So my friend Tawny and I decide to go to a place in western New York called Chautauqua. To me, it’s adult summer camp, but with air conditioning and private baths.
First dilemma: How many pairs of shoes to bring?
Six pairs of shoes for seven days is ridiculous. I pare down to four.
Second dilemma: What to bring to eat and drink?
Easily solved. Heavy on wine and sherry. The rest is ancillary.
Tawny and I talk non-stop from Cincinnati to Cleveland, failing to notice the gas gauge. When we do, it registers nine miles of gas left in the tank. Taking the very next exit sporting a gas symbol, we veer from the highway and easily find the gas station. Problem? Closed. Abandoned.
Getting back on the expressway, we frantically look for the next exit sporting a gas symbol, again veer off the highway and spot another filling station. Problem? Closed. Abandoned.
Our laughter dies. Our chatter ceases. We frantically google nearby gas stations and cluelessly cruise the back roads searching for fuel. With virtually an empty tank, we approach a fully functioning gas station like roving bands of thirsty nomads descending upon a water hole. We tank up.
Nothing can stop us now.
As we enter the gates of Chautauqua, we are dazzled by the array of musical eye candy.
“There is no place like it. No resort. No spa. Not anywhere else in the country or anywhere in the world – it is at once a summer encampment and a small town, a college campus, an arts colony, a music festival, a religious retreat and the village square – and there’s no place – no place with anything like its history,” so says David McCullough, historian and author.
Founded in 1874 as a training camp for Sunday School teachers, Chautauqua is located on the shores of Lake Chautauqua in southwestern New York state. It is a festival for the mind, body and spirit and is open every summer from June to mid-August attracting people from all over the world.
Trip Advisor shows 305 Excellent Reviews and 11 Terrible.
The Terrible:
The place where fun went to die
Don’t go there unless you’re like 100 years old
Sentenced to a seniors‘ Club Med without decent dining options
The Pleasant Side:
My morning yoga class is a mix of challenging, but not exhausting movements. Translation: I can still easily walk the following morning without visiting an Urgent Care and/or massive doses of Tylenol.
A paper girl stands on street corners hawking the DAILY paper.
And the mix of retail, food, galleries, post office and library bring forth memories of The Gilmore Girls’ town square – or as my friend Tawny observed: her old neighborhood in Cincinnati circa the 1950’s.
My daily three-hour art class each afternoon has three students – one of who is comedian George Carlin’s only child. She is a fifty-six year-old free spirited, brilliant woman who only can be described as authentic, courageous and constantly re-inventing herself. And she introduced me to the heretofore unbeknownst concept of “Soul Collage.” (More on that in another Friday chat.)
The first night at Chautauqua we are treated to two hours of non-stop dialogue hosted by Ira Glass –of This American Life, an hour-long weekly radio program broadcasted on numerous public radio stations across the world. He regaled us with anecdotes of his agonizing slow climb to competency, admitting that he expertly edited radio narratives from the get-go, but his writing was awkward and boring – far from the professionally polished pieces his idol, Nina Totenberg, was churning out. His message: Failure comes before something good.
Glass graciously took questions at the end of his presentation. A sixteen year-old male shyly walked to the microphone and lamented the fact that his parents were pressuring him about what colleges he would soon be applying to and what his major was going to be. “I’m completely clueless,” he admitted to Glass. “Do you have some advice for me?”
Ira Glass paused. And paused some more. “Yes,” he answered emphatically, “Just try stuff. It takes a lot of trying lots of stuff before you figure out what works for you and then it may only be a short fling. Just try stuff.”
One afternoon mid-week, I briskly walk to my afternoon art class located on the edge of the Chautauqua campus. Realizing that the multitude of water I am drinking is taking a toll on my bladder, I ask my art instructor to direct me to the nearest restroom.
I eagerly push the door open, barely registering that directly to the left of the one enclosed stall, there are two urinals. After I finish in the stall, I head for the sink – in clear view of both urinals. As I begin putting soap on my hands, the door flies open and in walks this random guy. Except he’s not really random – I just happen to know him from Yoga Class – he’s actually the only one in the yoga class I’ve even talked to.
Automatically, I assume he will wait a few seconds until I’m done washing my hands before heading to the urinal.
Wrong. He walks directly to the urinal. I fly out the door – fleeing to the Art Annex. I share my utterly bizarre experience with my fellow students. “Welcome to the ARTY end of Chautauqua,” they answer. “Don’t you know the definition of ‘WHATEVER’? It’s inclusive.”
To calm my frazzled nerves, I have an extra big glass of Sherry before dinner. As I serenely gaze at Lake Chautauqua shimmering in the late afternoon sun, I wonder about coming back next year.
I think about the bag of intriguing used books I bought at the Chautauqua Library for a mere $5.
I think about the reverend I heard preach on Sunday morning stressing the importance of first concentrating on repairing and improving our own little corner of the world.
I think about the woman at the visual arts center who is actively encouraging me to develop a Chautauqua course for next summer incorporating my knitting and my Preserving Your Bloom theme. And my young Art instructor who spent a full hour with me brainstorming possible course segments.
I decide I will come back – with one minor adjustment: any restroom I use will never be one with the word “Whatever” below it unless it is a one-person restroom with a lock.
Just try stuff,
Iris Ruth Pastor