Getting There – Lily Dale, NY: Part One
They say “getting there is half the fun” and on a motorcycle, it is typically a lot more than half. But today isn’t typical. An un-forecasted rainstorm has me stranded (unpleasantly) in Pleasantville, Pennsylvania on my way to Lily Dale, New York, also known as “the town that talks to the dead.”
I first heard of Lily Dale a few years ago when I was living in DC and dating a woman who was into the paranormal. I was intrigued to learn that the small, upstate community has been attracting people attempting to contact the other side for more than 150 years. A New York Times article referred to it as a place that draws the “intellectually curious and the emotionally vulnerable,” summoning “visionaries and fools” hoping to commune with the dead. While I have no burning desire to chat with the departed and wouldn’t call myself a visionary or a fool, I am definitely curious.
On second thought, maybe I am a fool, sitting here at a diner in Pleasantville, soaking wet, nursing a fourth cup of coffee, and watching the rain assault my motorcycle. The storm hit about six or seven miles from here, just outside of Tionesta on a stretch of road that offered no shelter, not even a decent place to pull off. This was particularly annoying because I always carry raingear on extended trips but the storm came up so suddenly that I was soaked before I could get to it.
I check the forecast between here and Lily Dale on my laptop for the umpteenth time and is it still vague, saying basically, that it may continue to rain throughout the day…and then again, it may not continue to rain throughout the day. The logical thing to do in this situation is call the trip off, head for home, and reschedule. However, the main attractions in Lily Dale are seasonal and that season ends in the next two days. Rescheduling means waiting until next year, which I’d rather not do.
Outside, the downpour has dwindled to a light rain but doesn’t look like it is going to stop anytime soon. If this were a bar instead of a diner, I’d be tempted to order a few fingers of Jameson, find a nearby motel, and call it a day. But since it is not a bar and the rain has slowed down enough to make riding possible, I am going to continue heading north.
The rain stops by the time I cross the New York state line. It stays away until I am a half-hour from my destination and another downpour forces me into another diner.
I finally pull up to Lily Dale’s gated entrance much later than expected and with a good-sized headache, but thankful to have made it in one piece. The girl in the booth explains the daily and weekly passes while I locate my wallet under the rain suit. It’s still sodden with the morning’s storm and I hand her two soggy bills—a 5 and a 10—for a 24-hour pass. She hesitates and I say, “It’s just rain. Not sweat or anything disgusting.” She takes the bills gingerly and we both start to laugh.
Cruising up and down the quiet streets, I pass some grand Victorian houses, but the majority of the residents live in small, modest homes, many sporting a colorful shingle in the front yard with the name and phone number of the medium or spiritual advisor who lives there. There are community buildings, a church, a museum, a gift shop, a café, a couple of parks, and a nice view of Cassadaga Lake.
From my research, I recognize a Victorian style building with a dozen rocking chairs lining its front porch as the Maplewood Hotel, which first opened its doors in 1880 and is allegedly haunted. I stop to see if I can get a room. The floor boards creak under my boots. I can feel the history of the place; it is like walking into another time. “You look like you could use a room,” a woman with long, gray hair says as I approach the front desk.
“And a hot shower,” I add. She says she can’t help me with that as there are only bathtubs available. “That will work,” I say and she gives me the lowdown on the hotel like she is trying to get the bad news out of the way first. Many of the rooms share a bathroom and there is no air conditioning, no elevator, no television, and the nearest access to laundry facilities are in the next town over. I am low-maintenance by nature and even after the grueling ride here, I’m more interested in old world charm than the standard creature comforts. I do, however, prefer a private bath and manage to get one. She tells me to come to the front desk if I need anything—no phones here either—and hands me a key, a map of Lily Dale, and points out a dry erase board that lists the events for the rest of the day and evening. I don’t know what a “Thought Exchange” is but it sounds worth checking out as does the “Ghost Walk” which will be held after dark.
My 3rd floor room is small for a double, but plenty for me. Before I even unpack, I start filling the claw foot tub with hot water and get out of my wet clothes. Each of the twin beds has a white bath towel fashioned into the shape of … I’m going to guess a rabbit … leaning against the headboard, holding a washrag and a travel-sized bar of soap. The bath feels good, encouraging my muscles to relax, the headache to lift, and my eyelids to get heavy.
