Diversity? Nah, We're All the Same at Our Core.

We see articles which suggest we should step out of our comfort zone, meet new people, learn something new, take up a new hobby, and it sounds good. Yet, trying something new can be a little unsettling. Something new might keep us sharp. We might discover a new talent, food, or interesting people we knew nothing about. The political side of the same suggestion is ‘diversity is our strength’, which is debatable. Diversity might be a good thing as long as we all have a common goal. Do all Americans currently have the same common goal? I’m not so sure, anymore.
For me, I don’t need to search for something new. All I do is put my feet on the floor in the morning and hold on tight. Newness and diversity arrive at my door daily, to present unusual and sometimes beautiful results.
A Spanish Lord, a polished urban salesman, party girls, a Brigadier General, a Nubian queen, Aussies, and a lovely couple from rural America. Would you ever put together such a list for a dinner party? I couldn’t make up such a story if I tried. This small group had wildly different interests, personal experiences, languages, societal classes, and cultures. Yet, they all came to our house for one glorious and rather noteworthy weekend. What happened was pure magic.
We’ve often marvel at how people “melt” in our B&B. Traveling used to be refined and elegant, but today, the process of planes, trains, and automobiles, are riddled with personal offenses. When guests arrive, we are aware they’ve been through something of a shock. We understand and give them room, and a little bit of patience, to settle down. By the next morning, everyone, and I mean every single person (save one – but for a later story) melts into a polite, interesting, and engaged human being. The personality transformation is uncanny and absolute. I have hundreds, nay, thousands of examples. With all the talk of ‘division’ in our country, I often wonder what would happen if I could just get people to spend a weekend here….., or maybe if they merely had dinner together…., maybe we would all get long…., or at least listen to each other.
While we’re all waiting on the President’s SOTU and we’re tired of listening to pundits endlessly speculate about the President’s speech and thoughts, I thought we could pass the time with a real story of diversity. The following story is one of the best examples of how people are all good and kind at their core, and how people, who would never be placed in the same Venn Diagram, came together. It’s odd how their rough edges melt away, but it happens, without fail.
It was the second week of November and we shut down the B&B to get ready for Christmas. The staff and I were up in the attic, sorting decorations by tree or room for placement in the main house. Our attic is our hidden gem. It’s about 2300sq. ft., wide pine flooring, with a 22′ ceiling in the center. The rain was coming down outside, so we could hear it on the roof. About 4 of my staff/girlfriends, were up there with me. Our annual tradition takes months to plan, and we were looking forward to the “decking of the halls”. We had Christmas carols playing on the boombox, we were singing, wearing our Santa hats, grooving in the mood to put up 15 Christmas trees. The phone rang and shattered our mood.
On the phone was an urban salesman. He had arranged a big weekend for a client with people flying in to meet, and he was shocked to learn he couldn’t find two nice hotel rooms. A large local event had taken hotel rooms as far away as 30 miles from our metro. I had been turning down rooms for months. He was desperate. He begged me for two rooms. I resisted. By then, the girls were looking at me with squished noses. They knew what was coming. We had already dragged trees and garland down from the attic and made a huge mess. Taking guests meant we had to stop, clean up, and delay our fun. Again, he begged. He sounded nice and I capitulated. I scribbled his information on an ornament boxtop, and vaguely recall the moment he told me the two women would arrive separately. To placate my girlfriends, we continued decorating for hours. We knew guests did not arrive until after 4:00pm. We agreed to stop at 2:30pm and straighten up our mess downstairs. Before noon, I had the other two rooms booked.
At noon, one of the girls went downstairs and grabbed all the fixings for sandwiches and a huge plate of Christmas cookies. She returned upstairs, we munched on sandwiches and cookies, singing while we worked.
A little before 1:00pm, I heard women’s voices on the attic stairs, “Hello? Anyone there?”, lots of laughing and giggling. It was the two women, arriving way too early. I sincerely apologized for not being ready but they were unphased. Their eyes were wide, scanning the attic. It really did look like a Santa workshop. The women were lovely, early 30’s, our age, and they fit into our gaggle of women quite well. They insisted, they dropped their luggage on the first floor and they wanted to help us!!!!!!!!! Great, “Want a sandwich or a cookie?”, I offered.
With extra hands, we hauled, moved, and strung lights until about 3:00pm. By the time we had to stop, the two new guests/girls were like old friends. We got them settled into their rooms, cleaned up the hallways, changed clothes, my girlfriends disappeared, lipstick on —– ready for guests to arrive, and time to start dinner for my own family.
The General was the first to arrive (other than the girls), straight from DC. He was physically impressive, a tall man, broad shoulders, a chest full of medals, with a voice tone as clear as a church bell. His uniform was so orderly, I recall wondering if he stood up on the entire plane flight – not a wrinkle anywhere. I wondered aloud if we should wait on his wife, but he explained she was fooling with the luggage and to go ahead and show him to his room. He reminded me he need a late checkout because he was giving a speech in the morning, and they wanted to change clothes before returning to DC. No sweat, sir. I showed him to his room but I was called away and missed the wife.
The next to arrive was the salesman. He was polished and smooth, hugged me bigly. He was grateful. When one of the girls heard his voice, she came running downstairs and jumped into his arms, almost tackling him. “Gee, that was friendly,”, I thought. He was squared away quickly, and I went back to making dinner.
Another couple checked in, delightful, with an accent I couldn’t peg. I showed them to their rooms.
We were missing one guy for one of the girls, the client of the salesman. About 8:00pm, I was worming around in the kitchen, getting set up for the morning’s breakfast, when the salesman knocked on the kitchen door. He had a problem. His client was stuck at LaGuardia, had missed one flight, and would call our house phone to let (me) know when he was arriving. “He’s flying in from Barcelona”, said the salesman. I stopped and cocked my head, a little unusual, “Barcelona, eh?”. “Yeah,”, responded the salesman, “he’s a great guy but it’s the first time he’s been in the US. He owns a factory we do business with.” I agreed to let the salesman know when I heard from “Barcelona guy”.
So far, everything was pretty normal, fairly typical of a weekend. Not for long….
About 10:00pm, the “Barcelona guy” called. He was forlorn and upset, completely out of his element. He sounded like a lost child. I was the only phone number he had in the entire United States. I wanted to hug him across the wire – he needed it. He told me he was catching the last flight of the evening, different airline, and if he got lost or misplaced, I should notify “XYZ”, inferring that he might be dead by the time he arrived. I laughed to myself, but I assured him I had friends in NYC (because everyone in America knows everyone else, right?) and I would “FIND HIM no matter what happened”. He seemed comforted. I let the salesman and the one girl know he would be arriving late. The girl was NOT happy.
I was sound asleep at 1:00am when the doorbell rang with the arrival of “Barcelona guy”. I was wearing a flannel robe, no makeup, and groggy. I flung open the door to come face to face with a Castilian God. He was so breathtakingly handsome, I was instantly wide awake. In his arms, he had a huge cardboard box. He set it down and FELL into my arms with relief, “Thank God you are here. I have traveled so far.”, crisp lilt to the accent. Oh honey, I could listen to him talk for days….. Awkward at first, I patted his back as if he was a little boy, reassuring him he was ‘safe and home with us’.
Within moments, the one girl and the salesman were downstairs, welcomes and hugs all around. The salesman grabbed his luggage, to carry it to his room but asked about the cardboard box. He nodded to me and said the box was a case of wine…., “for our gracious hostess, from my family vineyard, and the House of XYZ”. He reached for my hand, half-bowed, formally introduced himself as Lord XYZ, and kissed the top of my hand. So, there I was, accepting a case of wine, from a super-fine Spanish Lord, in my flannel nightgown, ……sans lipstick. Surreal.
I wandered back to bed wondering if what just happened, really did happen. I thought about waking up my husband, but decided against it. He wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
The next morning, the real fun began. There was no formality as was usual. No one would stay in the dining room. They all kept wandering in and out of the kitchen to talk to me while I was making breakfast. My first husband, who was burly but incredibly well educated, was helping me, but mostly sipping coffee and reading the paper. The two girls were the first down. They came into the kitchen and one pitched herself on a corner stool and another hiked up to sit on my counter. “Who sits on a counter? Was she raised by wolves?”, I thought to myself but brushed it off.
The girls laughed and giggled while my husband entertained them. I was pretty busy making breakfast, but joined in the revelry. When the salesman and the Lord came down, the girls disappeared to greet them. I made a comment to my husband how nice they were and how helpful they had been the day before. It was the first time my husband actually met the girls. He looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, moved in close to me, and flatly stated, “You know they’re hookers, right?”
I felt my knees buckle a little as my mind went from a steady idle at 20mph to Mach 3. “Nooooo, they caaaaan’t be”, I was doubtful. My husband half-grinned and said, “Oh, yes. They’re expensive alright, but those two are world class party girls.” “What are we going to do?”, I said. He looked at me and laughed, “We’re not taking pictures but it’s going to be a fun weekend.” I was discombobulated, definitely no longer in control, hanging on.
I made breakfast for the salesman, The Spanish Lord, and the two girls, but they lingered at the table, enjoying the conversation. I was sitting at the end, when the General came down and took an odd chair next to me, coffee only for him. He requested breakfast when he returned. He was dressed immaculately and ready to head out to give his speech. The table discussion was spirited and everyone asked him the details of his speech, which he willingly shared. I was still sitting there, with my jaw in my hands, elbows on the table, engrossed in the General’s speech, when his wife descended the staircase.
Time slowed down when she came into view. She was dressed in a small blue and white gingham check pajama set with a matching robe, which flowed behind her. Her neck was long, like a giraffe or Audrey Hepburn. Her face was chiseled and gleaming without a speck of makeup. She poured coffee for herself and assisted others after offering, kindly. Her mannerisms were almost royal. To date, in my entire life, she was, hands down, the most naturally beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She looked like a Nubian queen. I leaned over to the General and whispered, “The two of you need to have a dozen children.” He smiled in acknowledgment. He arose to kiss his wife goodbye and he was off. The queen joined the conversation but coffee only. She was waiting until he got back to have breakfast.
Enter the final couple. Come to find out, they owned the Hard Rock Hotel in Sydney, Australia, and were in town to buy Elvis memorabilia at a high-end auction. That explained the accent and began a discussion of hotels and restaurants all over the world…., which most of them had visited. The Aussies had breakfast but all lingered at the table, as if we were all waiting on the General “to come home”.
I learned the girls met the salesman in New Orleans over a wild weekend and wanted to get together again, within driving distance. The Spanish Lord was a new addition to their group. I also learned one of the girls was having a birthday the following week and secretly planned to make her a souffle the next day, with birthday candles. I casually mentioned mine followed her birthday in a few weeks, which began a discussion of astrological signs and the veracity therein.
The salesman was in and out of the house, getting the car situated for afternoon activities they planned, and we thought, locked himself out of the house when the doorbell rang again. One of the girls popped up to answer the door but it was the General, “home again”. I heard her say, “How was the speech?”. He picked her up like a rag doll and carried her twenty feet to the entrance of the dining room and said, “I was a HIT!”. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Omg, my General is carrying a high-priced call girl.”, but I was the only one who thought it was strange. By the time the General and his Nubian queen had breakfast, it was almost noon. The General and the queen = melted.
Everyone was calm and oozing comfort. Everyone was happy. Mission accomplished. I poked around a little but never found any evidence the girls were …. you know.
The General and his wife checked out to return to DC. Big hugs all around from everyone, like they were all classmates who spent years together. I flipped their room and waited on the next guests to arrive, a couple from less than 10 miles away, who were celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary. They were kind and humble, working class, and I could tell, saving up for a night at our establishment was a treat. I gave them the red carpet treatment.
All day long, people were in and out of the house, as is typical. People were in and out of the kitchen as well. The Lord arranged for a picnic lunch and I cobbled one together with a divine wicker ensemble purchased from a garage sale. The couple from Sydney were victorious at the auction. The salesman and the other girl took off to the city for sightseeing but came home early. I learned his girlfriend got the idea to decorate the Christmas tree in their room and sneaked up to the attic to get the decorations. She wandered into the kitchen to tell me what she was doing and we rustled up a plate of cookies and some cinnamon coffee. Thus, the neatnik urban salesman spent the majority of the day decorating my Christmas tree, and he loved every minute of it = hardcore exterior = melted.
The Spanish Lord and the other girl returned from their ‘picnic’ and there wasn’t enough space between them to slip in a butter knife = Spanish Lord = completely melted.
The local couple booked a candlelight dinner for their anniversary, so I was in the kitchen, working away. I had the table all arranged for the local couple. Beautiful linen and 30″ tall tapers in the candelabras but I had a problem. It really wasn’t fair. You can smell Cajun roasted beef tenderloin all over the house when it cooks. One by one, all the other guests found their way to the kitchen to figure out what the hell I was cooking that smelled so good. Thus, 30 minutes before serving, I had the two girls, the salesman, the Spanish Lord, the Aussies, and my husband, 8 of us, in the kitchen – who ALL made a deal to help me serve, so they could partake in the leftovers.
When the local couple came down to dinner, she was wearing her best dress. Her husband pinned a corsage on her, so sweet. The Spanish Lord pulled out her chair to seat her, lit the candles, and unfurled the napkins to place in their laps. He then uncorked a bottle of wine, from his vineyard, in honor of their anniversary. It was magical. We were all peeking from the butler’s pantry.
My husband and the Spanish Lord served dinner in matching red aprons. The Aussies jazzed up my scratch Fettuccine Alfredo to new heights and it was delicious. I’ll never forget the sight of the Spanish Lord fussing over the linen folds in a silver basket for the yeast rolls. Amazing. The girls assembled the dessert, cheesecake with a Grand Marnier strawberry sauce. We all went in to sing to them. What a wonderful evening! While the local couple lingered, we all ate in our family den, hanging out, like college students, with our feet strewn all over the coffee tables. Completely and totally = melted.
The local couple retired to their room and the women helped me clean up the kitchen, like we were all cousins after Thanksgiving dinner. The guys drank and told stories, it was marvelous. Fat and happy, I blew out the candles and we all went to bed.
The next morning, the husband of the local couple awkwardly assumed the Spanish Lord was part of my staff, and was kind of surprised to see him sitting at the breakfast table to be served. We all giggled a little. Crisis averted. I made the souffle for the one girl and we all sang Happy Birthday to her. Lots of celebrating and singing that weekend.
At one point, the conversation turned to the Lord’s Hunting lodge in Africa. The local husband chimed in with an extraordinary southern accent and said, “Huntin’ Lodge? Whatchya’ll hunt in Africa?” and “Whatchya shooting?”, which beget an intense discussion of weaponry by two men who were clearly equals in the discipline and were both LONG on practical expertise. Fascinating conversation and mix of culture/class but exactly on the same page with each other, almost like they were dancing, together, with neither one leading. The convo and breakfast ended with the Lord inviting the local guy to come and visit his “African Hunting Lodge”. Sturdy handshake, they were compatriots. Stunning.
By noon, everyone was gone and I was flipping laundry, still in a fog, trying to process the events over the weekend. They were all good people and could not be MORE different, but at the core, they were all the same. Extraordinary things happen at the most unusual times.
The next week melded into the following week, and one night, as I was 20 minutes from serving a seated formal dinner for 40……. the phone rang, and it was the salesman.
Now, folks….., if John the Baptist walked into my kitchen, 20 minutes before serving, I would probably tell him to “Hang on”. Yet again, the salesman was insistent and said, “Hey, did you get my package?” I had no idea what he was talking about and was extremely busy. I was being arrogant and snobby because of the time pressure, which was horrible of me. I thought to myself, “Eyeroll, if he’s sent me a bottle of salsa or salad dressing, as a thank you gift, I will open it when I’m done serving dinner.” He persisted, of course, and said he checked with FedEx and the package had been delivered, “It’s important.”, he said. I stopped what I was doing and sent someone to the front door to retrieve the package. “Hang on”, I mumbled, while I was whispering instructions to kitchen staff.
The salesman said, “You haven’t opened it yet? Good. You HAVE to open it while I’m on the phone.” Okay, fine. I opened the brown wrapping to find elegant silver gray wrapping and the “M” logo which looked familiar to me. I was puzzled and paused for a minute. With the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I said, “What have you done?”
He said, “Just open it………”
I tore into the box, while he was waiting, to find an opera length strand of Mikimoto Pearls. Ladies, I’m a jewelry nut. I knew I was holding several thousand dollars worth of pearls. I immediately held them up to a garrish fluorescent kitchen light to check the luster of the pearls. I was speechless, “What…..?”, I was blubbering like an imbecile. “Yeah”, he said, “I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful weekend. The tree, the dinner, hanging out at breakfast, the easiness of it all. It could not have gone better. We had such a great time. And I remembered you said your birthday was today. I thought it was good timing.” I was stuttering, “This is a beautiful gift… and way too expensive.” He brushed off the cost and took pride in remembering my exact birthday. I politely countered, “You know, my birthday really isn’t today, it’s tomorrow, but this sure is a great way to start!”.
He said, “You don’t understand. Today is your birthday.” I was being prissy and thought, is he arguing with me again, I know my own birthday, but he continued, “It is tomorrow. I’m calling you to wish you Happy Birthday, from Tokyo.”
Oh.
Me = Completely melted.