Continued from here….
After the unexpectedly hot night, we trudged into breakfast. Everyone else was part of a couple and had a fun story; one couple had just gotten engaged, another was moving to Italy at the end of the week, and the other was an older couple, celebrating his 80th birthday. His wife was the epitome of a true southern woman; she had a slow drawl and enunciated in all the right parts, and it made me think of Designing Women, and I softly giggled, though my allergic reaction to the wine the night before seemed to be getting worse instead of better.
They brought out the food, which was so good I’d have slapped my mother. Or your mother. Anyone’s mother, really (side note: Mom, that’s just a saying, I wouldn’t ever actually slap you). We waited until they served everyone, and I started to take a bite. The older man stood up and announced that he was a man of God, and would be leading us in prayer.
That’s awesome, because I’m a big fan of God anyway, so we bowed our heads to pray as he said a normal prayer. And then things all turned. Quickly.
I watched in horror as he told the room that he was a Prophet of God. Not a follower, or like a prophet, but that he was a prophet. He told us about the times that God had spoken to him and told him that it was his duty to write this book. And hey, I totally get the whole “God spoke to me” thing, but I shifted uncomfortably as he not only compared himself to Moses, but said that he was Moses. He believed so much that he was Moses that when the lady of the manor brought him a lovely birthday candle and jokingly told the 80-year-old to “wish for 20 more”, he actually stopped and corrected her, telling us that Moses lived until he was 120, so he had 40 years left.
He told of the book he had written, ready for publishing, and that it was short, at a mere 39 pages, but that God had told him that was all He had to say. The book was about how disappointed God was in our civilization, and how He was coming back to seek vengeance And I prayed silently, “Dear God, don’t let April tell him she’s from Los Angeles”. And she didn’t. He spoke of how disgusted and angry God was, and how he was going to start the rapture in Williamsburg since “this is where it all began”.
Look, I’m no history major, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t start here. I digress…
We all sat wide-eyed while he told us these long stories, but the bizarre ones dissipated, to be replaced with the typical old people stories, like how they got married and what kind of medications he was on (“None. I bet I’m healthier than any of you all in here”).
The main course, which was stuffed blueberry french toast, was so good I nearly had a When Harry Met Sally moment, sitting right there in the B&B.
Nommmmmmmm
Then this happened:
WHAT IS UP WITH THE LEE PRESS-ONS, APRIL?!
And then some other random stuff, like not being able to get a hot sandwich unless you are pregnant:
Yes, that really happened.
And this, which prompted a really revolted face and a “Yeah I’m going to need to take a picture of that for Cindy”:
What. In. The….
We went to Jamestown (the real one), then back downtown to get some Hoecakes for a friend. April asked if I wanted to tour Williamsburg, and I did, but then I realized she didn’t mean the outlets and she realized I didn’t mean Historical, so we parted ways while I shopped and then drove home and she went to the insane asylum.
And that, dear readers, was Williamsburg.
