I duck out of the rain into a cozy little tea shop just blocks from my hotel, where they are serving high tea - clever little sandwiches and delicious morsels, excellent scones with real Devonshire cream, dabs of pastries left untouched. I wonder for a moment if I haven't left this continent and gone to a fantasy place that is perfectly suited to me. Flawless high tea, the marvelous hotel with large breakfasts, bookstores, art museum and cafes nearby, a wine shop with splendid sculptures, a wonderfully eclectic boutique, a new antique store, and a garden shop to open soon. And this, just steps from the beach. All odd enough and small enough not to be faddish, without the sheen of yuppiedom. Now, if only there were a movie theater and a major league baseball stadium within walking distance...

I am not in an apparition of my own design. I am on the Oregon coast, in Newport, at Nye Beach, where I once lived when I was in my 20s. Nye Beach, sitting on the ruins of a glorious past, homely, forgotten for nearly 70 years. The cottage I lived in is still on the bluff across from the hotel, looking down on this cluster of shops. My friends and I would sit on the porch of the cottage and fantasize about the derelict building on the corner where squatters slept. The Captain with his mangy parrot held court to a motley crew of drifters, hippies and flea-ridden dogs. We imagined that fine old building cleared out, cleaned up and let loose on the world as a splendid hotel, owned by us. It didn't happen that way, but it did happen. And amazingly enough, I know the owner. But it is not remarkable, really. If you know the place, you know that amazing is routine.

I am fooling around in the antique shop, have found a pair of tan leather driving gloves in a dresser drawer, and laugh out loud because just this week I had lost my old ones. I buy the gloves in a hurry and rush up the hill to the hotel, where I am almost late for dinner. I bound up the three flights of stairs to my room, only to find the cat racing me. She waits while I shower and dress, then walks down the stairs with me like a perfect little escort. I do not know this cat, and I wonder who she thinks I am.

The cat belongs to the Sylvia Beach Hotel, where I am but a guest. I have stayed here often, so having a cat become your best friend without provocation or invitation is simply one of the things that might happen here. It has been called a literary hotel because the rooms have no phones nor televisions, and each room is decorated after a famous author. And there are books everywhere. But a hotel for book lovers is not all it is.

When you first walk in, you may not be certain you've made the right choice. There is a look about the lobby that gives credence to the Chaos Theory. Magazines and brochures spill off tables, newspapers and newsletters are stacked haphazardly on the floor, tacky notices hang everywhere, juxtaposed with handsome oil paintings. Card racks obscure the view of the ocean. You may have qualms unless you have a sense of humor, a sense of

"Well this is different, let's try it."

And rare is the guest who is disappointed. Relax. This is not merely a stay at a hotel; this is an experience.

It is late and I am alone in the library three stories up, facing the ocean. I sit by the fireplace but have a window beside me. It reminds me that I am at the beach and not at home, the storm rattling the frame, the rain urgently pelting the glass. The howl of wind, the roar of the ocean below. Two bookish types in heavy sweaters skulk about, solemn, whispering, as though illegally entering, trying to be invisible as spies, scouring the shelves for clues, looking for the perfect book where all will be disclosed.

I see them all the time, the guests, quiet, reverent, with that glow of expectation. Something special is going on here, even if it is nothing more than a good rest with a good book. There's sanctuary, introspection, revelation. And talk. Readers like to be left alone. Yet, here they are encouraged to mingle, and it is the mingling at dinner or breakfast where there are no intimate tables for one or two, only the communal tables, that sets the tone. Everyone has a story, and storytelling is encouraged.

Curious things happen when people talk. If you haven't seen your music teacher from Philadelphia in 30 years, chances are you will be sitting across the table from her at breakfast. Or you've been wondering how a nuclear accelerator works. Over a glass of wine, you meet the designer. Wondering which crop to plant in the "back 40"? Not to worry, there are a couple of agricultural experts at the table. It seems inconceivable, but it occurs all the time. It's magic and it's no secret to me. The place is enchanted by Portlander Goody Cable. As imaginer-part owner, she sets the stage where synchronicity reigns. Wizard-like she stirs her cauldron, tossing us all in it, delighted in the mix, always room for more. Cable the catalyst, offering the structure, eccentric enough to hold all the ideas in the world.

Hey, it could happen.

  M.J. CODY is an Oregon writer
whose offbeat travel columns
appear regularly in the Travel section.
You can reach her at
P.O. Box 1242,
Estacada, OR 97023,
or by e-mail at mjcody@hevanet.com 

Nocturne Concertante
T. Sato

Index of Simply Sharing

Links to Share