The Blonde in the Brownstone
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Sunday Times Combined Metros 3 - 12/02/2014 01:45:03 PM - Plate: ❘ 3 February 16 2014 TRAVEL WEEKLY ROB SCHER Accidental Tourist Paranoia turns a lucky New York find into a nightmare for one paranoid housesitter T HERE was something odd about the mansion. It was a beautiful, five-storey brownstone located two blocks from Central Park on the Upper East Side, which had fallen into my possession for the holidays. I’d jokingly reassured the owner, Bill, during our brief meeting that, as housesitter, I’d be sure “not to burn the place down”. Bill didn’t laugh. He did, however, hand me — with my overgrown beard, mop of hair, hobo dress sense and all — the keys to his home. This would be the first of the mansion’s mysteries. Strolling up Lexington Avenue in a hand-me-down Ralph Lauren overcoat, walking Mr Henry the poodle (pets in this neighbourhood own titles), I marvelled at how far I’d come. Nothing adequately prepares you for the barren wasteland of affordable living space that is New York City. I recalled bleakly trawling the online classifieds site “Craigslist” upon arrival. First, there was struggling artist Stan and his converted-warehouse-loft-cum-crack-den. Then there was band-merchandise salesman Lee and his “railroad bedroom” — essentially a converted hallway smelling of mould and Subway takeout. I thought of Lee as I stepped into the odour-free entrance hall of my new abode. The family was in the process of moving to Miami. Owning a property this size in New York costs a fortune and with Bill’s kids grown-up, I figured they’d grown tired of the city and its blustery winters. Still, it didn’t completely add up. They seemed in a rush to sell, and were placing the house on an unstable property market. Upon sight of my unkempt visage, Bill jumped at the opportunity to leave his home — well stocked in liquor and wood-piled fireplaces — in my eager hands. He was going to be disappointed upon returning to discover the house intact and the liquor drunk. “Shall we retire to the library?” I found myself suggesting to Mr Henry one day. At this stage of the stay, I was permanently robed in a baby-blue gown. I felt no need to ever leave the premises or for that matter, with a poodle for company, to seek human interaction. This would be a short-lived sentiment. In the dining room hung two portraits of young girls. The one was easily identifiable — brunette, ample nose. Bill’s daughter. Clearly. The other portrait was of a beautiful blonde girl, slightly older, with more chiselled features. She appeared only in this portrait, eerily absent from the family photos that littered the house. Mystery shrouded her identity. Could she be the reason the family had rapidly lost interest in their mansion? Had something horrible happened, which had led to the purging of evidence of her existence? Searching through albums for clues, I realised I probably needed to reconsider my hermitical lifestyle. Then came the polar vortex. Arctic winds, in an act of awful timing, had blown south, engulfing New York in subzero temperatures. I was trapped. On the third day of the vortex, cabin fever set in. Dishevelled and wild-eyed, together with Mr Henry — with whom I’d begun having (far too) long conversations — I began confining myself to sections of the house for fear of blonde spectres. Suddenly all the space I had previously enjoyed had become claustrophobic. Worst of all, I was down to mere drops of Bill’s expensive whiskey. The family’s return could not come a day too soon. Weeks later, I would discover that the beaky brunette from the portrait was actually Bill’s wife and the object of my crazed paranoia, her sister. I resolved to never again spend another holiday alone in a mansion with a poodle as my sole companion. — Rob Scher is a freelance writer from Cape Town Where did you spend your last holiday? Trekking around Europe — Paris, London and Amsterdam — with my wife and kids. We’re not sure where the next pair of shoes is coming from but the expense was worth every unforgettable memory. Your favourite city abroad and why? Dubai. I lived there in the days — from 1992 — when there were just six South Africans in the whole emirate. I harbour only the happiest memories and yearn to go back but am nervous about whether I will ever find my way around. Where did all those islands come from? What was your best holiday, ever? Jordan will always be hard to beat: my wife and I went there for a wedding. Amman was breathtaking; the Roman ruins at Jerash were stunning; and Petra is probably the single most unforgettable place I have ever been (and I’ve been to the Taj Mahal and Zeerust). The best hotel you’ve stayed in? The Al Bustan outside Muscat in Oman was just about as opulent as you can get. As I left the hotel, standing outside the grand entrance, I noticed, in the corner of my eye, the unmistakable figure of (former DRC president) Mobutu Sese Seko, complete with little leopard-skin cap. I thought: “The bastard’s going to try steal my cab.” At which point a vast cavalcade swept around the corner and Mobutu was gone. What is the best thing you have been given on holiday? In Korea, my hosts gave me a beautiful cast-iron replica of an ancient bell — whose chimes recall the laments of victims of war or a damsel drowning or something. I must get it fixed. Your favourite SA destination and why? Zeerust. I’ve just published a book about a road that runs through it and the more people who scurry off to discover the place, the more copies I’m likely to sell. What is the most exotic dish you have ever eaten on holiday? In Dubai, I once had goat’s gonads. Or were they camel’s balls? They were horrible, slippery and hard to pin down with a fork, never mind slice. One travel destination you would call “never again”? Sandton. ■ Times columnist Peter Delmar has just published The Platinum Road, his third “road” book. My Kind of Holiday PETER DELMAR The blonde in the brownstone EDITOR: Andrew Unsworth DEPUTY EDITOR: Paul Ash CONTACT: Tel: 011280 5121. e-mail: [email protected] DESIGNER: Vernice Shaw SUBEDITOR: Elizabeth Sleith PICTURE SOURCING: Aubrey Paton PROOFREADER: Carénè Boshoff COVER: Volcanic tufa formations, known as fairy chimneys, Pasabag, near Zelve in Cappadocia, Turkey SOURCE: Greatstock/Corbis COVER DESIGN: Matthys Moss ADVERTISING: Debbie Thompson, National Sales Business Manager, Tel: 011 280-3555. 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Transcript of The Blonde in the Brownstone
Sunday Times Combined Metros 3 - 12/02/2014 01:45:03 PM - Plate:
❘ 3Fe b r u a r y 16 2014TRAVEL W E E K LY
ROBSCHER
Accidental Tourist
Paranoia turns a lucky New York find into anightmare for one paranoid housesitter
T HERE was something odd aboutthe mansion. It was a beautiful,five-storey brownstone locatedtwo blocks from Central Park on
the Upper East Side, which had fallen intomy possession for the holidays.
I’d jokingly reassured the owner, Bill,during our brief meeting that, ashousesitter, I’d be sure “not to burn theplace down”.
Bill didn’t laugh. He did, however, handme — with my overgrown beard, mop ofhair, hobo dress sense and all — the keysto his home. This would be the first of themansion’s mysteries.
Strolling up Lexington Avenue in ahand-me-down Ralph Lauren overcoat,walking Mr Henry the poodle (pets in thisneighbourhood own titles), I marvelled athow far I’d come.
Nothing adequately prepares you forthe barren wasteland of affordable livingspace that is New York City. I recalledbleakly trawling the online classifieds site“Cr a i g s l i st ” upon arrival. First, there wasstruggling artist Stan and hisc o nve r t e d - wa r e h o u s e - l o f t - c u m - c r a c k - d e n .Then there was band-merchandisesalesman Lee and his “railroad bedroom”— essentially a converted hallwaysmelling of mould and Subway takeout. Ithought of Lee as I stepped into theodour-free entrance hall of my new abode.
The family was in the process ofmoving to Miami. Owning a property thissize in New York costs a fortune and withBill’s kids grown-up,I figured they’dgrown tired of thecity and its blusterywinters.
Still, it didn’tcompletely add up.They seemed in arush to sell, andwere placing thehouse on anunstable property market. Upon sight ofmy unkempt visage, Bill jumped at theopportunity to leave his home — we l lstocked in liquor and wood-piledfireplaces — in my eager hands. He wasgoing to be disappointed upon returning
to discover the house intact and the liquordrunk.
“Shall we retire to the library?” I foundmyself suggesting to Mr Henry one day.At this stage of the stay, I waspermanently robed in a baby-blue gown. Ifelt no need to ever leave the premises orfor that matter, with a poodle forcompany, to seek human interaction. Thiswould be a short-lived sentiment.
In the dining room hung two portraitsof young girls. The one was easilyidentifiable — brunette, ample nose. Bill’sdaughter. Clearly.
The other portrait was of a beautifulblonde girl, slightly older, with morechiselled features. She appeared only inthis portrait, eerily absent from the familyphotos that littered the house. Mysteryshrouded her identity. Could she be thereason the family had rapidly lost interestin their mansion? Had something horriblehappened, which had led to the purging ofevidence of her existence? Searchingthrough albums for clues, I realised I
probably needed to reconsider myhermitical lifestyle.
Then came the polar vortex. Arcticwinds, in an act of awful timing, hadblown south, engulfing New York insubzero temperatures. I was trapped.
On the third day of the vortex, cabinfever set in. Dishevelled and wild-eyed,together with Mr Henry — with whom I’dbegun having (far too) long conversations— I began confining myself to sections ofthe house for fear of blonde spectres.Suddenly all the space I had previouslyenjoyed had become claustrophobic.
Worst of all, I was down to mere dropsof Bill’s expensive whiskey. The family’sreturn could not come a day too soon.
Weeks later, I would discover that thebeaky brunette from the portrait wasactually Bill’s wife and the object of mycrazed paranoia, her sister. I resolved tonever again spend another holiday alonein a mansion with a poodle as my solecompanion. — Rob Scher is a freelancewriter from Cape Town
Where did you spendyour last holiday?Trekking aroundEurope — Paris,London andAmsterdam — with mywife and kids. We’renot sure where thenext pair of shoes iscoming from but theexpense was worthevery unforgettable memory.
Your favourite city abroad and why?Dubai. I lived there in the days — from1992 — when there were just six SouthAfricans in the whole emirate. I harbouronly the happiest memories and yearnto go back but am nervous aboutwhether I will ever find my way around.Where did all those islands come from?
What was your best holiday, ever?Jordan will always be hard to beat: mywife and I went there for a wedding.Amman was breathtaking; the Romanruins at Jerash were stunning; and Petrais probably the single mostunforgettable place I have ever been(and I’ve been to the Taj Mahal andZeerust).
The best hotel you’ve stayed in?The Al Bustan outside Muscat in Omanwas just about as opulent as you canget. As I left the hotel, standing outsidethe grand entrance, I noticed, in thecorner of my eye, the unmistakablefigure of (former DRC president)Mobutu Sese Seko, complete with littleleopard-skin cap. I thought: “Thebastard’s going to try steal my cab.” Atwhich point a vast cavalcade sweptaround the corner and Mobutu wasgone.
What is the best thing you have beengiven on holiday?In Korea, my hosts gave me a beautifulcast-iron replica of an ancient bell —whose chimes recall the laments ofvictims of war or a damsel drowning orsomething. I must get it fixed.
Your favourite SA destination and why?Zeerust. I’ve just published a book abouta road that runs through it and the morepeople who scurry off to discover theplace, the more copies I’m likely to sell.
What is the most exotic dish you haveever eaten on holiday?In Dubai, I once had goat’s gonads. Orwere they camel’s balls? They werehorrible, slippery and hard to pin downwith a fork, never mind slice.
One travel destination you would call“never again”?Sandton.
■ Times columnist Peter Delmar has justpublished The Platinum Road, his third“road” book.
My Kind of Holiday
PETERDELMAR
The blonde inthe brownstone
EDITOR: Andrew Unsworth DEPUTY EDITOR: Paul Ash CONTACT: Tel: 011 280 5121. e-mail: [email protected]: Vernice Shaw SUBEDITOR: Elizabeth Sleith PICTURE SOURCING: Aubrey Paton PROOFREADER: Carénè BoshoffCOVER: Volcanic tufa formations, known as fairy chimneys, Pasabag, near Zelve in Cappadocia, Turkey SOURCE: Greatstock/Corbis COVER DESIGN: Matthys MossADVERTISING: Debbie Thompson, National Sales Business Manager, Tel: 011 280-3555. Email: [email protected] HOTLINE: 0860 52 52 00
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