A place to lay my head

     You don’t usually hear people complaining about a lack of development in New Jersey, but we’ve found a small axe to grind on that subject. 

          Our daughter lives in the northwestern part of the state, an area brimming with farms and dotted with George Washington’s rest stops, the land chock-full of woods and houses whose backyards serve as smorgasbords for the deer. Because many of the residents commute to city jobs, there are also excellent restaurants and plenty of shopping. But no hotels. 

          Okay, there are a few. Years before, we began with one about fifteen minutes from her house, but gave up on it the night we discovered it was impossible to lock the room door. It soon lost its franchise and became a Motel 6. 

          We then moved down the road to another chain, this one closer to her house, but were never able to drum up much enthusiasm for it. It seemed to attract clientele whose main purpose for staying there was to shout to each other in the hall at 1 a.m. and slam doors repeatedly. The next morning we’d stagger down for our free breakfast and sit at a tiny table buttering our sad-looking bagels on a paper plate. 

          Yes, we have an open invitation to stay at our daughter’s,
 but a futon + one 6’ 2” husband is not going to produce much sleep either.

          And then I found more proof that the internet is my friend. In desperation, I went trolling yet again for a place to stay, and found The Everitt House in Hackettstown. It’s a B&B, a Victorian from 1800 something or other and is the same price as our hotel with the uncontrollable air conditioning and sticky-floored lobby. 

          I’m considering putting Bev, the owner, into my will. 

          This past weekend was our third visit, this time with family in tow for the upcoming Bar Mitzvah. Saturday afternoon we all lounged around downstairs with some wine I had brought before moving on to my daughter’s for dinner.

Sunday morning we gathered in the dining room for eggs and blueberry pancakes that produced purple pools on our plates when we cut into them.

          Okay, there were a few glitches.

          Our son and his fiancé were assigned the Empire Room, which would have been lovely if only he weren’t 6’5” and the bed hadn’t had a footboard. They looked a bit bleary-eyed the next morning, but hey, they’re young. 

          We were in the Manor Suite, up on the third floor, with a parlor and a Jacuzzi tub. Unfortunately, it may have been designed with honeymooners in mind since the television was in an outer room where there was only a stiff bench-like sofa. We got creative Sunday night and piled pillows on the floor. 

          Still, we’re hooked. 

          And how can you go wrong with a hotel whose address is on Chocolate Avenue? (It’s also called High Street, but the second name is a nod to the M&M plant in town.)