From the Slow Lane: My Rainbow connection

I do not often travel in la-di-da circles but I have been to the Rainbow Room. Yes, THE Rainbow Room, high above Rockefeller Center, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. A friend made arrangements for several couples to spend a magical Thursday evening at this famous landmark and since then, Thursdays have never felt the same.

Because the circles in which I normally travel aren’t so fancy-schmancy, I had some pressing questions about going to the RR, such as: How big a deal is this? I mean, should I shave my legs? Can I bring a camera? Can I wear loafers? (They do have tassels.) The answers were: Very, yes, yes, and no, regardless.

Early on the afternoon of our grand occasion we headed for our friend’s apartment near the city. I arrived wearing my sloppy clothes and traveling loafers (the ones without the tassels). Once there, I changed into my la-di-da duds and the adventure started. First there was a knock at the apartment door by a man wearing a uniform. He bowed slightly and introduced himself as our chauffeur.

Let me say for the record that I am not a total Island bumpkin — I have traveled to distant lands, I have lived in a foreign country, eaten fried jelly fish, been audited by the IRS and given birth, twice, but until that Thursday night, I had never, EVER been inside a limousine, though Lord knows I’ve nearly ruined my eyes trying to squint through the dark windows of passing limos.

It was big and sleek and polished, had a stocked bar, crystal glassware and a flat-screened television and this was before they became de rigueur (which is how the rich and famous talk when they get all la-di-da).

Forgetting that I was a sophisticated adult, I played with the interior lights and kept my window down so I could wave at people because what’s the point of being inside a limo if no one outside can see you?

During the ride, I pulled out my disposable camera and took pictures of the inside of the limo, our driver Andre, and of people in other cars waving at me waving at them.

The Rainbow Room is on the 65th floor at 30 Rock and I won’t even try to describe what I saw when the elevator doors opened. I am the kind of person who ooohs and aaaahs when I walk into a nice diner; this place knocked my socks off, or rather, my control-top pantyhose.

To be so high up there with all those windows on a clear night when you really could see forever, took my breath away. Maybe people at other tables were able to ignore the panoramic 360-degree views, but I had my face pressed flat against the glass gazing at the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty and helicopters flying lower than I was. I swear! I took pictures!

There were several orchestras and all night long the music never stopped. Men in tuxedos danced with women wearing sequined cocktail dresses. Sequins! On a week night! Who knew?

Couples waltzed, they did the tango and the rumba on a big round dance floor that very slowly rotated. I don’t know how to rumba so I did the Macarena instead, proving, I guess, that you can take the bumpkin away from the Island, but … well, you know the rest.

Speaking of the rest, the ladies restroom at the Rainbow Room was bigger than my house and way nicer. It came equipped with a matron who turned on the tap and handed me a towel. She wasn’t all that pleased about me taking her picture until I tipped her quite nicely. Then she smiled and put her arm around me as I took a picture of the two of us through the mirror.

Another patron wearing floor-length glitter came into the restroom and inspected her teeth in her compact. Then she snapped it shut and in a voice that sounded exactly like a character in a Noel Coward play (or a Grey Poupon commercial) asked if I had any dental floss. I pretended to look in my purse that held only my cardboard camera and spare pantyhose, before I responded, “Well drat, I must have left the bloody floss with Andre, in the limo.” (Come on! What’s the point of arriving in a bloody limo if you can’t tell people?) I took her picture, too, and several of the photographers who went to each table taking pictures. He took our picture but you can’t see me so well because I had my camera in front of my face.

It was a dazzling evening. Then all of a sudden it was nearly midnight, time to leave. As I got back into that sleek, shiny limo, I felt a little like Cinderella, except that my feet were so swollen my shoes weren’t coming off without a crowbar. I kept the window down for the whole ride back to the apartment so I could wave at people. I learned from that la-di-da experience that some things are definitely worth shaving your legs for — even when it’s only Thursday!