Author: John W. Kmetz
Date of Trip: June 2006
My wife had made reservations, long in advance, for a small elegant B&B located in the heart of the Pennsylvania mountains. We, along with another couple, planned a quiet weekend of fine dining, relaxation and merriment. Little did we know what was instore for the next two days.
Upon our arrival, the proprietor informed us of a weekend long motorcycle gathering held yearly in the nearby valley and stated several participants would be lodging with us. No problem, or as I thought. My wife was a little more skeptical but soon relented.
The B&B was a nineteenth century converted private home furnished in period pieces with imported Persian rugs. Fine crystal and dinnerware graced the leaded windowed cabinets. Silver plated servingware along with a collection of English salt cellars were displayed in a velvet lined presentation box. “Lovely” said my wife and I agreed.
The other guests appeared an hour afterward as we sat on the front porch sipping brut champagne and eating chilled shrimp. Their Harley Davidson motorcycles were so loud the porch flooring vibrated and the flowers in the hanging baskets almost seemed to wilt. After parking and turning off the engines, a rather large man with little dentition smiled at us and announced to the world he need to use the restroom facilities in a rather unique way. His significant other announced, to no one in particular, her most posterior portion was in a sensitive state and need soaking. Again, in a most unique way.
The other rider, I’ll call “Grandpa”, alighted from his machine with a can of beer and requested his riding partner produce a bottle of distilled spirits from a well worn saddlebag. After stumbling up the porch steps “Grandpa” then generously offered us a portion of his booty in Dixie cups retrieved from an ample stock stored in the left pocket of his well worn leather jacket. We politely declined.
The rather large man reappeared and announced it was “Time to Party”. With that, all four climbed back on the Harley Davidsons and roared off to the valley.
Through this my wife was a real trooper, or shall I say she requested we call a State Trooper?
After an excellent dinner out, we again relaxed on the front porch then retired, or so I thought. About 3:30 AM we were awakened to what I thought was a locomotive in the upstairs hallway. After I encouraged my wife to stop hyperventilating I went to investigate. Alas, our party goers had returned!
After much staggering, lurching and jockeying for position in the hallway, “Grandpa” managed to launch himself into the bathroom and close the door (thank goodness). The large gentleman stood muttering to himself something about “renting beer and a lack of facilities”. After an extended period of time in which much noise and commotion emitted from the privy the owner finally appeared. I don’t think she was bothered much by the fact that “Grandpa” was arguing with the toilet; but when the gentleman began to actually wrestle with the porcelain opponent, the authorities were called.
Needless to say, a great breakfast of waffles, fresh fruit, sage sausage and Columbian coffee was very quiet. Anyone want a beer?
Moral of the story: Investigate before you book.
B&B Dillweed Inn Dillwood, PA.
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