Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
almost $75-and that's before paying for ice creams and soft drinks and sweatshirts saying,
Boy, WERE WE SCREWED AT COLONIAL WILLIAMSBURG.
There wassomething wrongwiththewhole setup, something deeply fishyaboutthewayit
worked.IhadlivedinAmericalongenoughtoknowthatiftheonlywayintoWilliamsburg
was to buy a ticket there would be an enormous sign on the wall saying, YOU MUST
HAVE A TICKET. DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO GET IN WITHOUT
ONE. But there wasn't any such sign. I went outside, back out into the bright sunshine,
and watched where the shuttle buses were going. They went down the driveway, joined a
highway and disappeared around a bend. I crossed the highway, dodging the traffic, and
followedapaththroughsomewoods.InafewsecondsIwasinthevillage.Itwasassimple
asthat.Ididn'thavetopayapenny.Nearbytheshuttlebuseswereunloadingticketholders.
TheyhadhadarideofroughlyZ00yardsandwereabouttodiscoverthatwhattheirtickets
entitled them to do was join long, ill-humored lines of other ticketholders standing outside
each restored historic building, sweating in silence and shuffling forward at a rate of one
stepeverythreeminutes.Idon'tthinkIhadeverseenquitesomanypeoplefailingtoenjoy
themselves. The glacial lines put me in mind of Disney World, which was not altogether
inappropriate since Williamsburg is really a sort of Disney World of American history. All
the ticket takers and street sweepers and information givers were dressed in period cos-
tumes, the women in big aprons and muffin hats, the men in tricornered caps and breeches.
The whole idea was to give history a happy gloss and make you think that spinning your
ownwoolanddippingyourowncandlesmusthavebeenbagsoffun.Ihalfexpectedtosee
Goofy and Donald Duck come waddling along dressed as soldiers in the Colonial army.
The first house I came to had a sign saying DR. MCKENZIE'S APOTHECARY. The door
was open, so I went inside, expecting to see eighteenth-century apothecary items. But it
was just a gift shop selling overprecious reproductions at outrageous prices-brass candle
snuffers at $28, reproduction apothecary jars at $35, that sort of thing. I fled back out-
side, wanting to stick my head in Ye Olde Village Puking Trough. But then, slowly and
strangely, the place began to grow on me. As I strolled up Duke of Gloucester Street I un-
derwent a surprising transformation. Slowly, I found that I was becoming captivated by it
all.Williamsburgisbig—173acres-andthesizeofitaloneisimpressive.Thereareliterally
dozens of restored houses and shops. More than that, it really is quite lovely, particularly
on a sunny morning in October with a mild wind wandering through the ash and beech
trees. I ambled along the leafy lanes and broad greens. Every house was exquisite, every
cobbled lane inviting, every tavern and vine-clad shoppe remorselessly adrip with pictur-
esque charm. It is impossible, even for a flinty-hearted jerk-off such as your narrator, not
to be won over. However dubious Williamsburg may be as a historical document-and it is
