A quintet of lacey white dresses, hems an inch from their asses. A mom enables with the lift of a lens and the teens turn to porcelain. Hanging in a moment as fragile as the glass baubles on the now backdrop tree. An analysis follows. The once pretty poised turn into impatient showgirls elbowing for their place on stage.
The bar, long as a holiday weekend, bustles three deep. The couple in front of us order Old Fashioneds. Liquor is back for the young drinking the old. He’s short and she’s tall. He’s sloppy and she’s neat. They both smell like vape. And hickory. But the wood scent, I’m pretty certain, is crawling from the bar machine smoking glasses.
The bartenders are dressed like Humphrey Bogart. White jackets. Black bow ties. Ours a Bergman blonde with a Veronica Lake drape and she styles the pour but doesn't know the curl. The little drip makes the trip down the bottle heading to her sleeve. Pinot Noir from an Oregon grape we’ve learned to trust. With the tip and the thank you tax from Virginia Beach, our wines are a double sawbuck each. Of all the joints in all the towns. But I should skip the references. Too long lost. Like the history of The Cavalier.
The Old Cavalier Hotel. Old by American reference, and very old by area standards, as the city prefers its history bulldozed. The rich were here in the late 20’s and through the Great Depression. The very rich. From a time when the divide between the Haves and Have-Nots was as wide as the Atlantic. Maybe the time is feeling familiar. Maybe that’s why the young are drinking the old. I notice The Old is starting to drop from colloquialism. It was The Old Cavalier ten years ago. Since the coke dealer turned developer renovated the house, folks are back to just calling the place, The Cavalier.
It's hard to find a seat. And that’s part of the fun at Christmas. It’s not just watching the parade but being in the parade. We shoulder through chatters, family clans and clatters wearing the mixed modernity of holiday style. Another group is photo-opping in felt onesies. Gathering more glances than the near naked teens.
We do find a spot to sprawl, having wandered into the breezeway above the pool. We don’t last. The chlorinated air changes the taste of our Noir, and M is feeling uncomfortable in the room’s energy. The pool is haunted. Dark. Regardless of how much they renovated, replaced, took away from the aging space, some of the Haves have stayed. And you can feel how much they had was somehow not enough.
Back in the Raleigh Room we score sweet, landing on a deco green sofa shaped for two. We savor the view of the bar and can turn our heads toward the glow of the tree. Our evening suddenly hinting perfection.
Make no mistake, The Cavalier is a three-star experience posing as five. With average food and service the same, we’ve been happy with beating gums at the bar of late, instead of burning C-notes on plates reminding of automats and double-feature dates. But there I go again. My apologies.
We do love The Cavalier at Christmas. It’s Christmasy.
The people and the holiday glow and the chance to lounge without need to think about tomorrow. Though I always pine for better music, a barkeep with a bit of time for talk, there comes that moment when all the lights are in her eyes. And all I can feel is happy. Happy that it’s, once again, Christmas time.
1. Cover photo, The Cavalier Hotel, Virginia Beach, Virginia, north face. Photo by Author.
2. The bar area in The Raleigh Room. Photo by Author.
3. We don't last long in the haunted pool area. That's my photo, too.
3. North Face. This time the Author is standing too close for a decent photo.
© Copyright William Hazel, 2024
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