Sublime City

Crowded is cherished in cities which depend on visitors to keep them functioning. I've spent my whole life in such places. When I was a youngster, I never appreciated the small town chaos created by tourists who arrived to wander through ante-bellum homes, admire hoopskirts, and try such delicacies as fried catfish, decadent pecan pie and that most Southern of all dishes, grits. I vowed that I simply wouldn't live in an area which attracted non-residents regularly.

As an almost thirty-five year resident of a desert city which depends heavily on its climate and magnificent landscape to lure visitors, I've mellowed and now consistently embrace the concept. Whenever I notice someone who seems a bit lost or appears to be from out-of-town, I'm quick to offer suggestions, welcome the individual enthusiastically and taut the uniqueness of our locality. An unofficial greeter.

However, nothing prepared me for the embracing ambience I encountered recently in the lovely upstate New York town of Saratoga Springs. Leaving the Interstate, we traveled a few miles to the center of town. This journey proved to be exceedingly slow. The number of vehicles clogging the narrow street seemed excessive, even for a desirable destination.

Once we mastered the roadway, the search for a parking place began. Turning off Main Street, we drove along Washington, past the site of the evening's concert, our primary reason to be in town. Two hour parking proved available and Henry deftly parallel parked. Two blocks away, the center of the town beckoned.

An historic building retrofitted as a restaurant called 'Maestro' looks promising. Up the massive steps, we meet the hostess. She says it's a two hour wait for an outside table. We're happy to be seated inside. The menu is extensive, the tables covered with pristine white cloths. Our server responds to Henry's request for water by asking, "Tap or bottled?" The latter, please.

We do not know that the town is famous for its spring water and that the cobalt blue bottle in which the fresh liquid is contained resembles a piece of art. We also do not know that this bottle of water costs $8. Gulp.



All around us, well-dressed people are dining. We're casual, vacation clad. The service is languid with intermittent attention. We're in no hurry and that's a good thing. When the food arrives, it is cleverly displayed and delicious. During the wait, I've visited the restroom where Frank Sinatra's voice emits songs from decades ago. I guess he is the Maestro or at least one of them. I notice a wallet lying on a small table and upon leaving the room, take it to the hostess.



Replenished, we explore bountiful blocks comfortably busy with fellow tourists. Nineteenth century architecture is juxtaposed next to more modern structures. Local businesses thrive adjacent to branches of national chains. Historic hotels front the busy street and charming homes have been reclaimed as bed and breakfasts. City Hall boasts a plaque declaring 1871 as its date of origin.

I simply can't resist a grocery store. This one is perfect. Up front, tantalizing all who enter, is a super bakery with sugar shock guaranteed for each selection. Further along, an ample deli offers sandwiches, hot foods, cheeses and more. To the right, packages of gourmet groceries include special dips, hot fudge sauce, crazy candies, jams and jellies. I want some of everything but settle for a few items that will be gifts for friends.



Inside a store that sells wine, we seek a bottle for friends we'll visit the following day. The staff is busy so we look at various potential bottles to purchase. My knowledge of wine is miniscule and I probably wear a perplexed expression. A helpful young man, holding two bottles himself, offers to assist. He represents a local winery and has brought two samples to the store, hoping to get them into the regular inventory. I mention Pinot Grigio, the wine I usually buy for my daughter. He counters with his bottle of Pinot Noir.

The conversation continues and soon we agree to purchase the proffered bottle. There's a problem. It isn't part of the store's stock and thus can't be sold. What to do? Generously, the winery representative solves the problem by giving us the wine while remarking that the label is slightly askew. We're smiling now and will share this special story with the wine's intended recipients.

Pouring rain inhibits our wandering somewhat and Henry retreats to the car for a bit of rest. I clutch my umbrella and trek to the Visitor Center. Three volunteers, ladies slightly more elderly than myself, chat about their town and its magic. I tell them that I've rarely, perhaps never, visited a place where the prevailing attitude is one of such unfettered welcome; there's a strong sense of pride and each individual seems to genuinely embrace visitors. There are smiles of recognition.

Walking through the relentless rain, I reunite with Henry and we stroll the other side of Main Street. A small chalkboard announces a soap store. We duck inside and down a few stairs to a moderately sized space. McGillycuddy's Natural Soaps isn't one of those places where competing fragrances discourage customers from choosing among the offerings. It is cleanly arranged, fresh in every way, confidently organic. Labels entice with 'Almond Oatmeal' and 'Citrus Sunrise.' There's a face scrub close by unscented lip balm. Soaps feature either olive oil or milk bases. The inventory is top quality and ideally suited for anyone looking for natural products. The color scheme is white with khaki accents, simple and soothing.

We talk to the lone staff member and soon learn that she's a McGillycuddy, daughter of the founder of the company. Displaying infinite charm and evident abundant intelligence, Kendal possesses a MBA from SUNY Albany. She relates that she spent some of her classtime collaborating with a friend to create potential soap scent combinations.



On the wall there's a poster of the Planet Green Network's series "The Beekman Boys." I've watched the show several times and really enjoyed the repartee between the two men who bought a farm and relocated from New York City to the countryside. We learn that Kendal's mom, Deb, is the Beekman Boys' soapmaker. She's appeared on the Martha Stewart Show and now provides soap which is sold as part of Martha's brand. In the back corner, there's a photo of Deb and Martha. Gosh. Such a series of coincidences.

I can't help suggesting that McGillycuddy's might consider a branch in Palm Springs. No doubt it would be enormously successful.

Saratoga Springs is famous for its racetrack where harness racing is the preferred venue. Recently a casino has been built not far from the track. In winter, snow sports lure city dwellers. Conventions abound during all seasons. Shoppers are rewarded with abundant retail outlets, many of which feature horsey motifs. A locavore focus favors foodies who throng to charming restaurants along the thoroughfares. Art and music vie for visitors with significant attractions generally more available in larger towns.

There's so much to admire about Saratoga Springs. The people are exceptional, the pace moderate but not a bit mundane, and the beauty of the region well worth exploring. We'll definitely return and until that day, we'll share the delightful reception we experienced with others.