Postcard postmarked Erie, Pennsylvania, April 23, 1904, from "Chas" to his cousin in York Springs, PA, telling him to be at the Gardners [?] train station on Saturday. [From an extensive private collection of postcards from 1904].

At some point in the 20th century the Colonial burned, losing its imposing tower along with pretty much everything to the right of it above the ground floor.  The remainder, which constituted the dining room, bar, kitchen and expansive pillared porch, was painted white to enhance the "colonial" appeal and, with a later cinder block ballroom addition in the back to accomodate big events and seasonal bus tour groups (there are local grape and cherry festivals), continued operations until at least 1990 when I visited during a trip for the last family funeral.  My sister's wedding reception was held here (the church is on the other side of Lake Street), and for a summer or two during college I worked here as a waiter.  The couple who ran the place at that time, a Frenchman and his colorful Russian wife, had imported a talented if slightly tempermental French chef named Guy who once informed me, when I was having difficulty understanding him at the height of an especially busy dinner hour, "You no comprend my English? You better comprend my French."  Heady times in a sleepy little Pennsylvania town on Lake Erie, as you can imagine.

Hotels have played an important part in my life as I know they have in yours, and I was thinking just this morning of how very true that must be for so many of us who've grown up in a world constantly on the move, our lives a succession of transient moments of brief and fleeting passion, a little joy here and there, a little pleasure snatched from the rushing current of relentless change, only to be followed by brief oblivion or worse, those sleepless nights staring at shadows on unfamiliar ceilings, or worse still, those blinding mornings of coming to one more time in unfamiliar tangled sheets, wondering how you got there, wondering who's lying next to you and where your clothes are, finding yourself yet again with another stranger, another nameless traveling companion on the neverending highway, one more time the lies, the excuses, the remorse ... but then as you would say, "Been there, done that.  Next." 

So moving on, I was also thinking about how many of the great houses of London the Duke of Portland was recalling the other day (see below) were replaced by hotels -- the Grosvenor and the  Dorchester, for instance -- and in fact how many of the grand houses in other places have seen a similar fate -- here I am thinking of the Astors in New York.  How, in other words, you go from being a footman in the service of a duke to being a bell-hop at Claridges, or perhaps a clerk at Liberty's.  Of how the world of stately homes and the vast staffs required to run them, employed by the aristocracy who lived in those houses, shifted to a world of multi-national corporations running establishments that employ vast staffs to cater to people aspiring to the "luxurious, pampered" life of the aristocracy who gave up their homes because they couldn't afford them... and so forth.  You get the point.

Of course the Colonial did not replace a grand house, or not that I am aware (in western Pennsylvania?  Highly unlikely).  There were, however, a number of hotels like it in the area catering to summer people who came up from Pittsburgh to get away from the steel mills and enjoy a little sun and sand, a little boating, a game of tennis or shuffle-board.  That world has pretty much gone now too, to be replaced by chains of Motel Sixes and Sevens and what have you.

Then this morning I was reminded of the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi, which opened Christmas Day 1904.  The Norfolk's Lord Delamere Terrace and Bar quickly became the place to gather and be seen in Happy Valley.

But the latest news from Happy Valley isn't happy at all.  "The Delameres used to be untouchable," someone remarked.  "That's no longer the case." 

How much and how quickly the world changes.  How odd it must feel, to some people, used to a particular way of life or of doing things -- as if to wake up one morning and find that everyone else had suddenly and without any warning checked out, sending messages ahead about which station down the line they expected to be later, waiting.