On Tuesday I spent the afternoon visiting the hallowed grounds of Monticello with my parents. The sky was blue and stripped of any ominous clouds that might hamper our endeavor. We arrived around two o'clock. My father was impressed that due to my status as a student at U.Va., I was allowed in for no charge. Huddling in front of the fireplace within the barn-like visitor's center, I turned to my father.
"Guess that disproves your 'no such thing as a free lunch' theory, huh dad?"
Taking a deep breath, my father informed me that, as far as he could tell, I was not being given a free lunch. He, for one, couldn't see any sandwiches. It was a salient point -- I had to admit it. Ah, dad humor, you can't beat it.
My dad is from a place in New Zealand called Dunedin. The word Dunedin is Gaelic for Edinburgh. Off the coast of Dunedin, great white sharks stalk surfers who brave the big-wave spots.
Within the city, old men wake the hung-over population on Sunday mornings by playing the bagpipes at their maximum volume. Though the vast majority of the town is Presbyterian, rugby and beer sit prominently within the Holy Trinity.
Dunedin has been called the "most Scottish" place in the world outside Scotland. Though I am not entirely sure this is anything to shout about, the place certainly breeds a unique type.
While my father and I discussed Sally Hemings, my mother stood in front of a display showing some of the history of Monticello. She seemed very interested, engrossed even, which made me happy. It certainly didn't surprise me. My mother has perhaps the keenest nose for narrative I have ever encountered; with great pleasure she will recount entire episodes of "The Sopranos" to anyone who will listen. It was my mother's first time in the United States.
In some ways, I considered it a type of pilgrimage. I mean, she has consumed America's greatest export -- both good and really terrible television, in fairly equal doses -- for years now. When my mother and I talked on the phone a week before she arrived, I likened her imminent vacation to a hamburger lover going for an extensive tour through a farm.
"What are you talking about, Christopher?" my mother asked me, "Will you ever stop talking such rubbish?"
I looked at my beer and breathed apologies into the phone. Anyway, right there in the visitor's center, I could see my mother was falling in love with Mr. Jefferson. I could see it in her eyes.
While we stood on the front steps of the house, the guide asked if anyone was from far away. "New Zealand," my mother, my father and I chorused. The guide ignored us -- someone else had shouted, "Estonia!" The group murmured and cooed at the exoticness of Estonia. I guess the Estonians were the winners. The Estonians were a young couple with matching glasses and ruddy cheeks. As the guide made a couple of less-than-amusing quips about chewing gum inside, I silently fumed.
"Surely New Zealand is further away than Estonia," I whispered to my dad.
He looked at me in a way that indicated he either doesn't care or that he thinks I have lost my mind -- I started recognizing this look when I was about four years old. I have grown accustomed to it.
I looked the Estonians up and down. They were well-dressed and attractive. They smiled, and I smiled back whilst thinking, "I bet we could kick Estonia's ass in rugby and surfing."
I comforted myself. And yachting, of course. It's not like they haven't got a coast (I have made that mistake before, when I challenged a Slovakian to a body surfing competition in Fiji), so this time I deemed it a fair fight. Plus, who has ever seen a film made in Estonia? I was clutching at straws. You've made an enemy for life in one C. John Garland, Estonia.
The tour group consisted of the usual suspects. A history geek that knew more than the guide. A screaming baby. A little girl who needed -- displaying the volume of "need" that one sees most often in a crackhead -- to touch everything. Of course, my personal favorite tour-types were with us as well: I call them "the askers." The askers are of great value -- they ask all the ridiculous questions you would never consider uttering. The first question by this guy was, and I swear on my life this is the truth (I have witnesses and everything), "Did Thomas Jefferson live here?"
What a classic! I felt like pushing my way through the crowd and slapping the guy a huge high-five and shouting, "Well done! You have cracked it. ... Historians at the University of Virginia have been working for years to answer that one!"
Maybe the asker would look at me with hope, his eyes gleaming with possibility, and I would go further.
"Really, You've done it! No study for you. You're on the fast track to an academic career!"
However, I didn't do this.
We moved on into the next room. The guide was discussing Mr. Jefferson's love of books. The asker struck again, in untimely fashion.
"When was Thomas Jefferson the president?"
Though this question was far less ridiculous than the last, the guide answered in the tone that one might use for a very young child, or someone who has undergone a crude lobotomy.
The highlight of the tour -- apart from the sun touching our backs as we stood on the lawn taking photos -- was the asker's last question.
As we stood in Mr. Jefferson's sanctuary, the tour guide turned to her right and said, "Now, this is Mr. Jefferson's bed."
The asker piped up from the back, his voice as clear as the day outside. "So, um, where did he sleep?"
Chris Garland is an exchange student from New Zealand. His column runs biweekly on Thursdays, and he can be reached at garland@virginia.edu.
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