Living Like the Vanderbilts

A few months ago, when I went to see Leo dazzle me in Gatsby, I mentioned to Cam that one of the most jarring differences between the world I envisioned while reading the book and the world spread across the big screen was the sheer size of the homes.

Call it my decidedly upper lower/lower middle class upbringing, but I simply could not imagine a summer home the size of the gilded age mansions described by Fitzgerald.

Cam's response was immediate. "We're going to Newport."

On Sunday morning, after feeding the kids and loading them all up, we headed south-ish to Rhode Island.

I was giddily excited to visit Rhode Island for the following reasons: a) it's our smallest state, b) it has a personality the size of Texas, c) they call water fountains bubblers, d) they have this stuff called coffee syrup, and e) they put tomatoes in their mac and cheese.

We took the scenic route across wide expanses of water, through copses of trees, and through scenic New England towns.

If I'd had all the time in the world and not three children nearing the end of the only movie they could agree upon, I would have made Cam pull over as we passed a Drive In nearly devoured by the surrounding woods. I would have paused for just a moment as we drove past a marina filled with sail boats floating on gently sparkling water. I would have followed the rambling road pointing to picturesque farms. I would have walked the streets of the tiny villages which must have surely been the inspiration for Main Street Disney.

Instead, we made our way to Newport where, upon receiving maps and tickets, we joined the line of cars driving past homes so large they made hotels look small. There's no way to describe the scale of these sprawling estates. I've visited castles and manor homes in the UK and even in comparison to those, these American castles were on a scale meant to show all the wealth and privilege of the gilded age.

The first home we visited was Rosecliff. A "smaller" home, it featured gorgeous architecture, panoramic views, sweeping lawns, and an audio tour that both confused and enthralled the kids. We learned of the history of the home and of Tessie, the original heiress owner who spent her final days wandering empty halls with her hair flowing down her back and pressing champagne upon imaginary guests. What must she have seen in her mind's eye? Was it the elaborate costume balls? The intimate dinner parties with eighty of her closest friends? As the walls began to crumble around her, did she see the gilt and paint of her summer home?

After Rosecliff we ventured to the Breakers, home of the Vanderbilts. It was emphasized again and again, that this summer estate was a home, a place for the Vanderbilts to escape with their children.

While walking through corridors wide enough for a Mini Cooper and seeing mosaic stone verandas that were at one time filled with plush furniture, it was hard to imagine a place less suitable for children. And yet, the audio tour included a tour specifically for the kids, telling them of the stories and misadventures of the Vanderbilt children. The property included a play house complete with a fireplace and large kitchen.

The rooms, the large echoing rooms, must have surely been filled by the laughter of children kissed by the sun and gifted with a silver spoon. Stories of the stately staircase becoming a slide with the help of a silver serving tray, of childhood pranks against overly mature acting siblings, and of one curly haired girl spending the summer in a sunny room recovering from whooping cough mingled with the names of royalty and Presidents until, standing on the stone steps and looking out at the ocean while Elizabeth turned cartwheels over the verdant lawn, flashing her panties at all and sundry, I could imagine that perhaps it really was a family home.

I've always been fascinated with early 20th century Russian history, pre-Revolutionary France, and the Gilded Age. Those times, times filled with an almost obscene amount of wealth, will never happen again in that way. Like Cleopatra drinking crushed pearls in her wine, the way the people of those times and those places spent their money is so far outside the realm of my imagination I have a difficult time wrapping my head around it. How is it possible for a country in the depths of a financial depression to house people so completely wrapped up in profit and their own entitlement as to be completely oblivious to the suffering and pain around them. How can one man line his walls with gold and silver while another starves?

Then again, maybe, someday, someone will feel the same about here. Now.

And maybe, the reason I find it so fascinating is because history repeats itself and a part of me knows I'm witnessing it now.

But that's another post.

Allons-y!

The kids, patient with their mothers' fascination with the stately homes, were brilliantly patient, but promises of lunch and the beach pressed. We drove to the cup of the bay where we could see the manor homes on one side and the beautiful salt box homes on the other. We walked down the boardwalk until we found what we were looking for - a seaside joint promising fish and chip, burgers, and french fries. We ate in the sun while seagulls circled overhead and the wind tossed our hair in our faces. Then we headed to the beach where the kids stripped to their suits and ran into the water.

"It's warm!" Joseph's surprise was mirrored by his sister. My salt water children are used to the Pacific where even in the middle of summer while the sun beats on the sandy beaches until it burns your feet, the water is still a skin tingling cold. They ran across the waves and splashed in the water. The collected shells the size of their hands and then, done with the water, built a village of sand.

Cam and I sat in the shadow of an empty lifeguard tower and talked of books and family. Sand drifted through my fingers, marking the minutes until we'd have to load the kids back up and begin the two hour drive home. It was beautiful, this beach. It was a shore steeped in history and privilege.

The sun began to set, reminding me I wasn't at home as it cast shadows in front of where I faced the ocean. It turned the water a deep blue instead of my familiar orange. With a sigh, we gathered the kids and began to drive home, stopping only for a scoop of ice cream at a road side stand where other summer vacationers brushed the salt and wind out of their hair and enjoyed the creamy sweetness of New England ice cream.