Backward and forward

PLAZA SWEET

 

The famous, sometimes infamous, Plaza in New York City is my destination. It's been years since I've been there and don't quite know what to expect since Eloise, the mischievous imp, turned into a movie heroine of sorts. My cab pulls up to the curb and just as I remember, a tall, neat attendant perfectly outfitted in his tan coat with chest adornment, perky visored cap, greets me and opens the cab door for me. The cabby  unlocks the trunk. With what seems great ease, my two heavy suitcases and roll-on, plus my big, old-fashioned hat box enter the Plaza.

 

The first thing I really notice is the beautiful wall-to-wall carpet has been removed showing off the original gorgeous white tiles. I love them but instantly feel out of place. Then I smell the sweet, gentle aroma of the perfume that used to get into my bones, make my nose itch and get angry at myself for not recalling its name. I am escorted to the check-in counter that is as pristine as twenty years ago, surely longer ago than that. The young lady behind the desk smiles, let's me see her perfect white teeth and slides the registration book to a  position where I can sign my Jane Hancock. I must show valid ID before I get the huge room key and a welcoming, soft greeting, 'So nice to see you again, Mrs. Feldman.' That's a bit much as I doubt she was out of diapers when I was here last.

 

My registration clearly shows the cost of my room and bath. When I had called for room 407, my honeymoon room, I was told it was occupied but I could have 412 with a lovely view of Central Park. The cost almost floored me, $525 a night. Ronald paid, I remember clearly, $49 and we stiffened at that. Since then I have learned the original price of a room, a good room, at the Plaza was $2.50 a night. It is unimaginable, isn't it?

 

My unpacking takes time. Why did I bring so many things? I don't expect to bump into Eartha Kitt, Liza Minelli at Palm Court where I will wear my old style big hat with a black flower in the band and let people look at me. This place used to be celebrity heaven, always enjoyable even if Ronald and I stopped in the coffee shop. I am having trouble opening two new jars of face and body creams and check the phone listings. Sure enough, the Plaza still has a butler on every floor. Josh, on my floor, knocks at my door the moment I hang up the phone. He doesn't even need a screwdriver,  just twists and they open. So it cost me five bucks, I don't care. I like breathing my inheritance and feeling the past overtake me.

 

The maid knocks gently, tries to stop me from hanging my things in the closet, putting undies in drawers. 'Madam, I'll take care of everything for you,' she says, gives a small curtsey and removes my hat from its box, laughs a little, and asks me how old it is. 'Older than you, My Dear,' I tell her and her mouth falls open. 'More than twenty?' she asks. 'Yes, thirty at least.'

 

I am more tired than I expected to be, lie down on the velvet chaise lounge to rest for fifteen minutes, open my eyes and an hour has disappeared. It is 4 p.m. tea time. My brown silk suit with wide lapels, trimmed by the long perfect pearl necklace Ronald gave me as a wedding gift will turn a lot of heads. I dress, leave my opened cosmetics on the dressing table and saunter to the elevator as if I were the Queen herself. The door opens and I am the only one aboard except for the operator who is almost a spitting image of the midget who wore a red outfit, brass buttons and pillbox hat with a dumb looking strap. All he ever said was 'Calling Phillip Morris.' boring commercial, indeed. He smiles at me and I smile back at him.

 

An immaculate young women leads me to a small table in Palm Court. The stained glass ceiling still lets lovely colors fall on the white table cloths. Each color brings me thoughts of times I spent here with friends, many friends. Seated at the table nearest me are six young women. The lean to each other and speak in soft tones, giggle. There is no doubt in my mind that they are discussing me. Let them. They are bold, wear tight clothes. Under their table I see their dresses well above their knees. I can hardly contain myself and will show them what class was and is. From my purse I remove my long amber cigarette holder, put in a long Phillip Morris cigaret and flick my silver lighter.
A most reserved gentleman is at my table immediately. He begs my pardon and advises me to snuff my cigarette as smoking is not allowed. I do as he suggests but leave the no longer smoking cigarette in the holder. He thanks me and disappears. The ladies watch me. I watch them and revel in my world of what was. They will never have what I have 'memories, wonderful memories.'

 

I sign my check without a moment's discontent. Can't help it but  seventy five dollars for a cup of tea, a dab of caviar on a cracker, a small bowl of bouillabaisse and cup of tea is a bit much.

 

My experience is worth it and I add a twenty dollar tip, have my chair pulled back for me, receive a small box of sweet, deliciously sweet,  chocolate covered malt balls and nibble them as I leave Palm Court for my afternoon walk thru Central Park.