A poem and an essay by Lois Greene Stone

Impressive to One; Unpleasant to Another

Headlines tease; this one said “Want to live at the Waldorf Astoria?”  I smirked rather than smiled.

Words convey prestige: mansions not ‘houses’; estate sale rather than ‘moving and selling furniture’; The Hamptons; 740 Park Avenue residence; Fishers Island in Florida; Birken for a handbag; yacht for a large equipped private boat, and so forth.  Tall rectangles that lack ‘personality’ but have high rentals are Billionaires Row. A mere millionaire possibly couldn’t afford to live in such a section.

I grew up in New York and attended fund-raising functions, beginning in girlhood, when private charity events often used extended family members to pick up vouchers from the dining tables where guests gathered, ate, and donated.  Many were held in The Waldorf Astoria hotel for both prestige and accessibility.  Then there were weddings when the couple didn’t want a separate religious ceremony at a church or synagogue and a different venue for the reception.  Or just wanted to ‘name drop’ where the event took place.  The Waldorf was universally known. One magical five tiered wedding cake was wheeled in and sounds of ‘ooh’ seemed almost in unison.  I was heading to the Ladies Room as the cake was wheeled away to be cut; four of the layers were just cardboard!

I wanted my ‘day’ at the religious place I’d grown up learning and being confirmed and where my dead father’s presence would be felt.  Under a canopy of white flowers, my paternal grandmother secured my mother’s hand masking their emotional agony of loss to provide my taking another’s last name to be an event of life and beauty.  

Changing from my magical gown which was the Easter showpiece in the corner window of Saks Fifth Avenue (wedding dress now part of The Strong Museum before it became a national museum of play, and my long wedding gloves in The Smithsonian’s Division of Costume), and putting on a light blue wool travel suit with an orchid corsage from my bouquet sitting helplessly on the thin jacket, rice dripped from my hair and clothing as we walked across the lobby.  My dad was dead at age 45 the year before, but my mother was determined I’d have what he would have wanted for my wedding.  He would have selected such a wedding gown for me, and she made it possible at great cost to herself I later understood. A bellboy took us to our room.  June 10, 1956.  An unlocked door revealed two twin size beds with headboards so flared out the beds could not be pushed together, and a bare ceiling bulb assaulted our eyes.  My new mate went to the front desk and received only a brief and non-emotional sorry but that’s all they have.  I whispered to myself that I’d never go to nor recommend The Waldorf to anyone as no point in saying too loudly to an indifferent employee.  I never did.

Now, 2025, it’s being proclaimed as a place celebrities stayed, and other marketing ploys to entice one to spend over a million dollars to buy rooms for personal living space.  Furnished by a ‘designer’whose taste may/may not be yours, the residences are move-in-ready with the famed address your home.  I have no doubt the residences will sell as ‘bragging rights’ are still a popular pastime.  Billionaires Row has no history.  Online it says: “The return of an icon. Experience timeless elegance at Waldorf Astoria New York—luxury rooms & suites, fine dining, spa, and iconic views in Midtown ...”  More online: “This Midtown Manhattan jewel ushers in a new era of luxury with an unmatched reputation for impeccable service.”  Advertising isn’t reality!  “It set precedents in luxury hospitality”, claims one current site.  My smirk appeared again on my face as I read that sentence.

Currently, 69 years of marriage later, we can look back and laugh at the horrible Waldorf room with its bare light bulb in the ceiling and twin beds with headboards too wide to be pushed together to attempt to make it a single bed, but we also look back on the indifference the staid hotel had for a young couple with an advanced reservation for a special night and its tarnished image remains tarnished.