TRAVEL Eureka Eureka

Let’s make one thing clear. I was writing about Eureka Springs before Bill Clinton ever thought about being president. 1 was first there as a child, then returned with my own daughter to the happy discovery that a few places do indeed remain as wonderful as the memory of them. Last November, I went yet again with my husband, H,G., and yes, I still enjoy this little square in the patchwork of the Ozarks.

There’s i certain degree of theological redundancy in modern Eureka Springs, such as the late Gerald L.K. Smith’s Great Passion Play with its human cast of 200 and Lord-only-knows how many sheep, donkeys, horses, camels and doves-all emoting right there next to the Bible Museum, the Church in the Grove, a mocked-up Holy Land, a 10-foot length of Berlin Wall and the seven-story Christ of the Ozarks statue, which closely favors Christ of the Andes in Rio de Janeiro. In fact, according to a fellow visitor, they are exactly alike. “So you don’t need to go there,” he said with a firm nod of the head. “I’ve seen it; they’re the same.”

Backsliding down the mountain from the Passion Play compound, we find the real heart of Eureka Springs, resting amid some of the prettiest terrain in the region. Ads and billboards compare the place to Switzerland, although such wistful thinking might be a disservice. But, like many Swiss villages. Eureka Springs is mostly vertical with narrow streets steeply curving into hairpins, and, yes, the climate’s perhaps closer to that on Switzerland than the Mojave Desert. That’s about where the similarities end, but I’ll tell you something. The people in Eureka Springs are considerably more fun than the Swiss. (“Know how to make a Swiss laugh?” asks travel writer Bill Bryson. “Hold a gun to his head and say ’laugh.’”) Arkansas chuckles are much easier to come by.

However Swissless Eureka Springs is, it’s within weekend-driv-ing distance, and all interested parties should get there soon, because in this the Clinton Era, national publications are already sending tons of readers from Up North. and locals such as writer/chef Crescent Dragon-wagon and Zoe and Albert Harp are becoming media personalities. The Harps, married 68 years, live above their small grocery that has been in daily operation for 108 years, Albert mans the antique cash register, while Zoe, who attended Carrie Nation’s Sunday School class, sits against a wall, answering visitors’ questions. “We’ve never been closed in all that time,” she says. “Not even on Christmas Day.” Then she complains about all the newcomers, who open their more fashionable shops only during tourist season, returning whence they came to live their real lives. “There’re only 18 natives left,” she says, somewhat grumpily.

But then you notice a stack of Xeroxed clippings from newspapers all over the country featuring the Harps and their store and you realize why Zoe’s story seems so pat and that perhaps the resentment of these boom days might not run quite as deep as she would have you think. “We’ve been on Charles Kuralt, too, and ’20/20,’” she says. Yep, Eureka Springs has been discovered.

Mostly, the town carries its new fame becomingly and doesn’t try to whip its natural corn into a souffle. For instance, almost every sign, every logo, every billboard puts forth some variation of a heart theme, and almost every bed-and-breakfast and motel boasts of Jacuzzis and hot tubs. They’re after the honeymoon crowd, all right. The brochure for the Bavarian Inn, where I stayed, pictures a cuddling couple drinking Champagne in a heart-shaped tub. As a nod to Arkansas’ sense of propriety, the bathing couple is fully dressed in bridal garb. You’ve got to love a place with such quirky incongruities.

May I suggest, as an escape from all those hearts and flowers, and for your soul’s nourishment, you visit the unique Thorncrown Chapel, just down the road apiece on Highway 62. The chapel, commissioned by former schoolteachers Jim and Dell Reed and designed by Fayette-ville architect E. Fay Jones, is known way beyond (he borders of Arkansas. It contains more spirituality, more magic within its soaring glass walls and towering crossed timbers than any of Gerald Smith’s creations on the other side of town. Last year, the chapel was named the best work of American architecture since 1980 in an American Institute of Architects survey. For those who feel closer to God in a garden, this is your place to worship, as the visitor can hardly tell where the elegantly simple interior ends and the lovely woods outside begin. In its quiet, pure way, it may be the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen.

OK. Today it’s raining and chilly. We’ve been to Thorncrown Chapel and now we try one of the walking tours of Eureka Springs listed in a tourist guide. We lose the trail, as it turns past limestone buildings and walls, many built before the turn of the century. We trudge up steep hills until we must stop for breath. We pass a zillion back-to-back B&Bs, mostly Victorian, some cuted up a bit much, most just fine. We scoot down inclines so steep I have to sort of scrunch my toes for brakes. Eureka Springs has only a few good shops, but almost all are worth at least a quick tour. Besides, how else would you learn what’s hot in schlock? To my great disappointment, I learn that the funnel cake was not invented in Eureka Springs, as I’d been told on a previous trip, and as I’ve fervently believed for years. “She sure is gullible,” today’s funnel cake maker says to my husband. “Truth is, the Amish invented funnel cakes.” Nevertheless, we split one and sip cups of hot chocolate; then we wander into galleries featuring pottery and jewelry made by local artists. We buy a couple of blue bowls, a pendant and a beautiful enameled silver fish to pin on my lapel. H.G. buys himself a rakish gray suede fedora at one of the leather shops, and at another gallery, I buy a tiny painted wooden feather to stick in its brim. A store offering mountain musical instruments catches my fancy, and I buy a cassette of Christmas dulcimer and guitar music and reluctantly pass by the many sets of handmade windchimes.

Later, we eat at Crescent Dragon-wagon’s Dairy Hollow House, and so should you. Make a reservation because Dragonwagon’s new fame has made the place popular; the innovative food keeps it so. A shop at the entrance offers cookbooks and children’s books, souvenirs and a few food specialties. For dinner, we have fresh trout, venison, vegetarian ravioli and a raspberry/chocolate something-or-other for dessert. Ah. Sublime. Dairy Hollow, by the way, publishes its own newsletter, which carries recipes and tidbits about Eureka Springs, Dairy Hollow and its owners.

I’ve been to the Ozarks when the leaves turn, perhaps the best time, but that November weekend, when everyone in town had their Christmas decorations up by Saturday noon, the town became Dickensonian. Well, sort of. Anyway, it was very nice and the crunching leaves underfoot made me feel far away from Dallas. Spring in the Ozarks is lovely, I’m told, with dogwood abloom and the climate right for long walks. Of course, the Chamber of Commerce is proud of the festivals and special tours, but I prefer to ignore the planned hooplas, even the more spectacular high seasons. Just now, as I write this, I think of the soothing steam bath and massage I had at the limestone Palace Bath House, built in 1901. 1 lay there, soreness and tension dissolving with each tug and pull, while I listened to the drizzle outside and the reassuring murmur of voices in the next room. This is bliss; this is Eureka Springs. I’d like to be there this minute.

Instead. I call the Chamber of Commerce in Ouray. Colorado, where H. G. and I are thinking of renting a place this summer. “Welcome to Ouray, the Switzerland of the Rockies,” the tape says.