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"More p'ease!" #3

 Having raised the population of Westport by ten percent, one could feel the seams relax as we left; no one lives in Westport for the urban rush.

Our next stop was the Benbow Inn, said to be in Garberville, California, just a short, wriggly drive north.  Daniel had reserved a room for the three of them at the Inn, and our intention had been to stay at their RV park, just a couple of hundred yards away, but when we saw the Inn, and they offered a discount because of our RV reservation, we parked the Casita, facetiously arguing that it needed a rest, and moved into the comforting, historic atmosphere of the old hotel, built in the 1920s, I think, by the Benbows for people like the Benbows.

The hotel was renovating and expanding, adding more modern rooms for people who prefer everything up to date like Kansas City, and even an elevator.  (Let us hear and "Amen!" for the elevator.)  The hotel says of itself that it was built in a time "when ladies and gentlemen served ladies and gentlemen".  They still do, with occasional heads-down exceptions.

Below the redwood- and lone oak-shaded patio--a delightful place to eat--a green bordered what, when we were there, was a quiet river.  Elliot gave her enthusiastic, gymnastic approval, while a gentleman over in the corner, stretched out on a lawn chair, reading a book with a leather cover, sniffed over the top of his glasses; he having come to Benbow, or course, for the distant peace of mind that old inns and old men expect.  But I was older, still, than him, and almost as old as the hotel, so he is probably back home now, reciting for how many years he has been staying at the Benbow Inn for the respite and serenity it almost alway has provided.





It cannot always have been so delicate. There is a photo of Helen Benbow on a Harley on one of the walls of the Inn.





For a time, Elliot wore a shirt that read, "The Future is Female", or something like that.  Another gentleman to be counted in my age group growled that it belongs to old grouches, or something like that, when America becomes great, again.



Elliot is a threat, you know:
I offer the evidence.





We weren't through, yet.  The next stop on our hop-skip-and-jump tour was to be Ashland, over the river and through the woods, in Oregon.

We wanted more, p'ease!














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