Last Friday word spread that I had never, in fact, been inside the Jane Hotel. This revelation was met with such consternation and disbelief that the entire GofG staff said, "We don't think you can work here anymore!" So I did what any New Yorker would do when so socially humbled: I went to the Jane. -
'Twas a dark, cold, low-key night. We began with gimlets at Beauty & Essex and a gin fizz at Employees Only. I knew through the grapevine that to arrive at the Jane before a certain hour would brand me with the scarlet L for "lame," but when that clock struck midnight, these little wedge-heeled feet flew up the steps and around the corner before turning a sharp right, past the lady bearing a clipboard, and then, ahhh, success.
First, a quick survey of my fellow patrons. Pretty...and pretty crowded in the Ballroom. Martinis in that little railroad bar off to the side where the ceilings are low and inhibitions lower. We walked a slow lap around the perimeter (my Jane-fluent friends leading the charge) and met some nice gents about whom I now remember nothing.
I want to spin some fantastical tale about all the Mad Hatters I met, the rabbit holes we tumbled down, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Nothing except one friend arriving and another choosing to stay with the Next Great Love Of Her Life. Perhaps the thrill of going to the Jane was simply getting into the Jane. What could possibly trump all the electric possibility that crescendos when we're still in the cab, pre-arrival, pre-realization of the night? There's only one thing to do when the first time isn't good enough, and that is to do it again and again and again until at least the bartender knows my name.