The Igljacks Go Cottaging

“I need a room with a roll-in shower,” Dan told the reservations agent.

“No problem, sir.”

When there was no mention of this on the printout, he called back and was assured that the room was thus equipped.

Arriving in Newport tired and grimy after the long drive, Dan asked the desk clerk: “This room has a roll-in shower, right?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

And so it did – in the sense that if you’d laid my bony carcass along the edge of the standard bathtub and given me a good shove, I probably would have rolled in. But it wasn’t quite what we had in mind.

Turned out the room with the roll-in shower was occupied by another crip. (Those people are everywhere. Why don’t they stay home, as God so clearly intended when He smote them?) We were brought a bath bench for the evening, then given the coveted quarters the next day, when the other guy checked out. It was a two-bedroom suite, but we were charged the regular rate because of the screw-up. They even moved our things while we were out and about.


Having hankered to see Newport’s “cottages” for most of my life, I naturally waited till I was in a wheelchair to do so. Which was surprisingly okay, because any fin-de-siècle mansion worth its salt had an elevator. And in my quirky judgment, those are almost as much an attraction as the houses themselves.

I rode in five, four of which were over a hundred years old and three of which were charmingly ornate. Sizes ranged from small to tiny. With a requirement that passengers be accompanied, it was probably inevitable that the docent stationed at the smallest – and slowest – elevator would be a woman of bounteous proportions. She was also chatty, which made for a comical scene as I attempted to project my feeble voice past her prodigious front, which was all but smothering me.

Speaking of distractions, a note to parents: If you have young children – say, an infant prone to sudden, piercing screaming fits and a little boy who likes to swing on furniture and is physically incapable of remaining silent for more than thirty seconds – perhaps a house tour isn’t the ideal activity for them. Just a thought.


Of the many properties, five were fully accessible, which was plenty for three days and well worth the trip. Built between 1888 and 1902, the styles spanned Europe from England to Italy. France was especially popular, including salutes to Versailles’s Trianons, Grand et Petit.


Much was grand about these piles, but nothing petit. The only one that wasn’t over the top was Doris Duke’s Rough Point, recommended by Ross, a friend whose judgment in these matters is infallible. All of the houses were lavish and art filled, but the others were done to show off, while Rough Point was decorated personally by and for the storied “Miss Duke,” resulting in a much more intimate feel. She also seemed to be the only owner who spent more than two months a year in Newport.


In several cases, wheelchairs were directed to the service entrance. Some might find that offensive, but I consider it a plus. To me, those are often the most interesting parts of a mansion. When I could walk, I was usually the naughty one on house tours, trying to slip away and check out back stairs and butler’s pantries. (If you get caught, just claim you were trying to find a restroom. They might not believe you, but what can they say?) Nowadays, thankfully, a lot of house museums include kitchen areas on tours. Dumbwaiters thrill me as much as old elevators, and I got a gander at several in Newport (although one, disappointingly, was electric).


On Sunday we met Ross and his partner, Michael, for lunch at the International Tennis Hall of Fame, housed in the landmark Newport Casino. (No sign of Roddick or Djokovic, sadly.) They invited us to dinner, so that evening we made our way over foggy Narragansett Bay to the movie-set village where they’re restoring – greatly improving, really – an old house. I’d only seen it in pictures, and their efforts were even more impressive in person. I’ve said it before: If you want a place done right, call the gays.

Back in Newport, we drove past Clarendon Court several times, picturing Sunny von Bülow sprawling unconscious on the cold floor of her luxurious bathroom, but didn’t have time to locate Hammersmith Farm, site of the Kennedys’ wedding reception.

The nonarchitectural highlight was easily the Cliff Walk, which winds along the coastline between the mansions and the crashing waves. We went at sunset, and the view was inspiring. Almost as inspiring as the strapping young man who leapt out of the car in front of ours, ripped off his shirt, and plowed into the surf.

Good times.

Photos by Dan

Thanks to Ross, Michael, and Isaac for hosting us and to Ben, Brian, and Andie for keeping the monsters, making the whole thing possible.