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While working for the American Gas Association as editor of their non-award-winning magazine, I was sent on several business trips, each more stultifying than the next. Perhaps the natural gas accounting seminar was the worst in terms of content. We were locked for three days in a cheesy “conference” room in Tampa and I at least spent the days trying not to fall out of my chair from excessive boredom. I was the only woman and was supposed to take notes. And at night we were tortured by little musicals that the golf resort staff put on.
A memorable trip was to Atlanta where we stayed at the Peach Tree Plaza Renaissance hotel, then considered an antidote to downtown rot.
I was pretty much on my own after the soul-numbing programs throughout the day, so one evening I decided to go to the hotel’s highly touted roof top restaurant. The luncheons they served at these events had earned the title, among younger employees, of the Gas Bag’s Fruit Cup, as whoever planned these meals always included a cup filled with limp canned fruit while a veteran gas industry professional droned on about distribution.
I was hoping for better fare upstairs.
I crowded onto the elevator with the other guests, and nobody was more surprised than me that elevator was only inside until the 40th floor. Then it shot out of its metal sleeve and into the night. A gasp of wonder escaped the other riders while I turned green, my knees began to shake, and I had to turn my face to the elevator doors.
“Oh, my, the cars look like little ants!” one woman exclaimed. Other similar remarks by fans of outer space flight described the world below them, agitating me even more.
When the elevator finally slowed to a stop, I was first to get off, only to find myself on a little bridge. On the other side of it was the top level of the restaurant, below us were two additional levels. If I looked the wrong way, I could see nearly to the street 73 stories below.
I staggered off the bridge and was helped to a seat by the window.
“Would you like something to drink, honey?” asked the kind waitress.
Shades of my grandmother, but I could only think of one thing, “I’ll have a whiskey sour.”
I settled in and took some big breaths and found that as long as I looked out in the middle distance my stomach didn’t lurch much. I sat and sipped at my drink and was beginning to relax.
As I was looking at the menu, I reached for my purse, but it was GONE! Goddamn. . .
In a panic, I called the waitress. “My purse is gone! Someone must have stolen it!”
She seemed to find this funny. “Honey, don’t worry. This is a revolving restaurant. You must of set it on the stationary part. Relax, it’ll be back around in 45 minutes or so.”
And it was.
This was enough excitement for one night and after my meal, I made them open the service elevator to take me back down to my floor.
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