The Williamsburg Coniglium

We spent this past weekend in colonial Williamsburg, Virginia enjoying the beautiful history and splendor of the area, and getting in touch with our country’s roots. For example, we spent almost a full day at the historic Water Country, USA, plunging down the same chutes and slides enjoyed by George Washington in the 18th century. We spent the next day at the very same go-kart track where Thomas Jefferson would drive his beloved #23 car for hours on end back in the mid-1770s. To spend such quality time embedded so fully in our nation’s history is nothing short of breathtaking.

The fact is, you could spend weeks in Williamsburg and come across nothing of historical significance. Sure, they try to force it on you - there are fife and drum players everywhere, most places (including Chinese restaurants) will sell you a tri-corner hat (which my son the superJew refers to as Hamen hats), and there are markers everywhere with years on them, some dating back to 1619, when a young John McCain visited the colony. But the fact is it’s more theme park than history lesson. Which was fine with my kids who have not yet developed any sense of time - if it hasn’t happened in their lifetime, it just hasn’t happened. For example, my son is insistent that there will be more Star Wars movies because they’ve had six since he was born, so clearly they’re on a roll.

I will say this for the place; amidst the history, the buildings dating back to 1699, the Revolutionary War sites, even the rampant evidence of the destruction of Native Americans, there is one thing that overcomes all of them, one thing that rises above all else to become the one thing you take away from Williamsburg when you leave - pancakes. There are probably 100 different places to get pancakes in a two mile radius of Williamsburg. No one could tell me why. I’m assuming because everything you do there requires physical activity, whether it’s going to the water park, Busch Gardens, or eating large piles of pancakes. It could also be that the College of William and Mary is smack in the middle of town and all of their students are stoned. (Most restaurants seem to have really old autographed pictures of W&M's most famous alum, Jon Stewart. One pancake house had an autographed picture that was signed “Dear Mario, Are you Jewish? Jon Stewart.”) Each pancake house seems to have a hundred ways to serve pancakes, the best of which was something called “pigs in a blanket,” massive sausage links wrapped in buttermilk pancakes. While not nearly the gastronomic orgasm that is Eggspectations’ construction pancake (“A layered high rise of pancakes, sausage, bacon and grilled potatoes”) it’s still more food than any human should eat in one sitting. And meal at which I can just pour syrup all over everything on my plate is a good meal.

Two highlights stand out for me on the weekend, both involving my son. He is timid kid by nature which is to say that everything everywhere with the possible exception of bunnies scares the hell out of him. (Fortunately, for some reason, there were bunnies all over Williamsburg. Geese too.) I was leery to get him on a water slide of any size, as he’s scared of heights and more specifically falling from them. And the dark. Fortunately not water, so that’s how I talked him up the very tall ladder and into our little raft, in which we plunged almost 400 miles an hour into a pitch-black tunnel which looped and rolled and seemed to go forever, before finally emerging through a very heavy waterfall into a large pool, which we went skimming across with the grace of a birdshot mallard before tipping over and going underwater. Fortunately Jake was wearing a life vest, so he popped up laughing and asking if he could go again.

At the go kart track, he was eager to go on the kiddie roller coaster, primarily because it was the only thing that was built for kids his age. They had several rides that were built for infants, and many more rides that were built for adults, but the kindergarten set seemed to have been passed by save for a tiny roller coaster called the Python Pit. I witnessed not one but two kids who appeared to have been at least second graders ask to be let off the Python Pit because of its severe intensity. Jake, on the other hand, loved every minute of it, screaming to go faster. (I taught him to say “damn carnies” for the occasion, but being a gentleman he refused to say it in front of his mother.) Unfortunately for Jake, his sister is even more ballsy than he is and ended up riding the Python Pit about five times, much to the chagrin of her father’s body which took a freakin’ beating from the tightness of the safety bar and the g-force pushing him up against the very unpadded side of the car.

So if pancakes and children’s roller coasters are your bag, I suggest Williamsburg. Apparently there’s history there too, but damn if you can find it.