George Washington Slept Here: An Orange County Adventure

3/15/15

Goshen, New York

“Beware the Ides of March.”  Well, I was not assinated by Brutus, but our little adventure would have went a lot more smoothly if I had been a little more aware.  “So basically you forgot everything yellow,” my mom had teased me.  Yes, right now I should be comfortably smoking my 2011 Christmas Pipe (wrapped in a yellow towel) and wearing my yellow parka.  Instead, I forgot both, and I am smoking a Cohiba in just my sports jacket, and I am quite cold.  However, here I am in front of the Orange County Government Center in Goshen, and our adventure has come to an end.  I said, “Orange County Complete,” though it hardly worked out how we expected.  Actually, it’s way too cold to keep typing, so I will need to pause until my mom comes back with the car so that I can continue in the warmth and not risking losing some fingers.

“George Washington slept here.”  It’s an all-too-common phrase seen at historic sites, almost a cliché even.  Some Colonial-era cottage lays its claim to fame from the night that General Washington and his officers camped there.  It gets turned into a museum, replete with artifacts from the same era, maybe even some reenactments, and, of course, the guide.  As my reader should be aware, the character of the guide is more often than not the villain.  “You can’t smoke there.”  “We can’t see both sites in the same day.”  However, what is just as annoying is the guide who will just not shut up.  I do not visit historic sites to get history lessons.  If I want a history lesson, I’ll read about it online.  No, when I travel, when I set foot in a famous, historic site, I read up for a few minutes on it before I arrive.  Then, I when I get there, I like to enjoy my cigar and take my photos in total silence.  Why?  Well, if I do that, I can pretend that General Washington is beside me.  I can pretend that the British Regulars are about to attack the fort.  I cannot do that with a tour guide prattling on.

Today, every site we went to visit was closed.  It might be said that we planned poorly, that we had back luck, even blame it on the Ides of March.  However, the truth was, it was perfect.  Sure, some other stuff went wrong, humorously wrong, but all’s well that ends well.  I said “Orange County Complete,” and that was the goal of the day.  It was a crazy plan from the beginning.  Drive an hour to Orange County, see 6 National Historic Landmarks, have lunch in the County Seat, see the legislature, and drive an hour home.  We could leave after breakfast and still be home in time for dinner, assuming everything went according to plan.  It would be nothing like the NHL runs I did in Manhattan or Brooklyn, but it would still be a fun adventure, and my mom and Raymond were on board.  Of course, I would wear my trademark maroon shirt, even though an orange one might have been more fitting.

Breakfast was going to be a game day decision.  If my dad was up before 9 AM, we would go to IHOP and then begin our adventure.  Otherwise, he would stay home, and my mom would take us at 10 AM, stopping at McDonald’s along the way.  The latter was what occurred.  Well, practically as soon as we left the house, the adversity began.  I had forgotten my Nexium.  Without it, the day would be quite miserable for me.  We would need to stop at a drug store when we got McDonald’s.  That worked.  My mom dropped us off at the McDonald’s.  Wait, my yellow parka.  Where was it?  Nope, left that at home, too.  How cold could it be?  We continued upstate towards our first stop.  I spilled my coffee on myself, scalding myself quite painfully.  We continued.  Where was my pipe?  Yep, that, too, I had left at home.  Oh, and did I mention that we were really only reliant on our phones for directions and that cell service is very spotty upstate?  That was fun.

It was not long before we reached the first site, Fort Montgomery State Historic Site.  “Closed for the season.”  Lovely.  The fort itself (or the remnants) were covered in snow, along with the trails.  My mom waited in the car, but that wasn’t going to stop us from exploring.  I lit up a Montecristo, and we walked around.  There was not much to see, but, in complete silence, I was able to turn back the clock in my mind 250 years.  We walked back to the car, and I put the cigar in its tin, not being able to smoke as we drove between sites, not with my mom in the car, certainly not in her car.

The next stop was the United States Military Academy at West Point, which we had no trouble finding.  The women at the VC were very helpful and told us exactly where we needed to go for the best souvenirs and the best pictures.  We did exactly that, and that was where I got my only souvenir of the trip.  In fact, it was the only site that was open.  Oh, on that note, I’ve just been informed that this is not the actual county legislature, so we I will need to close so that we can relocate to the correct one.

“Who knew how much adventure you could have in Orange County?”  We have had to relocate.  The place we were at was not where the legislature meets.  It has been closed for some time, and they are about to tear it down.  Where we now are is the new legislative building, but it is still under construction.  Raymond is on a quest to find out where the legislators are meeting now (and find a cookie), but my mom insists that they are probably just meeting at the bar.  I wouldn’t be surprised.  

Where was I?  West point.  After a couple of ID checks and a perfunctory search of the trunk we were at Trophy Point, a wonderful photo op where all the monuments were.  I resumed my Montecristo and once more put it back in the tube when we were done.  From there, we headed to Knox Headquarters.  Of course, that was closed, too, but it was nice photo op, and I was able to finish my Montecristo.  Next we headed to Newburgh, which had two NHLs, Washington’s Headquarters and the Dutch Reformed Church.

Washington’s Headquarters, the presumed highlight of the adventure, would be our last Revolutionary War-era site, even though the name of this trip is “George Washington Slept Here: An Orange County Adventure.”  We found the headquarters easily enough, but it too was closed, and we couldn’t even get that close because of the gates.  Well, I lit up a Santana, and we took our pictures.  The itinerary had us walking from there to the church, but my mom and Raymond thought the neighborhood was too seedy and objected to the walk.

I was okay with driving, so long as I did not have to put out my cigar.  It was about a two-minute drive to the church.  The church, too, of course, was closed.  It was under serious renovation, but the fence had a hole in it, so were able to get some good photos.  I took my water bottle and poured it on the lit end of the cigar to extinguish it.  Raymond informed me that I had ruined the cigar and would never be able to relight.  I assured him that I would be able to, but I guess I should have trusted my local tobacconist.

That just left one last NHL, the E.H. Harriman Estate, the home of a railroad tycoon.  We had some trouble figuring it out with the GPS, but we got there, or, more accurately, the road that we thought led to the estate.  It had signs all over the place that forbade trespassing and sightseeing.  That was not going to stop us.  My mom stayed in the car while we walked up the road while I struggled to relight my cigar.  Eventually, we came to more “No Sightseeing” signs, but we could see a house from there, though I did manage to get a few puffs out of the cigar.  We’re still not sure if it was the right house.  I guess we don’t really want to know.  By the time we got back to the car, we were all starving.

We put in Delancey’s Restaurant, our best choice for lunch.  It seemed simple enough.  We would get to the restaurant, have lunch, go to the legislature, and I would write my entry.  Then we could head home.  It’s been almost three hours since we entered Goshen city limits.  Beware the Ides of March, or, at least, the Sunday before St. Patricks Day in a town with a large Irish population.  Half the roads were closed, and we had to take a bunch of detours.  A cop told us to take a left and three rights.  I was the only one who heard the third right, and the GPS only had us take two rights.  I was outvoted.  Raymond just asked me if I’m almost done.  I answered, “We’re going to the wrong Delancey’s now.”  “You’re not close to done, are you?”  “No.”  Yes, that was exactly what happened.  The GPS was taking us to the wrong Delancey’s, which was closed.  They had relocated.  Well, we had to backtrack and park about a quarter of a mile away from the restaurant.  

I grabbed my laptop, and we walked to the restaurant.  When we got there, they asked us if we had a reservation.  Could we really not be able to get a table after everything that had gone wrong so far today?  I heard the number 25.  It was either, “Seat them at table 25” or that it would be a 25-minute wait.  It was the former.  Some luck at last.  Raymond and I got the burgers and beers, while my mother had a salad.  We also got a plate of chicken fingers for the table.  As soon as we ordered, the place filled up.  The parade was ending, but we had caught a window.  Sure, it took a while for our food to come, but ours was the first out.  The meal was delicious, so we walked to the legislature.

I knew that it would be too cold to sit outside and write, but I had a small Cohiba.  I could light up the cigar, we’d all go to the legislature, take our pictures, and then I’d wait there, finishing the cigar, while they went to the car and came back.  I could do some writing while I waited, and then I would finish in the car, in the warmth, once the cigar was done.  It was a perfect plan, and that was exactly what we did, until Raymond said that he needed a cookie.  Okay, that was fine, I’d still be writing by the time he got back.  Well, the bakery was closed, and he came back with some bad news.  We were at the wrong county legislature.  Well, we’d have to relocate to the new one.

We did so.  We took more pictures, and I sat in the car, where I proceeded to write the rest of this entry.  He still wanted his cookie, so I suggested he try the bagel place and ask if anyone knew where the legislators were actually meeting.  He failed on both accounts.  The bagel shop was closed, and no one knew where the legislators were meeting.  Well, this would have to do.  It fit in very well with the overall theme of this trip.  On that note, I will have to close, along with closing this trip, as I have expended all of the remaining patience of my car mates, who are all agree to being The Return Journey.  Next stop: Jackson, Mississippi to say Mississippi Complete and return to Poverty Point SHS, now a WHS.