That title refers to the decor in our NW Ohio bed and breakfast last week, and if you don't believe me, see for yourself.
I'm pretty sure the room itself was leaning toward an Asian theme, what with its bamboo print duvet (though the victorian doily valence doesn't fit that either). I suppose Tigers--okay, even leopards, since the stuffed thing among the sleds has dots, not stripes--can probably fit with that. But the sleds? We spent two nights befuddled. Well, one actually, because during our first night the electricity went out while we were watching the Cubs-Indian game on sweet, sweet B&B cable, and we could no longer gaze dumbfoundedly at all the sleds and therefore had no choice at that point but go to sleep.
In Assassination Nation, Sarah Vowell has a great tale-within-a-tale in which she regales her incredulous B&B co-guests of New England elite with reports of the jaunty, kitschy musical she'd seen the night before called Assassins, which draws together several presidential assassinations, yunno, with dances and music, all the while sipping coffee from the daintiest tea cups imaginable. Vowell clearly does not like B&Bs, and I may be with her. I always like the idea of B&Bs--the organic gingerbread scones and veggie omelette at the house of sled were, to be sure, delicious--but I guess chatting with strangers just isn't my thing. And it's too easy at B&Bs to give or take offense. There was the one in Peoria where the bland-palated John got a mean look for requesting just plain toast. There was the one where we were served coffee in cups emblazoned with verses from Corinthians. I did rather like the brownstone B&B one where I stayed in DC, because it was cheap, the room was urban tiny, and the breakfast was serve yourself. Still, there was some sort of day-long meeting in the main room there, complete with big charts and graphs, and I had to walk right in the middle of it in my running shorts going and coming.
A lot of people like the quirks of B&Bs because quirks--the sticky toilet handle, the too-short bed, the rusty scary fire exit stairs one set of owners asked us to use if they weren't home--somehow equal homeiness. But I must say that the highly impersonal Days Inn State College with its ugly ass electric blue carpet and cheap poly-blend bedspread that makes the same swishy sound as my grade school teachers walking down the hall in skirts and pantyhose--brought a sigh of relief from both of us.