This is my day for exploring Williamsburg. I quickly come to the conclusion that it is a really odd place. It is quite a beautiful area, with lots of greenery and marshland. Flying in you could see lots of rivers and inlets. The centre of Williamsburg, called Colonial Williamsburg, is a living museum. All of the houses and shops have been restored to their original `18th century designs and no cars are allowed in. The people who live here dress up in 18th century costumes to walk the streets. I can’t work out if this is a paid gig or not. Apparently it works on a six month roster, so people do their bit and live in the houses for six months, then go back to normal life.
I walk in to Colonial Williamsburg and notice all of the houses are large and immaculately kept – the grass is all trimmed to the same length, hedges and trees are beautifully groomed. There is not a single scrap of rubbish to be seen…and it all feels so artificial. I guess this is because of the historical site regulations. Then I reach a sign saying “Welcome to Colonial Williamsburg”. The houses I’ve been looking at are the regular houses.
The centre is also immaculate, but the houses are older and all wooden. It is quite fascnating, but weird also. You really could be in a different century. The shops open on a rotating basis. I go into the post office where they hand stamp all the cards, but they are out of the stamps I need. I decide not to go into any of the museum buildings. You can read enough about the history just by walking around. It is a great place for a school trip, as evidenced by all the groups of kids running around, but just strange for regular grown-ups.
After a few hours, I look at the map and think maybe I can do a little hike over to the next town, Jamestown. I start walking but the map is not to scale. When I see I still have fourteen kilometres to go, I give up. Instead, I walk through the entire historical district to the other post office on the outskirts of the town, which thankfully is in a more real suburb – some of the houses are a normal size and not everyone has a perfect garden. I also drop in to a pharmacy to replace some of the things lost from my rucksack and grab some fruit and muesli bars from the supermarket in an attempt to eat healthily.
Tim rings to organise dinner and tells me to meet him at the pub next to Hospitality House in 15 minutes. When I arrive, he is nowhere to be seen, but his sister and brother in law, who I’ve met before in Dubai, are there, along with his dad. He arrives next, and then his mum and her new husband, along with his older brother. We set out for dinner at a seafood restaurant Alana (the bride) used to work at years ago. She joins us there. The food is delicious. I opt for a main course of crisp coated salmon and deep fried oysters, but also try Tim’s She-Crab soup with Sherry. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Superb.
We dine and make merry and at the end of the meal Tim’s dad decides the bill should be divided by four and the parents pay for all of us. I explain that I’m not poor despite being unemployed, but to no avail. I’m not unhappy about the free meal.
After dinner, we head back to the pub for another drink. Several folk leave at a sensible time, while the rest of us stay far, far too long. I believe the barman physically removes the glasses from our hands and pushes us out the door at the end of the night. It’s a rather slow stagger home, my enduring memory being the heady scent of magnolia.
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