Trip to the Inn

This past weekend, my girlfriend and I decided to get out of the city and head up the river a bit for, what my mother refers to as, “a romantic getaway.” I had mentioned it to her when I was in the Rite Aid. She asked me what I was shopping for, and I responded “Tampons,” to which she said with delight, “Oh good! Getting that out of the way before your romantic getaway.” This was actually very sweet to hear coming out of my midwestern mother who is still in the midst of warming up to my relatively newfound homosexuality. Anywho, Meagan and I drove about an hour out of the city to Warwick, New York. We pulled into the gravel drive of the Inn at Stony Creek on Saturday afternoon. The white mid-18th century home was pristine on its 25 acres of land. A pond cuddled the back of the house and housed a dozen large ducks. I think they were ducks? They were strangely robust though, making me think they could be the love child of a duck and a goose: forbidden love. After climbing the stone pathway, Meagan and I emerged in the entryway of the ornately decorated inn. Not a moment later, a tall, gray-haired, sock-footed man emerged with a large, white parrot perched on his shoulder, named Mykonos. We both smiled with immense delight. We learned quickly that the tall man was named Bill, and he ran the inn with his partner Joe. Our smiles broadened. This was exactly what we were after: an inn owned by a couple of parrot-owning gays.  

The Fox and the Hound room hosted a large, slightly sagging four-poster bed, a wanna be wood-burning stove, three huge paneled windows, two plush robes hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and one giant portrait of a founding father of sorts hanging above the bed. His arms were crossed and his eyebrows raised in disapproval. It seems my mother had called ahead and informed him of the shenanigans that may be happening under his watchful eye. 

Once we were settled, Meagan and I decided to hit up one of the famed breweries in the area. We followed the winding roads lined by white picket fences and backdropped by a cotton candy sky. I am not sure if it is the fact that I am Kansas-grown - actually, I am sure this is what it is - but whenever I am presented with mountains with ponds at their feet, I freak out. Add a full moon to that Durand-style landscape, and you will never be able to get my attention. The road turned off into a large parking lot, packed with cars. It seems as though, there really is not much else to do in rural New York in February than go to your local brewery. This guess was solidified the moment we entered the giant red barn. The large, open space had some couples, a few groups of girlfriends, but was mostly made up of parents desperate for spring to come. I know this because all of them had on average, three children in tow. Overall, Tin Barn Brewing had very good hazy IPA’s, which is what we came for, great spiritwear, and a very amusing wall painted like a cow with a trap door that kept spitting out servers carrying pizzas. We fondly referred to this as Pizza Cow. When out of the hallowed halls of New York City, Meagan and I have created a system to rate places of fellowship, and it is based on kissability. On a scale of 1 to 10, how comfortable do we feel laying a wet one on the other? This place landed on a solid 6. Upon leaning in, we would not quite be subject of a hate crime, but we would have received a few shocked faces and maybe one or two side eye stares. With this conclusion, we decided perhaps we should keep moving. 

Our next stop was the Landmark Inn for dinner where we enjoyed a cheese plate and two glasses of red wine to start. The old inn had a charming wraparound porch and a fireplace with embers burning low. Perfect marshmallow cooking fire. It was the ideal, cozy spot for our first-night dinner. The only thing that was missing was Bing Crosby and a wispy blonde at the spinet. Back at the inn, we indulged in a late-night raiding of the kitchen for a sugar cookie and two bottles of water. We then popped on our stove and snuggled into bed.

The next morning, we awoke to a winter wonderland. Each window was pepperd, or salted I suppose, with falling flakes. These flakes were phat, I tell you. Most of me is really quite sick of needing to strap on four shirts and two pants before hitting the great outdoors, but I am still a bitch for freshly fallen snow. I will put on endless layers for a pristine blanket of angel dust. Not The Outsiders kind of angel dust, like real dust from angels. The smell of bacon was pumping out of the vents in the floor, beckoning my vegetarian girlfriend and I to the dining room for breakfast. Up until this morning, we hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the other guests. There were two middle-aged couples wrapping up their stays. They offered us a couple of, “Good morning’s”, and highly recommended the avocado toast. Another younger couple joined us about halfway: a very bossy young woman and a regretful man. Bill emerged from the kitchen with a small plate of croissants and the menu options for that morning. I ordered two eggs scrambled, and Meagan went with the popular avocado toast, which Bill assured us was truly a hit amongst residents. While we waited for our dishes, we enjoyed the Dolly Parton Pandora station that was humming in the background and threw out potential identities of the men who were hanging in the gorgeous portraits. Joe, the chef and co-owner, came through the door with our plates, overjoyed to meet us. I must say, we were absolutely the class favorites. Bill and Joe loved us way more than the other couples who littered the dining room. The avocado toast was bad but only a monster would have the audacity to burst their bubble.

After breakfast, we bundled up and headed into town. About two minutes into our drive, we did have to pull off and shove snow off of the mirrors and windshield, using an old umbrella and disposable coffee cup. All better! Main Street was quaint and looked like a postcard with its snow covered lamp posts and signs. There were home goods stores with candles and signs with phrases like, “This Is Us: Our Life. Our Story. Our Home,” or “Today Is a Good Day to Have a Good Day.” We sadly didn’t purchase any of these out of pure indecision, and no other reason. 

For lunch we crossed a set of train tracks floating above a small creek, which still somehow managed to rush, despite the bone-chilling temperature. Fannie’s was one of those cafes that feels like somebody’s aunt’s home. Maybe not your aunt’s, but somebody’s aunt. The windows were filled with overgrown plants and none of the chairs matched. The small restaurant was still pretty full, given it was almost 3:00pm. We were greeted by a young woman with a short haircut and a handful of piercings: queer. She smiled at us knowingly - we belonged to the Warwick secret club. For fare, we selected tartine to start, which was a fancy way to say, “We would like a huge hunk of your homemade bread, because that lame avocado toast did not do it.” The giant bread hunk was delicious but the real star was the homemade jam. Just delightful. We forged our way through a veggie heavy lunch, stacking greens atop the bread in our stomachs and before we left, we were gifted free cupcakes by our fellow club-member. This transpired most likely because they were about to close, but there is no way of proving that. 

When I say  we did not venture to rural New York to find the secret gays of Warwick, I mean it. That being said, we have a great talent for this. Following our late lunch, we headed to our second brewery of the weekend. Another winding road led to a hilltop where we found Drowned Lands Brewery. The snowy landing felt slightly eerie. This could have been because the parking lot was relatively empty or because the large structure was once a prison - probably that one. We swung the large doors open and were greeted by none other than Girl in Red playing out of the surround sound speakers. I do not remember exactly if this was the artist, but it was equally lesbian. The modern space was full of pruned plants, big globed light fixtures, and a whole line up of women…behind the bar. How do we do it? I really would like to know. The beer spread was delightfully New England with a large line up of foggy orange drafts. Between the two of us, we swam through about four and a half of them which led to us then buying two t-shirts and a hat. Kissability was a 12.

So far I have failed to mention that this day was in fact the day of the Super Bowl. This was not a purposeful move, but just a reflection of our interest. We popped back to Main Street and into a booth at a pub to catch part of the game and the stacked halftime show. No lesbians there, weirdly. After the game, we zoomed back to the Inn, hit the kitchen once more and cozied up for our long winter’s nap. What was supposed to be a long winter’s nap, was cut short by some trash can rustling. You hear one rustle, you tend to ignore it. Two? Maybe open one eye. Three? Mouse. Meagan nudged me and with fear but also calm in her voice whispered, “I um think there is a mouse.” We flopped around trying to find a phone with a functioning flashlight to illuminate our new roommate. The bright light shot out onto the wood triggering a scurry from our little buddy. I managed to zonk back out to sleep, for the trash can was not on my side, and left Meagan to her sleepless night. Sorry, dear! 

Our final morning we had opted for breakfast in our room which was promptly delivered by Joe at 9:00, “Happy Valentine’s Day, girls!” If only he had come in with a tray in his hands and bird on his head. That would have been my preference. After gathering our things and saying a tearful farewell to our in-house rodent, we hauled our belongings down the stairs, promising Bill and Joe that we would return sometime soon. This is a promise I intend to keep. We pulled away from the snow-covered home and gave a wave, “Thank you, Inn at Faggy - I mean - Stony Creek!”