A Day at the Biltmore

On a gorgeous October morning in western North Carolina, a light fog shrouds the 8,000-acre Biltmore Estate. The largest private residence in America, more than 30 species of trees battle for attention from the sun and from tourists as the mist gives way to blue sky. The property is home to hills, fields, streams, gardens, an inn, and a winery, while the Smokey Mountains are just miles away.

The parking lots fill with cars from all over the country—very few low-end cars can be found. With $59 tickets per person, the estate is not the cheapest date in town. Yet it is a popular one, attracting more than a million visitors each year. Most of these appear to be 60-80 years old. A possible school trip and a few young couples are the exception.

My wife and I decide not to pay for the audio tour, and we begin walking through the mansion. A smiling white-haired man with a baseball cap approaches us and asks if we had ever been to the Biltmore. We tell him no and he pulls out a $20 bill and says it is worth hearing. We thank him but tell him that we have limited time. He holds out Andrew Jackson closer to us, insisting until we accept. By the end of our visit, we are very happy for the gentleman’s gift.

The large, indoor, underground, heated, hundred-and-some year old swimming pool impressed well enough. So did the castle-like appearance of the entire mansion, which George Vanderbilt built for his family, honored guests, and posterity in the late 1800s. The family lived there for a few decades before opening it to the public.

That evening we meet a 40-something employee in a gift shop. He grew up in the area, and he had no arm from his left elbow on down. He commented graciously about our infant son who I was carrying, and told us a little about his old 9-year-old boy.

As bedtime draws near, I wonder what tomorrow will bring.