My husband Leo and I often confound people. We drive a Winnebago but love to stay in bed and breakfast inns. Proprietors often glance dubiously at our motor home and ask, "Are you intending to sleep in that?" "That" happens to be one of the sleekest, most comfortable units on the road today so we're not that surprised when folks think we're just searching for a parking place. "No, no," we reassure the B & B owners, "we have the money to stay inside." "Inside the inn?" they persist, eyeing Thor (the name of our Winnebago; Leo has Viking blood).
What a lot of people don't understand is that for us to sleep in their hostelry is frequently a come-down. Once we've compared shower stalls, the comfort and swivelability of living room chairs and the quality of hardwood surfaces, we opt for the Winnebago. "Maybe we'll come in tomorrow morning for breakfast" (Thor's kitchen is cramped), says Leo, letting them down gently.
Now one region of this country that has no appreciation of motor homes is northwest Connecticut. We've had some genuinely hair-raising experiences there. For those who've never been, it's crammed with stone walls. And behind those stone walls are either prep schools or homes that look like prep schools. And in those homes are alcohoòics and wife-beaters (often both) who "write."
A typical day for one of these types might be: Scotch, phoning and yelling at their agent, smacking a wife or kid (who's not enrolled at one of the local prep schools), "writing," more Scotch, and then calling the cops on Leo and me for driving Thor past their house. This actually happened to us four years ago. We received a summons for "parking within fifty feet of the Litchfield town green."
Leo put it best when he told the ticketing officer: "I don't know if you've heard, but this is still America." "No," said the cop, indicating the white clapboard buildings in our vicinity, "it's not." Can you imagine? They've actually got an ordinance against vehicles longer than 18 feet. Leo wanted to leave a whole bunch of Big Mac wrappers on their precious green but we couldn't find a McDonald's.
Anyway, all this provided a sharp contrast to perhaps the last place in America where you can still locate a charming, reasonably priced bed and breakfast: Arkansas. That's right: less than 80 miles from Little Rock, Leo and I discovered what has to be one of the great deals in this great nation: Ma Gerber's.
Ma herself is quite a character. She's the sort who keeps a wad of Kleenex in her brassiere on hot days (we were there the last week in August) and yet can still tell you almost every state bird (she missed Alaska and Ohio) while mopping her brow.
At first, when he took a look around Ma Gerber's, Leo's comment was, "Too many ruffles." (That's the Norwegian in him). But then he realized: "This place is relatively clean and the room's got an air conditioner." (Cooling a Winnebago overnight in the deep South can be prohibitively expensive.)
The big plus was the Jacuzzi. As much as we cherish Thor (94,000 miles and still purrs like a baby), he lacks a place for us to fully re-charge our batteries. That is to say, what Leo might call "an erogenous zone": an area of the home where a couple in their early 60s can reawaken the embers of what drew them together in the first place.
I feel truly sorry for all the rich couples in Connecticut and New Jersey who read their separate financial statements each night before climbing into separate beds. There are actually women who can't remember their grandkids' birthdays but fall asleep dreaming of a pair of suede boots in the Short Hills Mall, men who care more about their golf handicap than their wife's disability.
Not Leo. He took one look at that junior suite Jacuzzi and his eyes lit up. Then he turned to Ma Gerber and pointed at the tub: "There's a ring" (that Norwegian again). You could see her face sag: it was 114° and she was not up for scrubbing a Jacuzzi. "The girl's gone home," she said, "I'll give you each a triple portion of bacon in the morning and bring up a can of Comet." That clinched the deal (after all, the junior suite was only $48).
That evening, Leo was extraordinarily...avid. Now I don't know how many of you have done it in water or how many of you have done it in hot bubbly water in the heart of Arkansas in the last week of August, but Leo and I nearly died. Literally. He had palpitations and I felt numbness along the length of my left leg. Afterwards as we lay there panting, Leo said, "That was really something. We should go on 'Near-Death Experiences.'" "Yeah," I said, "or 'Oprah' at the minimum."
We then went down to the porch and shared a bottle from a nearby winery with Ma Gerber and her daughter, Roberta. We must have shot the breeze for a good three hours (they have a seat that swings).
Our only reservation about Ma Gerber's is the number of stairs (62). Other than this, we unreservedly recommend this B & B for: Girlfriend Getaway, Old Travellers, Pet Owners, and Family with Teenagers. We do not recommend Ma Gerber's for An Amazing Honeymoon or People with Heart Conditions, but for an Amazing Second Honeymoon? Absolutely!
