ones don’t work.

There was a nice fountain. All of the coins thrown into the fountain are donated to the local humane society in the name of George’s beloved Saint Bernard, Cedic, shown here playing with George’s daughter.

The azaleas (or rhododendrons or whatever they are up here) were in full bloom.  There is an entire azalea garden which we toured.

As I mentioned, though, I was sick as a dog that day, so halfway through the garden I had to lie down for some rest.

I’m sure George would have been appalled at some commoner passed out on his Frederic Law Olmsted-designed garden.

CVH loves banana trees, and they had banana trees in the greenhouses.

I’m afraid my final take on the whole estate was that it was too extravagant; it just didn’t seem right that one man could do this without producing anything himself.  I found Biltmore to be a excellent argument for at least some sort of estate tax.

Saturday dawned cloudy for our ride home, but we were lucky in that we had seats in the front of the bus so that we could watch the Smokies and Blue Ridge mountains pass by.  Halfway into the morning, though, we stopped at the outlet mall for two hours.  Two hours! I thought; we could get home that much sooner.  The tour director pointed out that although most men don’t like to stop at the mall, it is on the itinerary.  Also, being a flower and garden tour, women outnumbered men about three to one.  Maybe four to one.  But the joke was on me; CVH and I came back loaded to the gills with purchases.  We were grabbing other people’s overhead bins right and left to stow all our stuff.

Then we went down the road about fifteen minutes and stopped again, this time at a Russell Stover outlet store.  Now what? I thought.  Well, we needed to get something to bring home to mama, so we went inside and found a nice box of chocolates.  Then we noticed everyone had gravitated to the back of the store.  We followed out of curiosity and found this is where Russell Stover sells their seconds; that is, chocolates that taste perfectly fine, but have cosmetic problems that prevented them from making it into one of their fancy boxes.  They take about five pounds of these seconds and throw them in a box and sell them for three dollars.  Anyway, we finally got out of there carrying about twenty pounds of chocolate, including the nice little box they threw in at the cash register for being such good customers.

And the car was just fine when we got back.

CVH is still, after all these years, a rabid Houston Rockets basketball fan.  She watches all the games on TV.

So when a business associate and all-around good guy mentioned to me that he had season tickets to the Pacers and would be happy to host us for the Pacers-Rockets game, CVH marked it on her calendar in big red letters.  Plus I was going to throw it in the basket of twenty-fifth anniversary credits that I’m trying to build up this year.

Monday 0900: Getting ready to leave.  Overnight bags are packed and in the car.  A  friend of CVH, who lives on the Indiana side of the river, has suggested avoiding the bridge construction by taking the bypass all the way around town.  Yes, I’m thinking, that would certainly avoid construction, but would add a lot of miles to the journey.  Checking the on-line traffic maps and cameras, I see that traffic through downtown is unusually light today.  Extremely light for a Monday, in fact.  So I decide we’ll just take the direct route.

Sure enough, we zip right downtown, over the bridge, and come to a screeching halt in Indiana.  After driving for what seems like a hour, I believe I can still see the “Welcome to Kentucky” sign in my rear-view mirror.  Eventually, though, after over an hour and a half, we are out of construction and sail uneventfully into downtown Indianapolis.

Since I lived there as a small boy, the city has built two large professional ball stadiums on the near south side of downtown, and this has dramatically transformed that area from an old rail/warehouse district into an hotel and entertainment hub.  Quite amazing.  Maybe these tax breaks for arenas really do pay off.  Maybe.

Monday 1150: We need lunch, so we head down the street to Haveli, a lunch buffet.  It was hot, ready and we were hungry.  $7.99.  A good value.  Not the best Indian food, but for $7.99 a good value.

Thus fortified, it’s now time for a little walking around.  We visited the Arts Garden, reminiscent of the Winter Garden we saw in Chicago.

We toured the State House, just as I did when I was in fourth grade.  There were a lot of fourth graders there.  Here CVH poses.

And we saw the Indiana House of Representatives chamber, with its huge 100 light chandelier (one light for each representative).

We stop at the Indiana State Museum gift shop to get a souvenir for Mama (a ball point pen that looks like a cardinal bird, which is the state bird of both Indiana and Kentucky).

Monday 1500:  Back to the Hampton Inn for a nap.

Monday 1730: We meet our hosts, Greg and Jerry, at the Weber Grill restaurant.  As you might guess, they grill everything over giant Weber grills.  The restaurant is decorated in retro 1966 style (I loved it); you could imagine having a steak there before the Sinatra show.

Monday 1845: Time to head to the stadium, a short walk away.  As we near the entrance Greg turns and asks if anyone has a knife on them.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I always carry one.”

“You’re such a boy scout,” CVH interjected.

“OK, just palm it in one hand, show your keys in the other, and hold both arms up as you are scanned,” Greg advised.  I palmed my knife behind my ticket and there was indeed no problem.  Apparently Greg has dealt with this issue before.

The fieldhouse is rather unremarkable on the outside, but entering it was like walking into the middle of a three ring circus.  There was so much light and color and noise and activity I became disoriented.  There were bands playing and people dancing and pictures being taken and all sorts of food and drink being sold.  I didn’t have time to take any of this in and get my bearings because we were a little late; I got caught on the stairwell when the Star Spangled Banner started, but made it to my seat just in time for tip-off.

The seats were very nice, much more comfortable than the ones in the Houston basketball arena, and we had a great view.  CVH was beside herself.  The Rockets led the entire game, but the end was close enough that it was a real contest.  It was more interesting than I thought it was going to be (if a little repetitive); the live environment definitely enhances the experience.

Monday 2200: Game over.  Say goodbye to Greg and Jerry.  Walk to hotel.  Fall asleep.

Tuesday 0800: Wake up.  Get washed and dressed.  Run down the stairs to get a newspaper for CVH.  Back up the stairs to deliver the paper and then back down to the breakfast room for eggs and corn flakes.  Back up to room to read Dalai Lama while waiting on CVH.  0915: Back to breakfast room, this time with CVH for second breakfast course.

Tuesday 0945: Check out of hotel.  Drive down the street to Shapiro’s.  Why Shapiro’s?  Well, about this time last year we met with our accountant to review our tax returns.  After going over a number of items, he asked me if I had any more questions.  Taking note of his apparent ethic background, I said “Yes. Where can you get a good pastrami in this town?”

“You can’t.  The nearest place is Shapiro’s, in Indianapolis.”

“Shapiro’s!  They’re still around?  I remember getting stuff there when I was a little boy for special occasions.”

So I had to take CVH there.  We walked in, and most of the steam table items were already out, so it smelled magical.  They don’t have the cheapest items in town there, but you’ll have great trouble finding any higher quality.  We ordered a couple of stuffed cabbage rolls, some peppered beef, a couple of slices of coconut cream pie, a bagel, and two chocolate eclairs.  The poor fellow behind the deli counter, however, was not having a good day and could not get our order rung up properly to save himself.  He eventually closed the ticket and quoted me a price.  He showed me the receipt and said don’t worry about it not matching, I credited you for where I overcharged, and you really came out ahead.  He was a big guy and I didn’t want to start any trouble (or get him into trouble) and the price he quoted seemed reasonable, so I just paid it.  On the way out I mentioned that we were from Louisville, and he assured me that we couldn’t get anything this good in Louisville.  It wasn’t until we got back home and unpacked the bag that he loaded for us that we discovered that his price was much more than reasonable.  If they don’t get that guy off the register, they may be out of business by next week.

Tuesday 1130: This time I take the bypass, avoid all construction, and we’re home in less than two hours.