I’ve got Mackinac Island on the brain today. Four different friends on facebook mentioned trips there. So here’s a little story that features the prettiest island in Michigan:
Years ago I went to a Museum conference on the Island. The conference wasn’t the draw– it had dreadful sessions and presenters– but the conference rate allowed us to stay at The Grand Hotel. My coworker gal pals, Judy and Heather, and I were giddy with the idea of staying at The Grand Hotel. Our normal lives wouldn’t allow for such a thing. We’d all stayed on the Island but at one of the cheaper inns. The Grand Hotel is the grand dame of Michigan hotels.
And it had a starring role in the 1980 movie Somewhere in Time starring Jane Seymour and Christopher Reeve. To prep for our big adventure at The Grand Hotel we had a viewing of the movie at my house. We made it about 5 minutes into the video before the mocking began. The movie is an uneven mess of a story. Christopher Reeve goes to an old hotel (The Grand) and becomes obsessed with the image of a beautiful woman. He goes back in time, they fall in love, and then– oh! woeful fate! he pulls a 1979 penny out of his pocket and is thrust back through time to the present. He wastes away and the rejoins his love.
There are people who go for that kind of thing. But they’re also the same people that found The Notebook and The Bridges of Madison County to be the height of literature. The rest of us mock them and the movie. We noted, during our viewing, that Christopher Reeve has no pores. It was disconcerting, once we noticed… and that Jane Seymour’s passionate cry, “Riiiiiiichard!” comes across as so shrill that we couldn’t help but immediately try out the screech ourselves. Judy, it turned out can do a perfect imitation. Heather and I contented ourselves with our own perfected, “Is it you?” impressions. Our boss watched the movie with us and joined in our fault finding but warned us that her stepmother would be coming along to the conference, too, and that it was her favorite movie.
The ferry ride to the Island was even more fun than usual knowing that when we docked we’d be able to say, “To the Grand Hotel” when the porters asked. We practiced saying it so that we’d sound casual. Our nonchalance lasted only as long as it took us to be seated in the hotel’s carriage. Immediately we started chatting up the driver. (Later in the trip we made chums with a driver that joined us in singing a chorus of Surrey With the Fringe on Top and played a rousing game of “What’s the Dumbest Thing a Tourist Ever Asked You.”)
Our room at The Grand was unique. We were initially disappointed that we didn’t get one of the “named” rooms– those rooms on the first floor that are decorated to reflect the styles of famous persons (The Esther Williams Suite had a nice ring to it). Our room had wallpaper that was still crashingly loud when the lights were off. We finally decided that the pattern might be called “Exploding Pineapples.” We were very popular on the conference’s impromptu ”Let’s Tour Everybody’s Rooms Since None of Us Will Ever Be Able to Afford to Stay Here Again” after-session tour. (“Huh. It IS like exploding pineapples. Are you able to sleep?”)
The three of us took advantage of every moment of our stay. We relished our meals in the dining room– dressing to the nines and making, what we were sure was an impressive entrance. (Well, at least Judy did. She’s able to work a room. Heather and I sailed in behind her.) We sang in the Cupola Bar, we strolled the grounds (Judy got to practice her ”Riiiiiichard!!!!” at the actual spot), we had our nails done in the salon. (The girls there warmed up to us and told us wonderfully horrific stories of some of the people they’ve encountered. The bride with the black eye from her sister the ex-maid-of-honor was our favorite. I still pull it out at parties.)
Our grandest adventure, however, was the Daybreak Bike Ride to the Sunrise. Heather suggested it and I quickly agreed– and we talked a reluctant Judy into it, too. We woke in the wee hours and dressed silently in the gloom of the autumn dark and chill. Heather and I wore jeans and thick sweaters. Heather wore thick wool socks with her clogs. I pulled a bandana over my braids. Judy appeared in a new track suit. Her tennis shoes smartly matched. Heather and I looked like refugees next to Biking Adventure Barbie.
We picked up out our bicycles and joined the rest of the group. The guide was one of the higher-ups at the Mackinac park system. He laid out our route and where we’d stop for his tour points. My stomach growled. Our guide had a backpack with him. “Do you think he has snacks?” I asked Heather. “I’m sure he has something!” Pollyanna replied.
Judy was nervous. She hadn’t ridden a bicycle in years. She didn’t want to be singled out. Heather and I assured her that we’d stay with her. When the group took off we lagged behind and were rewarded with the feeling that the three of us had the entire, sleeping Island to ourselves. We gleefully rode along and cheerfully faced our first hill. At the top we applauded Judy for keeping a good pace. There was a long, winding hill ahead to coast down and we could just see the first members of the larger group disappearing around a bend. Judy balked, “Wait!” Heather and I, just on the very beginning of what was going to be a nice, breezy coast hit our brakes. “What’s wrong?” we asked. I looked at her bike– it seemed fine. No flat tires. “I didn’t know there would be hills,” said Judy. I looked at Heather who gently coaxed, “There won’t be any as steep as that first one– and we’ll take it easy. Terri and I will stay right with you.” Judy shook her head, “Oh I don’t mind going up the hills– I don’t like going down them. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”
Heather and I stared after Biking Barbie as she pedaled away into the dark. “Who doesn’t like going downhill?” “Do you think we can catch up with the group?” We took one last look to where Judy had been and then pushed off down the hill. We caught up with them at one of the first little pull-offs. The guide adjusted his bulky backpack and gesticulated toward some bit of flora that was native to the Island. Or maybe it was some rock. Or animal. I have no idea. All I could think of was food. Heather and I pedaled at the back of the pack post to post where the guide would expertly expound on this or that fact. He regaled us with the rich, layered history of the Native Americans, the French, the British, the Americans. His backpack became Heather’s and my only focus. What was in it? Early in the trip we supposed it might be scones and thermoses of hot tea. Or muffins and cocoa. Danish and coffee. By the end we were hoping for at least a granola bar and maybe a sip of luke-warm water.
Finally, at last! he reached in at the penultimate stop. Never did four eyes watch so closely the unzipping of a rucksack. As he gave his talk about something or other he rummaged in the bag… and then pulled out a pair of gloves. Gloves. I choked back a sob. Heather closed her mouth with effort. We pedaled silently to the last stop. Everyone else was dazzled by the sunrise. They oohed it. They aahed it. Heather and I admitted it was worth the early hours and the long, starving ride. We soaked up the orange glow that bounced across the water and lit up the Island in a warm, autumn colored light. (Don’t go to the Island to see the autumn riot of leaves– it’s mostly pine trees.)
We pedaled back to The Grand Hotel. As we rode we planned out how we might have done the guide and his selfish backpack in– we might have pushed him over the cliff by pretending our bike brakes had failed… or thrown one of his precious rocks at his head… and we planned how we might have planned such an excursion– how each stop would be themed and part of a progressive breakfast. We’d have scones with clotted cream and jam and tea for the British, croissants and cafe au lait for the French, cornbread and venison jerky for the Native Americans, bacon and eggs and juice for the Americans… At the hotel we turned in our bikes and walked up the front steps to the Veranda. We’d violated at least three parts of their dress code at this point. Judy sat with a mimosa in the morning light. She was showered and fresh and had such a pleasant place to sit. “How was it?” She was downright cheerful. We both lied. Said it was one of the best mornings of our life. Life changing it was. We smiled brightly and straightened our weary shoulders.
And then we excused ourselves and made our way to the dining room where we broke whatever dress codes we hadn’t and ordered two of the largest breakfasts known to man.
Sometime later, after we’d showered and still with full bellies we were able to tell Judy about the horrors she’d escaped– that the backpack had held only his personal effects. We left the Island none the wiser for all the sessions we did not go to (the one I DID turned out to be a presentation of somebody’s poorly pulled-together graduate paper. The girl who gave it was tiny and wore her clothing as though she thought she might grow 6 inches at any moment. It was so bad that Heather, my supervisor at the time, bought me a box of fudge). We left not as murderers of too-thin guides or even of someone’s love of a ridiculously soppy movie…
That Christmas I made little ornaments out of 1979 pennies.
