The epic, never-to-be-forgotten history of Oyo

OYO Hotel in backwoods Virginia. Bring your own mints for the pillow.

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When we lived in Connecticut, I asked Mrs. B one night what she was planning for dinner.

“Oyo!”

That sounded great. Probably a Brazilian dish or maybe Mexican. I was famished and exhausted, having just completed a two- or three-hour workday and some daydreaming about a Springfield musket or a 100-pound artillery shell. So I started mulling what kind of wine I should have with this “oyo.”

My specialty.

A little cabernet? Maybe a petite syrah? We both like great food, and Mrs. B is an outstanding cook, much better than I am, although I did make her one of my renowned "happy face" breakfast specials one day.

So I finally ask her, "What's oyo?"

"On your own."

Oyo? Oh, no.

So on a recent Civil War adventure, this sign appeared in some godforsaken, backwoods Virginia town I refuse to name because it’s not polite. (Pssst: It’s Wytheville.) Wonder if you must supply your own mints for the pillows.

Oyo? Ho-ho. 😃

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