As we reported a year ago, a new Civil War museum has been under construction at Appomattox, Virginia. It is a branch of Richmond’s Museum of the Confederacy and will commemorate the surrender of General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia and the aftermath of the Civil War.
Now the Museum of the Confederacy-Appomattox is almost complete and will open March 31. Among the displays are General Lee’s uniform and gold ceremonial sword — the very same he wore and carried on April 9, 1865 when he met General Ulysses S. Grant to surrender.
More than 450 items will be on display in an exhibition space spanning 11,700 square feet. It’s located near Appomattox Court House National Historical Park, which includes the McLean House where Grant and Lee met.
The Museum of the Confederacy is planning more regional museums in order to make their large collection more accessible. Satellite museums are planned for Fredericksburg and Hampton Roads, Virginia.
And you thought too much salt was bad for you? Well, it actually is, but The Ritz-Carlton, Amelia Island definitely makes eating salt interesting. Their onsite restaurant, Salt, features 45 unique salt blends to give guests an enhanced dining experience.
The venue is so obsessed with perfecting the art of salt, they actually have a Salt Sommelier on staff. Salt expert Sasa Jaramaz works with Chef Rick Laughlin to pair different salts with particular courses. Textures, flavors, and aromas are all taken into consideration during the pairing process. For example, you can enjoy fresh fish and Adriatic Citrus Salt, which contains peels of Meyer lemons, oranges and grapefruits. These peels are roasted overnight, cooled and finely chopped into the salt.
Furthermore, to help get guests involved, Jaramaz presents select varieties to set on the table each night, and visits patrons to explain how the salts enhance the meal. Moreover, daily salt tastings are held in the brand new Salt Shop.
Says Laughlin, “The secret to creating contemporary American cuisine is taking a recipe of an item people are familiar with and reinventing it for a totally new experience. That’s my passion.”
A few weeks ago I felt the urgent, desperate need to flee New York City.
There was something about the city’s noise, its attitude, its frenetic pace that was driving me out of my mind. I felt caged in by the narrow tenement buildings of my Lower East Side streets. A taxi driver honked unnecessarily and I felt the irrepressible urge to slam on his front hood and yell “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR?”
It was clear that I needed a break.
My requirements were simple: a place outside of the city where I could unwind with a good book, a fireplace and maybe a bottle of Pinot Noir. My top priority was silence.
I found what I was looking for in Cape May, New Jersey. While in the summer it’s a hotspot for vacationing tri-staters, in the winter it’s close to deserted. I recruited my boyfriend, rented a car for the three-and-a-half hour drive and booked a room at Congress Hall, a charming Victorian hotel that once served as the summer residence for presidents Pierce, Buchanan, Grant and Harrison. With a friendly yellow exterior, a tiled lobby reminiscent of Havana and a daily schedule of events, the Congress Hall had the look of a coastal resort and the feel of a grown-up summer camp.
But most importantly, in a section of the hotel called the Brown Room, Congress Hall had a fireplace and in front of that fireplace were a scattering of leather armchairs and a bar with an extensive wine list. Behold, the resting place I’d been dreaming of.
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Turns out, the Brown Room and adjoining Blue Pig Tavern are among Cape May’s only hotspots during the off-season months of October-March, and by 5pm the area was bustling with locals taking advantage of happy hour. After a relaxing evening of reading, wining and dining on delicious mussels, I fell into one of the most restful sleeps I’d had in months.
The next morning, we woke early to explore the town. The streets were dead silent, except for the sounds of waves crashing on the shore. Further inland, quaint multi-colored storefronts advertised shop names from a different time: Good Scents, Just For Laughs, Whale’s Tale, the Cape May Popcorn Factory.
The only store open at 9am on a Monday was the Original Fudge Kitchen, where I picked out a selection of salt-water taffy and gulped what tasted like stale Folger’s coffee (even though it was a retreat, I am still a New Yorker, and I was desperate).
After the pit stop, we continued our stroll. The roads were deliciously devoid of cars, and only a handful of pedestrians shared the sidewalks. After ascertaining that nearly every shop had closed for the season, and that there was in fact very little to do, we made our way to the waterfront. The late winter day was fresh, and we had the beach entirely to ourselves. After tiring of splashing in the surf, we headed back to the hotel. A fireplace was waiting.
Washington, D.C. is a city of posers. Especially during the annual National Cherry Blossom Festival when camera-toting tourists and locals descend like locusts to D.C.’s Tidal Basin to bask in the ethereal beauty of these Japanese trees in bloom. 100 years ago Monday, 3,020 cherry blossom trees arrived in Washington as a gift from Japan, largely thanks to the efforts of a journalist and traveler named Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore, who was also the first female member of the National Geographic Society.
Aside from an incident in 1941 when four of the trees were chopped down in retaliation for the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, it’s been a century-long love affair ever since. If you visit the Tidal Basin on a warm sunny day, as I did on Thursday, good luck trying to find a place to stand, let alone somewhere to park. Everywhere you walk, you’re intruding on someone’s photo opportunity.
According to the April 2012 issue of National Geographic, Americans took 80 billion digital photos in 2011. By my own calculation, approximately 43 billion of those were taken at the Cherry Blossom Festival. If you think the commuter trains in Mumbai are snug at rush hour, you haven’t tried to see the cherry blossoms in bloom on a sunny day.
Every year, I vow that next year I’ll go see the cherry blossoms on a rainy day, in the middle of the night or, even better, during a lightning storm to avoid the crowds, but somehow that never happens. Still, there’s a magnetic pull that keeps me coming back. When the trees are in bloom, you’ve got to go take a look. It’s kind of like a nude beach — you know it’s just going to be fat guys from Dusseldorf, but you need to see it for yourself.
The Japanese have a special bond to the trees, which they call sakura. The Canadian writer Will Ferguson once hitchhiked through the length of the country, south to north, following the trail of the sakuras blooming and his book, “Hokkaido Highway Blues,”is a hilarious account of his attempt to penetrate the soul of the country.
%Gallery-151319%For me, the best part of the festival is watching people pose for their cherry blossom glamour shots. You see women trying to look seductive, stoic Asian men who pose solemnly, as though they were being booked into a state penitentiary, guys in suits holding their tablets awkwardly to frame photos, and me, taking about 300 photos of my sons for no good reason. Imagine how much that would’ve cost in 1912.
Kennedy had Hyannisport. Bush 41 summered in Kennebunkport, Maine. Bush 43 favored his ranch in Crawford, Texas. Nixon loved his La Casa Pacifica Mansion in San Clemente, California. The Clintons had Martha’s Vineyard until Dick Morris, their pollster, told them it was too posh. A variety of presidents used Camp David to unwind. The Obama’s favor Hawaii. But what about Abe Lincoln? What did the man that most historians consider America’s greatest president do for vacation?
Perched on a hill in a gritty, working class neighborhood of Washington D.C., around the corner from stores with heavily fortified protective grills and an Eritrean Orthodox Church, sits one of the city’s most compelling, yet off-the-beaten-track tourist destinations. The Hamptons it is not. It’s the Soldiers’ Home, which served as the Lincoln family’s seasonal “cottage” retreat from 1862-4.
The Lincoln family moved into the Victorian style cottage 150 years ago shortly after the death of their eleven-year-old son Willie, who probably drank contaminated water from the Potomac and caught typhoid fever, one of the great scourges of the era. Like any grieving family, the Lincolns needed a change of scenery — someplace quiet, away from the bustle, foul air and contagious diseases that plagued crowded D.C.
The family moved into the Soldiers’ Home, a house that was built in 1842 for the Washington banking tycoon who founded Riggs Bank. The house is on the grounds of America’s first home for retired and disabled, enlisted veterans. When Lincoln moved in there were a few hundred veterans living on the grounds and there were also Union soldiers camping out in tents on the premises. Veterans still live on the grounds today.
Every morning from April or May through November, Lincoln would make the three-mile, 30-minute commute down the hill into D.C. on horseback. His advisors wanted him to make the trip with a cavalry security entourage, but Abe preferred to leave before they arrived, so he could go alone, stopping on the way to chat with soldiers and freed slaves who gave him a real picture of what life was like for ordinary people during the war. Last year, museum staff tried to reenact his horse ride and it took two hours due to traffic and lights.
Other presidents aside from Lincoln also spent time at the home, including Presidents Hayes, Buchanan and Arthur, but none were as attached to the place as the Lincolns reportedly were. After it fell out of fashion as a presidential retreat, it went back to being used as a veterans’ office, and part of it was turned into what was called Lincoln’s Lounge & Pub. (Never mind the fact that Abe was a teetotaler.)
According to my GPS, the home sits at an elevation of just 460 feet, but that’s a few hundred feet higher than the White House, so they believed that the place was a bit breezier and healthier as well. Today, the notion of traveling three miles away to “Get away from it all,” seems absurd — but it wasn’t at the time. There was no morning Tai Chi or organic food, but it was a kind of holistic retreat for the family before that term was invented.
Lincoln was seen riding his favorite horse, Big Bob, around the grounds of the cottage on April 13, 1865, the day before he was assassinated. 135 years later, President Clinton declared the site a National Monument, and after an eight-year restoration project it was opened to the public on President’s Day in 2008.
It’s the only tourist attraction in D.C. that offers free parking, and the $12 entry fee buys visitors an informative guided tour as well as entry into the small but well organized museum in the visitor’s center (reservations recommended). The lifelike statue of Lincoln out front is exactly six feet four-and-a-half inches tall, so step right up to it to get an idea of what it might have been like to stand toe-to-toe with Honest Abe. (The hat brings him up to seven feet tall.) If you’re interested in knowing more about Lincoln’s life, this is a must stop in a somewhat obscure area of D.C.
These days the neighborhood isn’t the quiet, country retreat it once was — on my visit, the din of construction cranes could be heard in the distance. But there’s still a view of the Capitol, which was under construction when Lincoln lived there.
The Hampton’s designer-dog-in-a-purse crowd is nowhere to be found and no one would confuse the neighborhood with Hyannisport or Martha’s Vineyard, but walking around the grounds of the place, it’s not hard to conjure a vision of big Abe in his stovepipe hat riding up the hill on horseback after a long day at the White House.
