America's Castle Article Published on ForbesTraveler.com

During my East Coast odyssey of '08, I spent a few weeks researching America's castles, many of which are located in the Northeast, particularly Newport, Rhode Island, and New York's Hudson River Valley and Long Island. The article is finally live on ForbesTraveler.com:
http://www.forbestraveler.com/luxury/americas-castles-story.html?partner=rss

While in Newport to dig a little deeper into the history of Belcourt Castle, I also happened to be on deadline for another assignment. Instead of rushing back to my hotel to use the lobby Wi-Fi, I was fortunate enough to hang out in the castle a little longer, flanked by two suits of armor. It was definitely one or my more unique writing locations.

I'd still love to visit Wing's Castle and Coral Castle, since they're both such oddballs, as well as check out OHEKA, which I'm sure has changed greatly since my sister got married there a thousand years ago.

New Hope: Been There, Done That

I've been hearing about the quaint little burg of New Hope for years, but something has always seemed to get in the way of my visiting. Not so this time. With no boss bellowing for me to return to a prison-like cube and five months to spend on the East Coast, I finally got to visit one of the cities that Forbes Traveler recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns.

With niblings in tow, I packed up Eartha Kitt and set my GPS for New Hope, population 2,252 (per the 2000 census). We planned to spend the day strolling charming boutique-lined streets, taking in the autumn foliage, and then heading to Shady Brook Farms for some pumpkin and apple pickin'.

I'd expected New Hope to be charming, but I didn't quite anticipate its unique hybrid of historic cuteness and hip anti-conformism. The first indication that we wouldn't be greeted by minutemen and Betsy Ross wannabes came in the form of a surreal statue, which the niblings and I deemed a cat on acid. It has ears like a cat and a rather cat-like posture, if said cat were having its ass scratched, so high was its overly elongated tail in the air, but there was also something inherently un-catlike about it, something less whimsical Seuss and more opium-smoking Poe. (If anyone has any idea what this animal is actually supposed to be, please tell me. We're dying to know.) After taking a few pictures with the un-cat and the un-cat's bunghole, we moved on down the street to the canal museum, unmanned and amusingly tiny. We took a gander at the mule-less canal, now choked with duckweed and cat tails as it undergoes renovation. Quentin, remembering what he'd learned about canals from our Toronto trip, impressed me by pointing out the locks. (I have to remember to show him this site tomorrow.)

The first few shops we encountered were closer to the New Hope of my mind, including a year-round Christmas store and a handmade purse boutique, complete with punny name (The Bag Lady). We perused a bit but soon grew bored with a holiday too far off to provide any instant gratification. As we ambled lazily down the sidewalk, we had a bit of a shock when a woman, her hand covered in her own blood, streaked past us, her eyes glazed with fear. I spun some story to ease the kids' own fright, then kept walking, only to run into the same woman emerging from a restaurant moments later, her hand still dripping scarlet. This time, I decided to be more of a role model and told her to take a deep breath before asking if she needed me to call 911 and reminding her to apply pressure. But apparently my heroism was a little late, because a moment later the restaurant manager came out with cloths for her to press against her wound.

I hurried the kids along, trying to divert their minds from the pre-Halloween gore by pointing out the lush foliage, distinctive architecture, and the Mansion Inn (after my trip to Newport and, most notably, Belcourt Castle, "mansion" seemed a misnomer for this comparatively teensy dwelling). We finally found a worthy distraction in a medieval-themed store brimming with suits of armor, metal brassieres, and swords taller than my nephew. Although the prices were more than reasonable (a hand-crafted knife for $20!), I decided against buying weapons for children and instead took them to gaze at the horrific display of Chucky-inspired gore in the window of an adults-only store. Much more appropriate.

That's what shocked me most about New Hope. Although it's steeped in history and the arts -- every other shop at the far end of Main Street was an overpriced gallery -- New Hope definitely has a kinky, non-comformist side. Now that I've seen it myself, I realize that's probably what my friends were trying to convey when they gawked about my never having visited, especially since the town seemed "made for me" and "right up my alley." There were at least three stores that the niblings wouldn't be able to enter for at least another eight years, and several more that probably should have had similar warnings.

Luckily, their favorite stop turned out to be Farley's Bookshop, an independent seller with the requisite creaky floors and even a feline mascot but, sadly, no musty old books for me to pine over. After buying reading material for the kids (Fablehaven for Carly, another edition of Captain Underpants for Quentin) and skipping rocks on the banks of the Delaware in the shadow of passing paddleboats, we decided to ditch our historic train ride so we could spend the maximum amount of time on the farm, whose website promised all sorts of autumnal fun.

We should have done the train ride. Shady Brook Farms was, let's just say, a tad disappointing. If the admission fee had been more than $10, I probably would have asked for--no, demanded--my money back. The haunted house was little more than a gross-out fest, far less frightening than it was nauseating (thanks in part to a toilet full of poo in the blood-splattered bathroom). Only two of the big-kid carts on the SPF 500 Racetrack worked, and with no one to monitor the gaggle of children, I practically had to yank off two cart-bogarting kids so my dear, sweet, patient niblings could have a turn. The corn maze had terribly marked "clues" planted about, and because it too was unmonitored, we could easily still be in there if I hadn't cheated our way out, since no one saw us enter and the sunlight was rapidly fading. Even the hayride... wasn't. There wasn't a straw of hay to be found on the tractor ride to the pumpkin patch. The upside is we did leave with decent pumpkins, and the pig and dachshund races were delightful, if only because Carly got chosen to wave the checkered flag and act like a starting bell at the beginning of each race.

The kicker came when we went to go apple picking, which Quentin had been waiting for all day. It took nearly half an hour to find the unmarked orchards, even though they were only a quarter mile and two turns away. For those looking, it's a right at the mailboxes (not the stoplight), through the drive between the two white buildings, down the dirt road to the left, and conveniently located next to an apiary. Yes, a whole swarm of beehives. Very convenient for pollinating apples, but not very convenient for picking them. As seemed to be the theme of the day, the orchard too was unmonitored, so we had no one to ask what we could pick or where we would pay. So we simply left, leaving Quentin feeling unfulfilled. Damn you, Shady Brook Farms!

I bet if you ask the kids a year from now what they remember most about the trip, they'll say the bloody-armed woman, the toilet of horrors, and the pig races. Such is the mind of a child. At least, that's what stands out to me.

America's Purdiest, Per Forbes Traveler

ForbesTraveler.com recently compiled a list of what they deemed to be the prettiest darn towns in these here United States. Luckily for me, I've already seen quite a few of them -- and I've knocked off several this summer alone.

There was a wealth of options in the Southwest and Northeast, but I was surprised how few were in the Northwest, and not so surprised about the lack in the Southeast and Midwest. But where's Bellingham or Friday Harbor? And does New Hampshire really warrant two picks?

The biggest surprise was Bodie, a California ghost town in the Sierras, current population: 0. I have to admit, the photos from my visit there a few years back are some of my favorites, as it's quite the picturesque town. It helped that no cars ever drove in front of my shots. Here's my tally of the been-there, done-thats from the Forbes list:

• Rockport, ME
  
• Springdale, UT
  
• Burlington, VT -- Visited this summer on a day-trip from the Berkshires. Pretty town, but the realistic statues of people frozen in everyday poses was a tad on the eerie side.
  
• Bisbee, AZ
  
• Cape May, NJ -- How is it that I worked on a film about the Jersey Shore all summer and still never made it here?
  
• Annapolis, MD -- When I drove through the colonial-styled town a few years back, my friend remarked, "I want to write a book here." I still have dreams of holing myself up in an 18th-century home with my laptop in front of the fire.
  
• Lake Placid, NY -- Does driving through on the way to Montreal count? Darn, thought not.
  
• Portsmouth, NH
  
• New Hope, PA -- Finally knocked this one off the list just a few weeks ago.
  
• Flagstaff, AZ
  
• Newport, RI -- Skip the Breakers. Visit Belcourt Castle instead.
  
• Galena, IL
  
• Marfa, TX
  
• Park City, UT
  
• Mendocino, CA
  
• Savannah, GA
  
• Bodie, CA -- I swear, I'll post pictures soon. I'm pretty proud of these. So proud that there are bathrooms across LA with pictures of my black-and-white outhouses hanging in them.
  
• Hanover, NH
  
• Aspen, CO -- I'm counting this one because I drove through twice this summer.
  
• Santa Fe, NM

24 Hours in Newport, Rhode Island

In the course of researching an upcoming article, I came across a location that piqued my interest: Belcourt Castle. This Newport, Rhode Island, mansion stands out from its stodgy neighbors by virtue of its rebellious history -- and its reputed hauntings. I'd never been to Newport, let alone Belcourt, So I took a little six-hour drive up I-95 to visit the Ocean State -- my first time actually stopping and not just driving through on the way to Boston -- and checked out the quaint little island burg that was recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns by ForbesTraveler.com.

Although I had less than a day to spend in town -- whose colonial buildings are remarkably well preserved, thanks mainly to the foresight of philanthropist/heiress/scandal queen Doris Duke -- I was determined to see the highlights, most notably the castle that had originally drawn me here.

But as I'd arrived less than an hour before Belcourt closed, the castle would have to wait until the next day. First I was off to the Cliff Walk, the three-and-a-half-mile oceanfront path that guides visitors along the lawn perimeters of some of the most magnificent homes ever built on American soil. I managed to arrive about an hour before sunset, and I bragged to a friend on the other end of my phone about the sights I was passing as he sat shackled to his cube on the opposite coast. "Ooh, there's The Breakers. You should see Chateau-la-Mer!" Sometimes it's fun to rub a little salt water in the working-man's wound.

I made it back to the Bowen's Wharf area just in time for the magic hour, which once again left me pondering, Why is it that sunset photos never look half splendid as they do in real life? At least I got a few decent twilight shots of the darling colonial-era shops and restaurants that line the waterfront. It felt someone like Disneyland, only without the impending air of falsehood or soul-numbing Stepfordness. After a splendid dinner at One Bellevue -- featuring the best butternut squash soup I've ever had in my entire butternut squash soup-loving life -- I got some much-needed shuteye at the Hotel Viking, a historic 1926 hotel whose mission seems to be not to skimp on pillows. (Where the heck are you supposed to put them at night, anyway?)

The next day, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the ludicrous eight-hour agenda I'd set forth for myself: sailing, a visit to the Norman Bird Sanctuary and Hanging Rock, and, of course, a firsthand view of the castle that had drawn me to America's Society Capital (also aka the Queen of the Sea and the Queen of Summer Resorts) in the first place. Surprisingly, I haven't been able to discover a sailing nickname for Newport, or perhaps they've opted not to have one, still smarting from the loss of the America's Cup back in 1983. My sailing guide from Sail Newport was a wealth of information about the sport, answering every question I had as if he'd studied for an oral exam. He regaled me with tales of the cup, the story behind the naming of the Rose Island Lighthouse (the island is said to resemble a stemmed rose when the water is at low tide), and the remarkable tenacity of Clingstone, the unsheltered "House on the Rocks" that has somehow managed to weather storms that have obliterated more protected landmarks.

After a delightful morning on the water, I realized that if I were going to keep on schedule and leave by sundown, I would have to skip my hike to Hanging Rock and head straight to Belcourt. I didn't want to be rushed, and I certainly wouldn't have missed this stop.

Owner Harle Tinney was kind enough to give me a private tour through her home, which, unlike most of Newport's other mansions, was still a functioning household rather than just a museum. She pointed out where she herself had spotted ghosts and provided her own personal take on some of the artifacts, most notably the coronation carriage, which she had assisted her husband in building. Tinney can point to a carving and recall just how many hours, days, or weeks it had taken to finish it. The carriage itself is quite an artistic achievement, with the sort of craftsmanship and attention to detail usually found only in works of centuries past.

The rest of the house is an eclectic wonderment of treasures that the Tinney family collected from around the globe. Before a stained-glass window sat a hand-carved four-poster bed from India, which Tinney said would have taken four men twenty years to carve. (Imagine the back order on those.) A jewelry box made for royalty stood nearly twice as tall as Tinney herself. Vases, chairs, and paintings originally owned by some of history's grandest names filled every area of the castle, which at times actually felt medieval due to the abundance of suits of armor, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass.

I won't go into the details of the home's history, which is laid out in great detail elsewhere on the web, but suffice it to say that Belcourt's pedigree is unusual, just the way original owner and maverick Oliver Belmont wanted it. The love the staff feels for the house is evident, especially from Tinney herself. One of her employees even took off a year of school in Canada to work at Belcourt, so obsessed he's been since he first learned about the castle as a kid. It seems that most anyone, myself included, who visits Belcourt finds a special attachment to it, and I found myself jumping at Harle Tinney's offer to use her office to finish the assignment that was due in mere hours.

When I finally, and reluctantly, left Belcourt after sunset, Ms. Tinney was leaving for a birthday extravaganza at one of the other historic manses, and she had just finished wrapping a lovely antique vase for her guest. She was decked out in her finery, evoking images of the social butterfly Alva Belmont, whose presence, if not her spirit, could still be felt throughout the darkened halls of Belcourt. I followed her a few blocks down the road to the party and then, as I rolled off back towards the modern world on I-95 and she down a long white gravel driveway, spotted a last glimpse of Ms. Tinney, a tux-tailed valet, and a bygone era.

View more Newport, Rhode Island photos

Return to Fire Island

Every once in a while, I have a wonderfully peaceful sleep in which I dream I'm strolling the wooded lanes of a tranquil island. There are no cars, only little red wagons and the occasional golf cart. Surf roars onto a beach as fine as white powder, and my feet look sugar-coated after only a short stroll, during which I'm greeted by deer who've all but lost their fear of humans. In the distance blinks a lighthouse.

During my years of living on the East Coast, I visited Fire Island roughly a dozen times, including a long weekend spent with a close friend in lieu of attending prom. On each of my visits, I usually managed to drag along at least one or two newbies, friends who had yet to experience the island's charm. On the return ferry ride after one such trip, my friend Zi turned to me, a contented smile on her face, and remarked, "How have I lived on Long Island all my life and never visited here?"

I've often wondered the same thing, but I've also been glad that Fire Island has remained somewhat unknown, somehow forgotten, and often avoided by the less open-minded due to its reputation as a haven for alternative lifestyles. These factors, plus the half-hour ferry ride that separates the island from the "mainland" of Long Island, have kept it less crowded than it might otherwise be. And after 10 years of being away from one of my favorite spots on the planet, I finally returned this weekend.


My friends had, for various reasons, flaked, but I decided to go anyway. I'd missed out on visiting the island too many times in the past, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity escape as well. After so many years, I not only remembered driving directions to the ferry, but I also recalled my frugal parking secrets (opt for the free lots on Gibson and share a $4 cab to the ferry, in lieu of the $14/day parking at the terminal). Once the ferry had docked and I'd set foot back in the main town of Ocean Beach, the layout of the terrain came back to me as well.

There was Rachel's Bakery, where I'd learned not to be afraid of vegetables in desserts via the utterly decadent carrot cake. Across the way was The Albatross, which used to serve comforting warm bread and a decadent garlic butter as a freebie appetizer, but has, according to another Fire Island friend/aficionado (who just shot a music video here), since stopped. The community house that doubles as the island's only movie theater announced screenings of WALL-E on hand-written posters, while some budding entrepreneurs begged passersby to buy their hand-painted shells and rocks.

Despite the hubbub of the arriving ferry crowd and a few off-leash children, the island was relatively silent on the bay side. After contenting myself that the old-school arcade was still there, I set my sights on the ocean side, roughly half a mile away. Strolling the island's many walkways has always been one of my favorite island pastimes, and I planned to spend a good portion of my day wandering the trails like an aimless deer (minus the pit stops to feast in unlocked trash cans). Hiking would commence, however, after I got in my beach time.

When I reached the surf, I watched as a gaggle of teenage lifeguards hauled ashore a girl who'd been caught in the riptides. Some people may not realize it, but there's nothing due south of Long Island until you reach the Caribbean. Sure, a trade current will most likely drift you ashore, but why leave your fate in the hands of the Oxy Squad? I've experienced Long Island riptides in the past -- one in Amagansett was what I consider my first brush with death -- so I wasn't about to chance it again. Thus was the reason I ditched my swimming plans in favor of flopping onto my borrowed Tweety Bird towel to read my National Geographic Adventure magazine. Oh, and the Arctic-like water also played a small role in my decision.

Before diving into my sand-dune-sized pile of reading material, I slathered myself with SPF 45. As many fond memories as I have of Fire Island, I also recall it as the site of My Worst Sunburn Ever, a burn so severe that the pressure of cold shower water on my skin caused me pain, so long-lasting that the burn lines were visible nearly six years later. So sunscreen I applied. And applied. And applied some more.

After flirting with skin cancer long enough, I set off for my stroll, heading down through the smaller town of Seaview and over as far as Ocean Bay Park, where Flynn's was a-jumping with Sunday-night reggae. I popped in for the half-price Corona special, then set back to Ocean Beach to see when the next ferry would be. I'd had my fill of house-gazing, for the time being, and I'd suddenly remembered one of the many attractions that I needed to visit before sunset.

The Fire Island Lighthouse is four miles from Ocean Beach, which was too far for me to hike before the light had gone. So back to Bay Shore I'd have to journey, where I'd pick up Eartha KITT in time to cross the many bridges of the Robert Moses Causeway to the lighthouse. I made it just in time to hike the extra mile or so from the parking lot, snapped my shots, and, reluctantly, left.

But I'll be back.

View more Fire Island photos.

PA's Best-Kept Secret? Knoebels

I've hit Hershey and done Dorney, but it wasn't until my family had lived in Pennsylvania for more than a decade that I'd even heard of Knoebels. (Hint to fellow outsiders: The K isn't silent.)

My sister swore that this was the best theme park she'd ever been to -- no so much for the rides (which are great, but we'll get to that), but because admission is free. On select days, you can buy a pay-one-price bracelet, but for the most part, you just pay as you go, with tickets to rides costing a reasonable $.50 to $2.00, or thereabouts. Don't want to ride? Don't pay. That means that scaredy-cats and others who won't be riding don't have to pay some exorbitant fee just for the pleasure of spending a day out with the loved ones. Drag Granny along! Just leave her in the shade and water her regularly so she doesn't expire, and then the whole family can have a grand time. They even allow outside food and provide a picnic area with grills. Hospitality -- what a novel concept!

Shade -- that's the other key component to Knoebels' greatness. Rather than clearcut a forest to make way for the The Whipper and The Phoenix (originally located in San Antonio, where it was known as The Rocket), Knoebels' founding family saw to it that the rides were built around the trees. Today, guests stroll tree-shaded paths to get from one ride to the next, and there's little worry of heat-stroke in the lines, which on the Memorial Weekend we visited were never more than 45 minutes, and that was the longest of them. Perhaps the shortness of the lines could be attributed to guests not finding the place -- even the Knoebels site admits that Internet mapping services have trouble locating the park.

Knoebels' origins stretch back to the early 1800s, but it wasn't until the 1920s that the true amusement foundations were laid. (Check out the early history -- pretty interesting to see what accounted as "amusement" back in the day.) While newer, more high-tech rides are being added (can't wait to see what the bobsled-like Flying Turns will be like when it opens), it's the quaint, old-school relics that lend Knoebels its charm, and which continue to entertain even ADD-addled pre-teens.

Case in point: The aforementioned Whipper. The creaky ride looks as if it had been powered by mules in the past, so simple is the roundabout construction. Cars simply travel in a neverending circle, "whipping" around corners for a brief burst of excitement. Tame, even by pacemaker standards. The Flyer, in comparison, still has old-school roots but has somehow managed to avoid the scrutiny of ride inspectors. Not that there's anything inherently dangerous in this throwback attraction, but the mere fact that there's a ride you can steer clear into the surrounding trees makes me wonder if the lawyers have visited the grounds lately. My niblings loved it, especially when their craft would sail through the gap in the branches created by the thousands of other daredevils who had aimed for the heavens.

In addition to the classic rides and carousel museum, which displayed some critters not normally known as tot-friendly vehicles (Care to ride the snarling pig, anyone?), Knoebels has a spate of statues, signs, and buildings whose simplicity and provincialism make you snort soda through your nose even while you quell that pang of longing for yesteryear. Unlike at other theme parks, there doesn't seem to be a single mascot (unless you count the Halvoline "character" in the parking lot, which you shouldn't -- ever), so Knoebels has festooned the park with vikings, anthropomorphized corn, and a hodgepodge of other characters that must have spelled "Fun!" to the park's founding fathers. How can you not love a place where Cornelius the corn cob beckons you to enjoy the fare at the world food court?

For a deeper look into the Keystone State's hidden gem, check out Offroaders.com.