Martin Spitznagel Pianist. Composer. Writer. Filmmaker.

Matchlock

Williamsburg, VA, has a serious problem. A dire problem. A pancake house problem.

Seriously, this town has way too many pancake houses. You see a pancake house, you’re like, “Aw, cool. That’s fun.” Pancake houses seem vaguely Nordic to me, like something you’d encounter nestled in a cove in the Alps on your trek through Europe, and so when I saw two pancake houses I was like, “Wow! Jackpot! Which one do we hit up first?” But by the time I counted eleven pancake houses within three miles of each other, I realized that I had entered another world. A syrupy world. A world that doesn’t know when to stop building pancake houses.

Jess and I celebrated our ninth Valentine’s Day together. This is, of course, ridiculous, seeing as it’s hard for me to believe that I’ve even been alive that long let alone in a relationship for that long, but here we are. Jess has always been naturally gifted with this “holiday,” even though we both regard it warily, like mice in the garden watching the prowling house cat, as a painfully commercial day full of artificial pressures to spend money. This conviction hasn’t yet translated into not celebrating it – like many Americans we are vaguely against it and still participate – but we’ve gotten to the point where price-hiked roses, store-bought chocolates, and teddy bears made in China (all three of which I got Jess for our second Valentine’s Day – I’m a winner) just don’t really mean much anymore. I take this as a good sign.

We decided to take a trip this year for Valentine’s Day, but we didn’t have a lot of scratch to drop, seeing as the Camry decided to celebrate its 200,000th mile by swallowing two thousand of my favorite dollars for a younger transmission, so we decided to stay close. I had never been to Colonial Williamsburg, and Jess hadn’t been there in 20 years, so we got a hotel on Priceline for less than a good bottle of wine and trekked two hours south into the land of rummers, coopers, the Stamp Act, and Shields Tavern.

We arrived late Saturday morning and went first to Jamestown. For as much as I love history and made a study of it in school, I know embarrassingly little about American history. I’ve always been more interested in ancient and medieval times – Roman history, Chaucer, etc. – and I came to Jamestown with a vague image of Thanksgiving and an expectation of seeing the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. I’m delighted to announce that I have been healed of my total ignorance.

I also learned that I am a freaking weenie. Compared to those early English settlers who trekked for four months in the bowels of a small sailing ship only to find a hellish place where three-fourths of them would die, I am a puffed pastry of a man. But that didn’t stop me from soaking up as much as I could.

We did find some magic. The visitor’s center at Jamestown was beautiful in its design and bountiful in its information. Museums have come a long way – much more immersive and engaging – and it seems like they really want you to be able to relate to the past and not just know about it. One of the coolest parts of Jamestown was sitting in the Powhatan yehakin (long house) on benches covered in deer pelts around a warm fire that billowed smoke up and out a small hole in the ceiling. The space was cozy, out of the wind, and intimate.

Something about sitting in a yehakin and learning about the Powhatan people connected me to them more than any museum exhibit ever could. Our small tour group, led by an eloquent if austere man in deer skin, warned us that the space would be smoky from our entrance disturbing the air, which it was, but after a minute or two the smoke rose above our heads, hovering there like a blanket, and in that ancient calm we spoke in hushed voices about what they ate, how long they lived, what they cared about, etc.

History for most of us is a drama of princes. When we talk about the past, we focus almost entirely on the rich and the powerful because they’re the movers and shakers, the ones that people wrote about and painted and enshrined. Comparatively little survives about the lower classes, the “us” of history, and what we do know about them is often told through the lens of the powerful. Thank you, college.

I’ve always wanted to find a famous or powerful ancestor, as I don’t like the idea that I come from bumpkins in the fields. Sadly, my only ancient birthright is bumpkin-ness, so it’s fun to explore the way the other side lived and pretend that that’s how I would have lived, too.

In Williamsburg proper we toured the grounds of the Governor’s palace, which featured a large symmetrical garden with a stunning long archway of trees that looked more like an entrance to Narnia than the arbor of an 18th-century politico. We ducked into the cellar, a shadowy place pulled straight out of a horror movie, and then made our way over to the kitchen which, like many of the buildings in Williamsburg, had interpreters busy at work. The kitchen in those days was separate from the house to reduce the risk of fire, and we spent a good 20 minutes there asking questions and watching, hungry, as mushroom-stuffed puff pastries browned in the wood-fired oven and fresh dough was pressed into a fluted metal pan for rice pudding. Large copper pots hung on the walls, and in the middle of the cheery space, complete with its walk-in hearth, was a table set with foodstuffs that had been made over the past week: apple pie, omelets with onions, salted pork shoulder, roast duck, macaroni and cheese, apricot jam, candied plums, bread, and fresh-churned butter were just a few of the noms arrayed on the wooden table meant to show the kinds of food that might be featured at the Governor’s house.

Looking over the array, which looked like a Thanksgiving feast, I asked the interpreter-slash-cook what the “us of history” would be eating. “Do you like grits?” she replied.

“Yes.”

“Do you like them every day?”

The house was similarly striking. Marble floors, burled walnut walls with moulding so ornate you could grate cheese on it, and a fireplace in every room made the whole place smell of prestige and comfort. The most impressive space was the foyer, made of dark wood with literally hundreds of guns and swords mounted to the walls. It was crazy. It looked like an armory in a war against deer.

Most of the houses you can tour in Colonial Williamsburg belonged to the gentry, but one of the great, not-rich-person-spaces is Shields Tavern. Large wooden casks lined the walls, and bricks painted white flickered in the light of simple candlesticks in pewter on the table, calmly dribbling yellow wax. Jess and I ate there on Saturday night and enjoyed hearty food made with real butter, musicians, magicians, costumed characters, and drinks that would put hair on your shoulders. My favorite was the Rummer, an epic mix of dark rum, peach brandy, and apricot brandy. It knocked me nine feet.

The next night we ventured to King’s Arm Tavern, which had originally been run by Mrs. Jane Vobe, a widower and business owner in an era when women weren’t welcome to eat and socialize at fancy taverns. On Monday we hit a number of the houses we missed, visited with the Cooper and watched him make a barrel (I will never destroy a barrel in a videogame with as much joy again), and then hit up the stunning Cheese Shop for lunch.

It was a great trip. We left with a Colonial Williamsburg cookbook that we’ve been cooking from in the weeks since, and I have newfound love to rum. We definitely want to go back around Christmas time to see the place decorated.

More than anything, however, I left with a powerful new appreciation for the 21st centry. The 18th-century is great for a weekend, but I’d rather spend my weekdays in this century!