Do you ever have those days where you know that you need to go in a certain direction for your regular route home, but your feet just absolutely will NOT let you go there? Well, I had a touch of that on Tuesday. Sesame Street’s offices are located on Broadway and 63rd, a mere block away from the perimeter of Central Park. After work, I decided that rather than going to the stinky dungeon that everyone else in this city refers to as the “subway,” I would let my feet take me wherever they felt inspired to go, which happened to be through the park. I walked through the base of the park, smiling at the bikers, tourists, and children I saw along my way.
I wandered to the edge of the park and found that I was smack dab in front of the infamous Plaza Hotel. Feeling somewhat adventurous, I decided to channel my inner Eloise and have a little look around. I skittered in through the door to the dining area below the hotel. It was like a swanky cafeteria, complete with eighteen dollar sandwiches and designer tofu. Off to one side was a sign that advertised the Eloise store. Bedecked in pink, it was like every little girl’s fantasy come to life. A miniature tea table, a bedazzled lounge for young visitors to watch the Eloise movie, a gift shop, and even little clothes (including a $200 sailor’s dress for someone under the age of five) pleasantly abounded every corner. I thought it was rawther lovely, but the bored sales lady blatantly ignored me when she deduced that I was neither rich or with children, which I took as my not-so-subtle queue to sklonk about even further.
Now, I’m not entirely sure how this next part happened, but for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to take the side stairs. I ended up in a grandiose ballroom, with young hipsters bustling in and out as they prepared for what looked to be like a press event.
It was here that I learned a very important life lesson: if you push your shoulders back, lift your chin up, look people in the eyes, and confidently smile, most people will think that you belong even when you don’t. I’m pretty sure that this was a private event, but by this point my naughty feet kept pushing me onwards. I made a quick circuit around the entrance, walking brusquely to avoid the prolonged attention of any of the staff members. I found another set of stairs and tried going up further. This brought me to a few more ballrooms, only these ones were empty and wrapped me in an eerie blanket of silence. Their austerity made me shiver, so I headed back down ANOTHER set of stairs, only to realize that the only exit was through the kitchen. I stumbled in, coming face to face with about seven of the wait staff, who all quelled their boisterous laughter and looked at me incredulously.
I gulped, trying oh-so-hard not to call out for Nanny or to yell, “Gotta skitter!” like my counterpart Eloise might have done. I am, after all, mature. Ish.
Following my previous advice on life lesson #842, I smiled and said, “Hi, I’m trying to get back to the gala, but it appears I made a wrong turn. Could you help me?” The maître d smiled at me, and in broken English said “Go through door. Right turn, okay? Okay.” I sheepishly grinned and thanked him as I moved onwards and entered the heart of the beast (aka, hair and make-up headquarters set up within the ballroom). Bored photographers were clutching their cameras in idle wait. I perused the gift bags quickly, pretending that I was checking to see if everything was in place. I looked over the shallow balcony at the stylists who appeared to be doing the make-up of celebrities or very important people, neither of which I had a right to be gawking at. Sensing that my ruse as an employee for the Sexy Hair gala was on the verge of being exposed, I exited the ballroom and entered the actual hotel.
With accents both subtle and glaring, I felt as if my little friend/alter ego Eloise was with me. There were homages to her around every corner. I walked past the gorgeously decadent Palm Court dining room and looked at the menu. Hmm, $60 dollars for the Fitzgerald Tea for the Ages, complete with curried lobster and apple salads and jazz age chocolate bon bons? My mouth watered, but I squelched the desire to say, “Charge it please thank you very much!”, instead absorbing as much of its luxury as I could through my pores and leaving the premises before my Eloise-ish adventures got me in actual trouble.
As I left the hotel, a woman who seemed to be out of her mind tried asking me for money. I politely shook my head and quickened my pace only to hear her starting to chant curses at my back. So I may or may not have inadvertently pissed off a witch that day, too. As of yet I’m still waiting to see the effects of such an encounter. More on that later.
Well, gotta skitter! Ta-ta!
Me and my gal. She's a doll. Literally.
No comments:
Post a Comment