A Trip to Mt. Dora, Fl., Part II

     My sister and I spend our winters in Florida and meet half-way for an annual get-together. This year we chose Mt. Dora and I made the arrangements.
     The blue-and-white exterior of the inn was reminiscent of Key West style, but faced Lake Dora. When we arrived, the massive wooden front door was locked. We slammed the brass knocker against the oak panels several times and heard the bolt draw back. Maggie, the proprietor, threw a "Welcome" to us sideways, past the gray wisp that hung near her mouth. "You must be the two sisters we're expecting. Come in." In slippers she led us past the winding wooden staircase (covered in oil paintings of Florida), down the central hall (covered in oil paintings of Florida) to a white wicker folding screen. "We can't let the dogs out," she said, folding back the first section of screen with long fingers that didn't match her diminutive stature. She stepped aside for us.
     "May we leave our bags inside, since we're early for registration? They're in our cars. We'd like to have lunch in town."
     "Of course," Maggie said, swishing aside one of the three cats sitting on the kitchen counter and reaching for registration forms behind canisters of cooking ladles, spatulas, whisks, and tongs. The cat leaped onto the kitchen table. "I'll lock them in the closet down the hall till you return. First I need your information and a credit card for the balance. You paid fifty percent on-line."
     "May I use a rest room, please? We've both had a long ride."
     "Yes, it's right down the hall on the right."
     "Do the cats roam the inn?" my sister asked, concerned about her asthma.
     "No," I heard Maggie respond as I made my way past the table strewn with ceramic salt and pepper shakers representing Santa Clauses, kissing children, and assorted animals, and ducked under hanging pots which could not have threatened Maggie's head.
     Inside the bathroom a cat licked milk from a bowl on the floor. Its white fur was so thin and the ribs so pronounced that I thought we were probably witnessing its last day. I hadn't heard Maggie following me in her slippers, but she  bent down to pick up the cat before I could turn around. "Piddly's sick," she declared. "She got like this once before, but recovered."
     "What is it? Mange?"
     "No, not mange. We're not sure." Then she left me alone.
     When I came out of the bathroom, I trailed a Borzoi back to the kitchen, where it sprawled on a comforter in the sun. There were two other Borzois lying across the floor amid planters of ferns, small palms, and philodendron.

Front porch of our inn with Borzoi statue

Side yard of inn with Borzoi statue

     Borzois, or Russian wolfhounds, are believed to be the mix between ancient bear hounds from Central Asia and tall sheepdogs. Their sleek stature, like the greyhound's, possesses incredible speed, which allowed Russian nobility to hunt wolves and hares. The association with the royal family, however, proved fatal for the breed, as many dogs were disposed of by their owners after the Russian Revolution in 1917. The specimens that remained in kennels, as well as those left with foreigners, were used to rebuild the breed. Everywhere we turned in the inn there were statues or paintings of Borzois. Fortunately, the living specimens remained in the kitchen.

Parlor with Borzois and Xmas decorations, including top of wall!

   

More Borzois over fireplace!

 "Here are the keys to your rooms. I'll put your suitcases in before you return," Maggie said, leading us back to the front hall. "Deidre is still touching them up. If you need transportation, here's a number to call for a shuttle." She handed us a business card from one of the twenty-odd card holders on a desk. The card holders were surrounded by pamphlets in graduated dividers built into the desk. They promoted adventures and eating establishments in the area.
     "I recommend Pices Rising for a fish dinner or the Olive Branch, which is a Mediterranean version of Italian. You'll probably need reservations, with 500,000 visitors coming for the art show this weekend. Any of the restaurants are good. The walking path to town begins at the end of the parking lot. You probably won't be able to get a parking space downtown after 5:00."
     "Would you be so kind as to call Pices Rising for a reservation at 7:00 for us, please?"
     Maggie secured our reservation. In town, lunch was as good as her claim. Afterward, we ventured into shops featuring nostalgic coats, dresses, shoes, crafty beach decorations, artists' galleries, and antiques. We saved the museums for the following day.
     Back at the inn, we entered our rooms to unpack. We were surrounded by lace doilies, four-poster beds with flowery faded chintz, and faux Tiffany lamps. On the bureaus laminated sheets announced a cold breakfast would be served until 9:00, after which there would be eggs and sausage ("Please reserve for the hot breakfast!"). In my bathroom sugar ants scurried out from under the faucet when I turned the water on. A wooden shelf unit hung over the toilet but the shelves weren't wide enough to hold my makeup case. The only thing in my room that was new was the television mounted on the wall and the mattress. There were at least eight oil paintings of the local Florida area. I had a beautiful view of Lake Dora, as did six of the other rooms. My sister had no view, next to the garage, but she had her own patio and didn't have to climb the one or two flights of stairs. I fell asleep in my clothes.

     When we met downstairs for dinner, we explored the parlor and dining room. Collections of china plates and glassware covered in dust stood in china cabinets in both rooms. Antique cash registers provided the backdrop for a carousel horse. Santa waved an arm with a mini bulb in his candle or towered over bowls of Christmas balls, although it was February. A briny scent emanated from a glass container of star fish amid ceramic Christmas trees and plates stacked for breakfast. A chipmunk held a barrel of mini golf clubs for an unidentifiable purpose.

     Maggie must have been a frequent shopper at the Antique Emporium in town, which was two-football-fields long. Statues, paintings, or prints of Borzois reigned over everything. More chintz flowers covered the round tables in the dining room.

   

    "Do you think we should eat here in the morning, with the cats and dogs in the kitchen?" Cindi asked.
     "I'm only gonna eat a wrapped muffin or some cereal from a box."
     We got a ride to town for our dinner reservation. Again, an outstanding meal!
     Afterward, we needed a ride back to the inn. We called the number on the business card for the shuttle, but it had shut down at 8:00. No answer when we called two taxis. "Is there Uber or Lyft we could call?" I asked the maitre d'.
     "Not here," he said.
     "Well, we can't walk back to the inn in the dark. What do you suggest?"
     "We're going to be closing in about fifteen minutes. If you can wait, I'll give you ladies a ride."
     Fifteen minutes later Devin pulled his dune buggy around to the front of the restaurant and I climbed in the back seat. Except there was no seat, so I sat on the floor. Cindi sat next to Devin. "This reminds me of our trip to St. Maarten," I said to my sister, laughing. "Remember when Quinn pulled out too fast and the back seat of the jeep collapsed? Mom and Dad ended up on the floor!" After that remark, Devin slowed down around the turns. We were grateful for his ride and tried to thank him with a generous tip, which he refused.
     At breakfast I passed up some crusty banana bread for a wrapped muffin while Christmas music blared through the speakers and Maggie explained to anyone who'd listen how she'd acquired her Borzois.

To be continued: A Collection of Florida Highwaymen's Paintings.....