Wednesday October 21
You drive effortlessly through the property guardhouse with not so much as an attendant waving you on until you've gone like a mile to the ticketing building, with its own parking lot. Right there I should have turned around but I thought, “it’s the South, they have a car culture”. Then another red flag: there was an attendant to manage the line to the ticketing counters. Red flag #3: the pricing: $60/adult! Here I fully accept the blame for overthinking it: “don’t be a cheapskate, this is the one thing everyone does when in Asheville.” Sucker!
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| Because $60/person isn't enough! |
Why did I think I could walk through
the place quickly? In an anti-Haj to ostentatious materialism it was wall-to-wall audio tour retirees stopping for minutes at a time in doorways, mid-room, you name it. If there is such a thing as personalized hell this is going to be mine: no turning around, passing, or upper limit to how many
people are let in at a time. A fully monetized Disney-ride-style fire hazard with no ride at the end. There was even an
official photo stop where they take your picture like they do at your most terrified moment on a rollercoaster, then try to sell it to you on the way out.
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| It looks nice from up here, but it was hell I tell ya! |
No visitor photography is allowed in the house. I just did a quick google search and couldn't find a single picture of a crowd. The shuttle driver confirmed that my experience was not a fluke so I guess they keep tight control over their image.
I managed a few cut throughs between doorways here and there but it still took me over an hour to get out of there. The house isn’t even
beautiful. It’s full of expensive details, but has no charm. There wasn’t
a ballroom or indoor tennis court and hardly anything fun
for guests to do. Just an (empty) swimming pool and a bowling alley. The servants' areas were somewhat more interesting in that they each each had a room of their own and
the service facilities were logically, even ergonomically laid out. For its time it was quite generous, and truth be told, way more spacious than most modern metropolitan apartments.
Everything: the house, gardens, greenhouse, were all luxurious without being lovely or charming. A sort of achievement, I suppose. And Biltmore Village, a sort of gift shop town, was a theme park version of a village green, surrounded by service buildings (creamery,
restaurant, winery, etc.)
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| The most charming part of Biltmore: two dwarf donkeys at the "farmstand" |
But perhaps the worst part is how much time it cost me, because I had a long drive before me still. The drive was beautiful, and I did a couple of lovely hikes
(to Mt. Pisgah and Devil’s Courthouse), which were great lookouts over the
Smokies, but by the time I made it to the park it was pitch black and well past
visitor center and campground office hours.
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| Wood samurai |
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| Me, not caring enough about running out of daylight |
I was also down to ¼ tank of gas, which made me increasingly uneasy as I began to understand how large the park actually is. In a series of miscalculations and poor decisions I ended up driving across the park twice (up and down over the ridge!) for gas and then to campgrounds that turned out to be
full. Finally, after 2 hours and nearing 11pm I settled for the campground
closest to where I’d entered the park (on the NC side of the ridge) and did my best to set my car up for
sleeping without disturbing the neighbors. It wasn’t the best night of sleep ever but I was tired
enough that it didn’t matter.
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