Alexander Hamilton House, Croton-on-Hudson

When I realized that I had successfully procrastinated in obtaining accommodations for myself, my son and my sister for our nephew's graduation from the United States Military Academy at West Point, I hurriedly applied my surfing skills to finding a B&B within an hour's radius of the Point. Because it was also Memorial Day weekend, and because the West Pointers had booked rooms three and four years earlier, there was nary a room at the inn. Until that is, my sister-in-law, the cadet's Mother, searched through the WP Parent's website and found that an unfortunate parent had to cancel his reservation at the Alexander Hamilton House in Croton-on-Hudson, leaving him on the hook for a substantial guarantee. I did my good deed for the day by taking that off his hands and at the same time solved my housing crisis, which would have led to family crisis, had our little group not been in attendance at graduation. So with little foreknowledge and few expectations, except for the peculiar thought that I would be staying for several nights in a city with two hyphens in its name, we arrived at the Alexander Hamilton House on Thursday afternoon. I was immediately greeted warmly by the manager, a particularly helpful and gracious young woman whose name, Autumn, belied her spring and summer brightness. Throughout the stay we were made comfortable and in charge of our day. The first rule of bed and breakfastry in my estimation is that the innkeeper and the staff remain on the edge of earshot when needed, and out of sight when not. At this, the staff at the Alexander Hamilton House excelled. If we needed something, they were always there with the solution. Otherwise we were left to our own devices, which is as it should be. Barb, the Innkeeper, (anybody who has been doing this for 25 years is entitled to a Capital letter), served up small gourmet egg variations every morning, along with fresh fruit, breads and biscuits, coffee, tea, juice and if one asked, the morning news. On Saturday morning when those of us who were headed to the Point had to leave in the wee hours before breakfast was served, Barb arranged for each of us to have a small basket of appetite-assuaging goodies to take along. I could go on, as you are probably painfully aware bt now, but I will close with this comment. The house, its Victorian construction and its appointments impressed my son, a 22 year old veteran of the hot and edgy night scene in Atlanta. Truly a cross-generational and trans-epochal compliment. Good work, all. Beam me up, Queenie, I'll be back.