The Rich Are Different From You and Me

Margie’s kids are still not sleeping through the night, so once a year, her husband sends her off to a hotel in New York City so she can get a good night’s sleep.

Susan and I met up with her at one of the W’s, Ian Schraeger’s fashionista chain of hotels, which are looking so 2002. The lobby’s main fashion statement is dark. There are no lights. I guess everything looks cool in the dark. You have to fumble for the elevator button as the hotel workers hum “I’m too sexy for this hotel, too sexy for this hotel, too sexy.”

After some debate about the afternoon activity (museum or shopping), we decided to check out the Plaza sell all its furnishings before it goes condo in a few months. We walked up to 59th Street, but couldn’t get in. The Plaza wasn’t letting in any more people. Too bad. That would have made a killer post.

Instead of heading downtown as usual, we decided to hangout in the Upper Eastside as an adventure.

We wandered past Hunter College, my old stomping ground, looking for cigar/book bar that we read about in Time Out New York. The cigar/book bar had a dress code, so instead we had a glass of wine and appetizers at the nearbyWillow. I had passed it many times when I was a grad student/adjunct, but never had the funds to drink there. It’s nice to be a grown up.

We sat at an outside table surrounded by deeply tanned former prep schoolers. They dressed in blazers and tennis shoes as if they just stepped off the beach at the Hamptons. It was a J. Crew catalog. The women were blond with their hair slicked back in pony tails and light makeup. The guys had their Thomas Pink shirts unbuttoned. Everyone was relaxed with the security that a hefty trust fund brings.

After an hour of people watching, we were ready to move on. Margie needed a t-shirt at the Gap. When we finished our shopping, we stepped into the gale of oncoming storm. Without umbrellas, we didn’t have time to be choosy about finding a place for dinner. We ran into the Isle of Capri as the first clap of thunder struck.

It was a small place with pricey Italian food. Normally, we wouldn’t have gone in. There are too many good, cheap Italian restaurants in Manhattan to waste time in a place that this, but it was raining too hard to back out.

Here we had a different Upper Eastside experience. We were surrounded not by aging prepsters, but by already aged Park Avenue matrons and their young gay escorts. These formidable ladies were attired in Chanel suits, layered necklaces, and jeweled ears to cover the face lift scars. They discussed politics and theater clubs with their escorts and commanded the wait staff about. The waiters joked with us and gave us complementary cordials.

Perhaps I was in a generous mood or perhaps I have finally outgrown the resentments that come from growing up in a upper middle class town in New Jersey, but I was impressed with the day’s fellow diners and drinkers. The aging preppies were unworried and athletic. The aged matrons were smart and strong. Both groups were utterly at home amidst the multi-million dollar townhouses and antique shops. Their wealth had bought them style and strength, and it was fun to observe them for an evening. I was Daisy for a few hours.