Huatulco's Bays

As we had made arrangements to meet our tour guide at eight o’clock, we had an early breakfast. Once again we were one of the first people in the restaurant, and once again buffet food proved to be nearly inedible. Had I paid far less for this room than I did, I might forgive all of this. But when the price charged rivals that of the best hotels in the capital cities of Europe, I do not think that asking for more than rubbery eggs, soggy French toast, and limp bacon is too much. 

After a short wait, we met Juan again. He was accompanied by another young man who drove us in an SUV to the marina in the town of Santa Cruz Huatulco. At the dock, we were introduced to our Santiago who would actually be our guide for the day. Santiago had a small powerboat, with several fishing rods attached to the roof. He pointed these out to us, but I told him politely that we were more interested in sightseeing, swimming, and snorkeling. He seemed quite agreeable to this and we paid him the rest of the money.

We left the marina and sailed around a point towards the national park. Las Bahias de Huatulco is among the dullest of Mexican resort areas, yet Fonatur, the government agency that developed these projects thirty years ago, made a couple good decisions here. One of these was to set aside a large area that included some of the best beaches as a national park. We stopped along the way to the park at another cove where we rented some snorkeling equipment.

We continued on to the national park. We came to an place with a stunning white beach, but Santiago went a little further out towards a large rock in the water. A large area, maybe about an acre, was marked with floating balls. “Aquí está el coral,” he told us. We put on our masks and fins and without much grace jumped into the water. 

Normally, I do not find snorkeling as rewarding as most people do because my eyesight without glasses is pretty bad. But for some reason, I just had an amazing experience this time. I swam around for several minutes without seeing much of anything. But then, all of a sudden, I was floating over a blanket of purple and green surrounded by brightly colored fish.  Continuing on, I found a hole amid the coral and there were phosphorescent blue fishing daring in and out of the coral caves. I experiences a sharp stinging sensation on my arm and realized that I had probably been stung by a jellyfish. I started to swim back to the boat, but decided to risk more stings in order to see more. I soon found myself swimming with a huge school of small gray fish. It was an astonishing experience.

When I returned to the boat, John had been been waiting there for quite a while. He had not seen nearly as much as I had, and it sounded like he had had an even worse time with the jellyfish.

We continued on to a small beach in a nearby cove. There were only five or six people there. We walked the length of the beach. John sat on a rock and I splashed about in the water. After thirty minutes or so, we were ready to go. I was up for exploring another beach, but John needed to eat. But when I told Santiago that “mi compañero tiene hambre,” he seemed to know right where to go. On our way there, he pointed out a famous stone formation that looks something vaguely like a human face. 

As we approached the beach we noticed a number of different restaurants. But we were met on the beach by a very friendly lady who immediately told us to follow her to her restaurant. We figured out that there was probably some connection between Santiago and this woman, and we decided not to protest. She gave us a prime seat right at the front of the restaurant on the sand and we had a very pleasant meal there. After we ordered we noticed a meal in a styrofoam container being delivered from the restaurant to Santiago. 

We were supposed to check out of our expensive hotel at one o’clock, and as we finished eating our meal we noticed that it was already twenty past twelve. I paid our friend and tipped her generously. She motioned for Santiago to bring his boat to the shore. As we were getting on the boat, someone from the restaurant came running over to give us John’s wallet. Apparently I had left it on the table. There are plenty of places in the world where he never would have seen that again.

Back at the marina, they put us on a taxi and delivered us to the hotel. We went up to the room and we packed our stuff. Just before two o’clock, I check out and Job was there waiting to take us back to Escondido. He had told us yesterday that the return trip would take about two hours and fifty minutes, but it about an hour less than that. I napped for part of the time. John was a little nervous as Job whizzed past trucks on this two lane road, and he closed his eyes and tried not to look at those little shrines to people who died in automobile accidents that line Mexican roads. 

In the evening, John went to a meeting. We met up afterwards and had a pleasant meal at a small restaurant on the beach called Fresh. It was quite pleasant. 

The Road to Huatulco

After an early breakfast , we met our driver just outside the hotel office. He told us his name was Job though he pronounced it closer to the English word for work than the English name of the hero of the depressing Hebrew poem. Job spoke some English, and were it possible to measure these things, I think my Spanish and his English would be about equal. He took us by the office so I could pay for the trip on my visa. 

The road from Escondido to Huatulco is a bit better than when we took it twenty five years ago, but not much. Parts of it are now what the British call “dual carriageway,” but it still runs through many small towns along the way, each of whom seems to have put up those nearly lethal speed bumps called “topes”. While Puerto Escondido has grown tremendously, it is still a relatively small city and we were out in the country in a few minutes. There is some agriculture around here, but much of the land is still rather undeveloped. We crossed several rivers. These only had a moderate flow of water, but each looked like they could be torrents during the summer rainy season. We are about a month into the dry season, and many of the trees were starting to shed leaves in preparation for more dry months. 

We came to our first stop after about forty five minutes. It was a place called Ventanilla, or “Little Window.” The name comes from a rock formation on the beach there. A small bridge of stone connects two larger parts of the formation creating a “little window” in the rock. 

However, tourists do not come here to gawk at a rock formation. They come instead of look at the mangrove swamp and the animals who live there, especially the crocodiles. Job showed me to a small stall where I bought two tickets for the modest sum of 180 pesos. We were joined on our trip by a man probably in his mid-forties. I wish I had written down his name. He was from Mexico City, but worked extensively abroad as a sustainability consultant. His English was nearly perfect. Our guide here was a local man wearing a red shirt. He explained to us in Spanish that there were two groups of guides here. The guides wearing white shirts — the “blancos” — were older and not much concerned about the environment or habitat restoration. They brought tourists to a small island where they could see all the local animals in cages. The guides wearing red shirts — the “rojos” — were younger and environmentally aware. We are all glad that we were with the reds. 

Just as we were starting to get in the boat, we saw our first crocodile.

In the United States we are accustomed to seeing alligators and we tend to think of crocodiles as living in Africa or Asia. But there are some crocodiles living in the even in the south of Florida and they are found all over Central America. They’re bigger, more aggressive, and had a far more potent bite. 

This Ventanilla lagoon is typical of the mangrove swamps that used to cover much of the tropics. Until recently, their environmental significance — and the way that they can protect the land from flooding and storm surges — was not well understood and most of them were destroyed for inappropriate coastal development. So those that remain, like this one, need to be preserved. The “rojos” understand this. This area was directly hit by Hurricane Carlotta in 2012. Most of the mature forest here was destroyed, including much of the mangroves. The “rojos" have been using social media to attract attention to this, and each year volunteers from around the world join the locals to clean out dead wood and replant mangroves and other trees. 

We saw lots of iguanas as we paddles through the lagoon. These creatures are about as shy as squirrels, and are quite happy to be fed by humans. They also have no fear of cameras and I swear they like to pose for pictures. 

The smaller green ones are female. The larger orange ones are male. A male typically has a group of ten or so females. They need to have a large number of young as crocodiles think that iguanas are quite tasty. Some people do as well, and even though iguana hunting is officially prohibited, our guide admitted that in some towns you can find iguana tacos on the menu. 

We also saw different kinds of turtles,

lots of birds,

and lovely flowers, too. 

I could have spend even longer in the lagoon, about after about forty-five minutes it was time to do. I gave our guide a contribution for the preservation of this special place and its wonderful creatures. 

Job continued our tour down the coast. Our next stop was the town of Mazunte. The Centro Mexicano de la Tortuga, the National Mexican Turtle Center, is located here. This is another example of the rising environmental consciousness in Mexico. Not only are all the different types of turtles found in Mexico and Central America displayed here, but they have a programs for rescuing and breeding endangered turtles. It was hard to get good pictures here because of the glass walls used to protect the animals. But I did manage a couple shots without too much reflection. 

The next stop was Playa Zipolite, a place where the calendar seems to still show 1968 as the year. This is still a haven those who think that tie dye is the highest art form and that nothing smells as good as marijuana and patchouli. Most of the accommodation here is pretty cheap and basic, just hammocks under palapa roofs. 

The restaurant scene is unusual for Mexico, too.

Playa Zipolite is also the only beach in Mexico where nudity is more or less tolerated. Given some of the people we saw walking around without clothes — all American or European — it probably shouldn’t be. 

John took a quick dip in the water here, too, though I will let you speculate about his attire. 

Our final stop, before we continued on into Huatulco, was Puerto Angel. This is a more family-oriented Mexican beach resort. It is almost completely protected by rocks from the ocean, and the water here is as calm as a pool. There are two beaches, the larger Playa Principal and the small Playa del Panteón, or Graveyard Beach. The latter is named for the picturesque cemetery that overlooks the beach. 

We had lunch not far from these graves. Job had called ahead and they had a table waiting for us on the sand. We had a nice lunch of fish fillet cooked in garlic sauce and ceviche. Both the beach and the water were crowded with Mexican families enjoying the holiday and the warm water. I think we were the only Americans around. From where we sat, we had a good view of the cross that guards the harbor. 

I wondered if the cross is there now to protect Puerto Angel from the morals of Playa Zipolite….

As we waited for our food, John amused himself by observing the our fellow tourists on the beach,

in the water,

and at an adjoining table.

After lunch, we continued on into Huatulco. When we were here twenty-five years ago, the big resorts were still under construction. Today they are all finish … and starting to age. The whole place looks very 1990. This the the Camino Real where we are staying. I think the architect was trying to create some kind of fusion between Brutalism and the Greek islands. It does not work. 

Check in took longer than it should. We were given room 125 which is on the third floor. There was no elevator. We were supposed to have a room with a “private pool” and this one did not have that. But before I complained I observed that the rooms with a “private pool,” sort of an outside bathtub, hard compromised views. Our room had a spectacular view. But that was all that was wonderful about it. We were stunned by how rundown it seemed.

The walls needed painting and some of the woodwork was peeling.

A ceiling fan looked like it might fall down if we used it.

The place reeked of some kind of air freshener. I wondered if someone had smoked in the room and they were trying to cover up the smell. When we considered how much we had paid for this for one night, I could only console myself by thinking about how vicious my TripAdvisor review would be.

Still as I sat on the balcony thinking about how much I had paid instead of how stunning the view was, I did somehow manage to notice this rather pretty bird sitting quietly in a nearby tree.

We walked around the place and went down to the beach. I was expecting that Huatulco would be all Americans and Canadians, but almost all the guests here were Mexican nationals. There were lots of families. I wondered if these kinds of resorts were the places where upper-middle class Mexicans felt that their kids were safe from the violence and crime that plagues so much of Mexico today.

They cannot have been there for the food. The main restaurant features the typical resort all-you-can-eat buffet. But this was one of the worst examples of that I have ever seen. This was “International Night” and apparently “international” is defined as Italian. Pizza was featured. They seemed to have a pizza oven outside, but as soon as the pizza was done they had cut it into pieces and put it on a steam table. It was utterly inedible.

John went online — I should mention that the internet connection was probably the worst we have experienced in Mexico — looking for a tour of the various bays by boat. Everything was not only expensive but sold out. So he had the inspiration to call Job and ask him if he could arrange something. Before long, we had a call from Juan, Job’s friend who lives down here, who had a cousin with a boat. Juan came by and we gave him a deposit and made plans to be ready tomorrow by eight. 

I hope that this tour redeems our decision to spend the night here. This hotel has certainly been a bust. 

Warming Up

Today did not begin particularly well. We could not find a remote for our air-conditioning unit in the bedroom yesterday, and by early morning the room was freezing. About four in the morning, with teeth almost chattering, I went out to try to sleep in the living room of our bungalow. The sofas are thin pieces of foam placed atop a cement base. They are designed to be used as additional beds, but I would not recommend them to anybody with a bad back. John came out shortly after I did carrying his pillow and his sheet. Thankfully, we both finally fell asleep again.

In the morning we had a buffet breakfast at the hotel. It was adequate and fairly cheap, but nothing memorable. John wanted to check out the possibility of taking a trip down the coast to Huatulco Bays. We stopped by the office to ask for a “control” and to ask about excursions. The helpful young man introduced us to a charming older lady who arranged tours. Her English was a limited, but my Spanish is apparently adequate for doing things like arranging small trips. We wanted to make this a two day adventure, and she was happy to arrange a driver and a car for tomorrow and the following day. She could not, however, make hotel reservations for us and she warned us that it would be hard to find a place. We agreed on 5000 pesos as a price for the guide and the driver. That seemed quite reasonable for two days. 

Back up at our room, John and I went on the usual hotel websites to try to find something for tomorrow night. There was not much at all available on the Oaxacan coast, and most of what was left was pretty unappealing. We finally agreed that the splurge of this otherwise pretty frugal trip would be one night at an expensive resort. I guess this will be our New Year’s celebration a couple days early. 

Our big adventure for today was walking down Playa Zicatela, Puerto Escondido’s legendary surf beach. When we first came here in the early 1980s, there was not much on this beach except a few small hotels catering to North American surfers. Today hotels and restaurants line the entire beach. While we found this depressing last night, today as we walked on the beach we noticed that it still seemed fairly uncrowded.

There were a few new interesting things we liked. The rocks in front of the Santa Fe hotel, the formation that separates Playa Marinero from Playa Zicatela, now has a wonderfully Mexican mirador that looks like it was inspired by a trip to Disneyland. 

There is also a strange statue of two hands. I tried to make this connect to surfing in some way, but I just could not. But it’s a great place for some posing. 

No doubt because the surf is so powerful and the undertow so famously treacherous, there were not all that many people in the water. There are red flags every hundred feet or so warning people not to enter the water. 

Everybody ignores them. John and I popped in the water several times as we made our way to the end of this two mile stretch.

At the far end is the small village of Playa Zicatela. This looks a great deal like the Puerto Escondido we remembered. The streets were not paved and dogs were sleeping on what passed for sidewalks. There were about a dozen small shops mostly selling the same stuff they did thirty years ago, a combination of tie die, macrame, and Mexican handicrafts. John and I found a small restaurant on the beach and had lunch there under a small palapa. There was a hammock next to the table, and John napped in it while we waited for the food to arrive. This being Mexico, there was a substantial time lag between ordering the food and having it arrive.

We walked back more quickly along the beach, jumping in once or twice to cool off. When we arrived back in our room, we were initially started to find the door open. Fortunately, we were not being robbed. The hotel staff was there providing us with a remote control for our air-conditioner. We thanked them. 

This morning I thought that returning to Puerto Escondido was one of our worst vacation decisions ever. This evening I am softening quite a bit. I wish it was a little more like the town I remember, but what is here is still a little funky and there is still something of the surf culture here. I may come to really like this place again.

Exhausted Again

We left Charlottesville early yesterday evening. I drove to Dulles. Traffic was not bad, though I prefer to do this route in the daytime. At least there was no snow or ice. We filled up with gas at some place near Chantilly, a place nobody would confuse with its counterpart in France, and Google guided us faultlessly to the Alamo car drop. As we waited for our bus we watched some hapless guy accidentally drive his rental car into a light pole. What a way to end your trip! 

We had some issues at TSA because the bar code that AeroMexico had sent us by email was enormously large. When they could not use their scanners the agents were totally confused. We were sent from the Pre-check line to the regular line. John finally suggested that they might take a picture of the scan with a phone and see if it worked. One of the agents was willing to try that and indeed it worked. 

At that point we were happy to be headed towards our gate, but the plane would not board for another three hours. We thought about eating, but not only were we not particularly hungry but all the restaurants had already closed for the night. So we just sat around the gate idly looking at our phones and hoping the wait would soon be over. 

We boarded the plane a little before one o’clock in the morning. We did have exit rows on the  flight, but it was still pretty crowded. We both took some medication and hoped for sleep. 

We woke up a little before the plane landed about five in the morning. After it landed, we took our luggage and went to customs and immigration. As usual, clearing Mexican immigration was fairly easy. We then decided to look for the check in counter for Aeromar to see if we could get our boarding passes and possibly check our luggage. This was also not particularly difficult. We went off to have some breakfast. We had a mediocre meal at Tok, a place that is probably the Mexican equivalent of Appleby’s. 

We were planning to head into Mexico City for an adventure this morning, but shortly after breakfast John announced that he had to check into a hotel. I was disappointed, but I understood that he did wanted to feel better than he obviously did. I noticed some signs in the terminal for “hotel” and I followed them. We found a branch of the Spanish NH hotel chain. They offered us a half-day stay for about 130 dollars. It was more than I wanted to pay, but I hardly wanted to go searching around, either. We took it. 

John slept for a couple hours and took a shower. By this time he was energetic again and all excited about going into the city. I did not think there was enough time, but I was not willing to completely refuse him. He went downstair and talked to the man at the taxi and tours desk. He arranged for a man to drive us into town for lunch, wait for us, and drive us back, all for 500 pesos or about 26 dollars. 

John wanted to go to our favorite restaurant in the capital, the Cafe de Tacuba. Many years ago we slipped into town between flights and had a wonderful lunch there. No such luck this time. There was a huge line in front of the place Our driver stopped at some other celebrated spots in the historic center, but all of them had lines as well. We finally gave us and settled for a branch of the Lion Grill chain. They were at least featuring Chile en Nogada, a famous Christmas speciality, and I insisted John order it.

We were done a little early so we walked around. At the Placio de Iturbide, a colonial place now operated as a cultural center by the National Bank of Mexico, there was an exhibition of “nacimieintos,” the traditional Mexican Christmas folk art scenes. These were charming and beautifully displayed.

Less traditional, but equally beautiful, was this display of angels.

We arrived back at the hotel, packed our stuff, and tried to find our gate for the flight to Puerto Escondido. I went to the Aeromar counter to ask them about the gate. John started to feel sick right about this time and thought he was going to pass out. I asked the agent for a wheelchair for him, trying to explain in broken Spanish about his extremely low blood pressure. I am not sure she understood, but a beefy young man showed up about ten minutes later with a wheelchair. We went to the front of the security line. We were apparently too early to go to our gate, so he took us to the Aeromar lounge. We did not probably have the correct credential for this privilege, but as he was in a wheelchair the woman motioned us to go in anyhow. 

As far as airline lounges go, this was hardly Emirates. There was almost no food and the trash from previous visitors had not been cleared from the tables. I drank some nasty coffee from an espresso machine. John looked at the news in Spanish on the television. About a half hour before the flight was supposed to leave, our young man showed up again with the wheelchair. He took us up and down elevators and ramps and finally left us in a ground floor waiting room. Apparently we were supposed to board a bus to a remote area of the runway and walk up stairs to the plane. Nobody seemed to speak much English around here, and when we were still waiting there when the time for the plane to depart had come and gone I wondered we had done something wrong. But other passengers indicated that they were on the same flight as us, so I tried to patiently wait. 

We finally made it on the plane. It was one of those small jets, probably the work of the Canadian Bombardier firm. Poor John had almost no leg room, but at least the flight was only about an hour. He seemed to nod out. I had to listen to some idiotic millennial two rows ahead of me spout nonsense about how America was fifteen years from a revolution against corporations, an apocalypse that he apparently happily anticipated. 

When we arrived at Puerto Escondido I had an unpleasant surprise. John’s suitcase had arrived, but mine had not. I was not alone. At least ten of the passengers, including the millennial, were also missing their luggage. The woman at the desk initially told us to just come back tomorrow afternoon, but the bilingual passenger threw a fit for me and she agreed that they would deliver it to our hotels. She took my luggage tag. I have no great confidence I will ever see my clothes again. 

We took a taxi into Puerto Escondido. I knew that the town had grown considerably since I was last here, but I was frankly appalled by all the development, particularly the string of hotels and restaurants lining the old surf beach. This had been almost pristinely empty when we first came there. And the Santa Fe hotel had nearly doubled in size as well. 

Our room is in a “bungalow”, a two cluster of four apartments on the other side of the street from the Santa Fe. It classically Mexican construction, concrete, cinderblock, and rebar all painted bright colors and ornamented with faux colonial woodwork and balustrades. At least the landscaping is nice. 

We walked down the honky-tonk strip that now covered my favorite beach in Mexico. John had an extra pair of swim trunk and flip flops though neither of them fit me very well. 

We will see what tomorrow holds. I am thinking that this trip proves indeed that “You can’t go home again.” It seems like a colossal mistake. 

Shopping

Today was a pretty quiet day. John wanted to go to a meeting, and he found one at St. Paul’s Memorial Church. Because it is located on Grounds — that’s the UVa term for the campus — where parking is nearly impossible, he decided not to take the car. Ellen and I went shopping in downtown Charlottesville. We had no particular problem parking. We found a spot a couple blocks from the downtown mall adjacent to the park with the statue of Stonewall Jackson. Charlottesville has not yet removed its Confederate statues, but it has covered them in tarps. I was certain I had taken a picture of it, but could find it nowhere on my phone. So here is one taken from a newspaper story.

It was much colder when we were there, and the weather was as gray as a CSA uniform. 

Ellen explained to me that ever since the riots this summer downtown has been pretty much deserted and businesses are starting to close there. As we walked around, it struck me that the lack of really interesting shops was also part of the problem, too. We did pick up a couple fairly minor gifts there, but after an hour we had seen all the retail offerings that were available. We decided we would have to hit some of the outlying shopping areas. But we figured we would have lunch first. 

While we were eating, John called to ask some directions. It was beginning to rain, so Ellen jumped in the car and went off to pick him up. He explained that the meeting been cancelled because of the holiday. But another guy had shown up looking for meeting, and so they had held a small meeting of their own. 

John joined us as we went around to the shopping centers at Barracks Road and Stonefield. John slipped off by himself to do some shopping as he had not had a chance to do much before we left Los Angeles. 

Williamsburg

We had breakfast this morning at the hotel. Some of the reviews of this place on Booking had praised the morning provisions, while others had disparaged them. I think I was with the latter group. I did not expect much but I was still disappointed. Usually places like this in the south can at least supply biscuits and gravy. Instead here we had rainbow-colored bagels. I have no idea who thought that was a clever idea….

It seemed to take us a while to actually make it from the hotel to Colonial Williamsburg even though they are adjacent to one another, but we finally parked and and began to stroll around our badges. Williamsburg itself is a town and it costs nothing to walk around it. The only charge is for entering the historic buildings themselves, and, of course, that is the reason that most people would come here. The first thing you notice when you arrive is Bruton Parish Church.

Named after a prominent Virginia landowner who donated the funds to build it, Bruton Parish has remained an active Anglican (and subsequently Episcopal) congregation ever since 1677. The church is particularly important to Williamsburg because of its rectors, a Rev'd Dr. W. A. R. Goodwin, led the movement to restore not only the parish church building but all the historical structures in Williamsburg. He initially approached fellow Episcopalian Henry Ford, but after telling the automobile magnate that his cars were destroying America Ford declined to fund the project. Goodwin had more luck — and presumably a bit more tact — with the Baptist John D. Rockefeller. Abby Rockefeller took a keen interest in the project, and worked with Goodwin and the Rockefeller Foundation to do much of the initial acquisition and restoration of historical structures. 

The interior of the church is rather plain as is typical of colonial Anglican structures.  It still retains the seventeenth century tablets with the Decalogue, the Apostles’ Creed, and the Lord’s Prayer. However, the communion table dominates the front of the church instead of the enormous three-level pulpit that was probably there in the eighteenth century. 

With Mike leading us, one of our first stops was the joiner’s shop. 

Dictionaries often give “carpenter” as a synonym for joiner, but in the colonial era the two were distinct. Carpenters framed buildings.  Joiners were the skilled wood workers who made doors and lintels, framed windows and made fireplace mantels. The people demonstrating the skills here, like the gentleman shown in the picture above, were quite knowledgable about the period. However, unlike a place Sturbridge Village, they do not stay in character and pretend to be actually living in the eighteenth century. 

Much of the pleasure of being there on a relatively warm winter day was just walking around the fairly empty streets.

We saw many carriages though we never figured out how purchase a ride in one.

We also saw ox carts. I have to admit that I did not know until I was talking to a woman driving one of these that oxen were just castrated bulls. Of course, I never had bothered to look, either. 

The houses in Williamsburg range from somewhat modest to extremely grand. This was the capital of the colony and the people who lived here were generally affluent. We went through several smaller homes. We were allowed to take pictures freely in some of them and in others were prohibited from doing so. I could not figure out much basis for the difference in policy. 

The grandest house of all was the governor’s mansion. This is the iconic image of Colonial Williamsburg that I always saw in My Weekly Reader.

What they did not show us there was that the place was an armory as well as a residence.

While you might think that fighting native peoples, understandably unhappy about being displaced from their ancestral lands, would be the purpose of all this firepower, it was actually asserting the power of the Crown over the settlers that was the real reason for all these muskets, swords, and pistols. The royal governors were not popular, with a particular local disdain for the last one, John Murray, Earl of Dunmore. 

The house probably does not have any of its original furnishings. In fact, the entire residence is a reconstruction done by the Rockefeller Foundation as the original house burned in 1781. But the reconstruction and furnishing has been done with the benefit of good historical records so rooms such as this dining room are probably pretty close to what was there in 1775. 

The ball room in the back of the palace was one of the most interesting. It naturally featured a portrait of the sovereign, King George III.

It also had two rather large stoves for keeping the room acceptably warm in the winter.

John and I also explored some of the public buildings such as the courthouse. 

The docent here seemed to be doing his best to counter to “isn’t this so cute and wonderful” atmosphere of Williamsburg by stressing how capricious and cruel the legal system was, particularly to women and anybody else who was not a propertied white male. I suppose that the guides here are given a certain amount of discretion in how they present their information. 

Ellen was stuck with the dog for most of this time and could not go into the buildings with us. 

However, she handed Abby off to Michael at one point, and she and I explored the old statehouse together. We had a great guide here.

He seemed to almost be consciously countering the courthouse narrative by pointing out to us how the residents of Virginia, even women and poor whites, had more rights here than they did in England or just about anywhere else in the world in the eighteenth century. We saw the chamber where the House of Burgesses met. This was the place where people like Jefferson and Madison discussed the possibility — and desirability — of independence. 

We also saw the room where the Royal Council, a sort of colonial House of Lords, met. This was the check on the Burgesses’ power.

One thing that everyone admits is NOT historically accurate about Colonial Williamsburg are the Christmas decorations, particularly the wreaths that are found on just about every building during December. 

But these have become a modern tradition that is popular with both locals and visitors and there is a fierce competition to see who can make the nicest wreaths. 

We stayed in Williamsburg until late afternoon and then went in the car to head back to Charlottesville. I am glad we had our two day excursion to this part of the state.