Stay at the Luxurious Hotel St. Regis in New York City

"No problem dah-lings, I'll just call my butler," I say, lowering my voice and taking on an English accent. A couple of gal friends have joined me in my room at The Saint Regis in New York and we're having a hell of a time opening a bottle of white wine, that absolutely MUST be opened to keep the flow going, as it were. I reach for the phone to push the "Butler" button.

Ah, me… it's been like this all this rainy day. Normally, I'd be running around hauling my umbrella, meeting up with friends in museums, restaurants or theatres -- at the very least taking in the nearby tourist pilgrimage sites: Rockefeller Center, Saint Patrick's Cathedral, Saks Fifth Avenue.

But today I've decided to pretend I live here. Yes, it feels naughty to stay put when there's so much going on in the city around me. But naughty in such a devil may care irresistible way.

Just like those travelers who check into rock 'n roll or baseball fantasy camps, I'm indulging in my own dreamscape: Today I LIVE in one of the most elegant addresses in New York City. I've seen enough Noel Coward plays and movies to know exactly how to pull this off. If only I'd packed a silk gown and a cigarette holder the effect would be perfect. As it is, my black cocktail dress, the cast of characters I've assembled, these perfect surroundings, and my butler are making it work.

In fact, it's my butler who got the whole thing rolling. At first, when I read in the brochure that the Saint Regis is the only hotel in the city that provides all its guests with 24 hour butler service, I tucked the factoid in the blah-blah "in-room fax, high speed internet access" category: Things I didn't need for my vacation days in the city. Sure I looked forward to staying in this beautiful landmark -- and it would be convenient to be smack in the center of New York, easy to flit to downtown and upper West side rendezvous with friends.

Then my butler appeared at my door, complete with tux, tails and white gloves. He welcomed, "Ms. Van Allen," with a soft European accent. He crossed in, holding a silver tray upon which was a limoges plate of grapes and plucots, and graciously placed it on the coffee table in my sitting area. I stood back and let the old world scene play out. It looked like a live-action museum display, where I'd come to observe life in a more luxurious time.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of something in the gold framed mirror and stifled a horrified gasp. The Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the other… one of these things just doesn't belong…" taunted me as I realized that THING would be the bedraggled traveler, ME. The sight was inspiration to rise to the occasion, step in and hole up here to get the full Saint Regis experience. I handed my butler my cocktail dress to be pressed, and picked up the phone to call friends, tossing out the invitation: "Darlings, you must come up to my place at 55th and 5th."

I only got hemming and hawing from Jack, an artist who prides himself on rarely traveling above 14th Street. "Fine," I said, "Who cares if you miss out on having some fun where Marlene Deitrich, Judy Garland, and Salvador Dali lived."
"Dali…?," he whispered, as I was about to hang up.
"For ten years with his wife and pet ocelot. But I'll see you next -"
"What time tomorrow?," he babbled, while I gloated over his furious backpedaling.

The next day the fantasy started with my butler's delivery of coffee and newspapers. As I lazed around, the view out the French windows was more calming than a Mediterranean horizon: office workers in cubicles focused on their computer screens. At least someone is being busy and productive, I thought, as I turned away for a bubble bath, comforted to be doing my part by balancing out hectic city life with lazy indulgence.

When the doorbell rang at noon, the play began. If the scene had taken place anywhere else, it just would have been Patti and me wolfing down salads and yakking about her broken up romance. But in these luxury digs, it was elevated to a sophisticated comedy of manners as my butler wheeled in lunch:
"Thank you so much Mark, that will do… Carry on, Patricia, do tell me every loathsome detail…"
An audience member probably wouldn't have found the scenes of my play quite as entertaining as my friends and I did. There were no heart-wrenching confessions or surprising plot twists. Even when we were catching up on each other's trials and tribulations, nothing sounded so very dreadful under the light of my room's gorgeous chandelier, with jazz softly playing in the background and my butler coming in and out with silver trays, kicking things up a notch.

Jack showed up with his camera and the stills I look at now, back in my real home in Hollywood, tell a beautiful story. There he sits with his pinky in the air holding a teacup in one hand and (according to him) "the best egg salad sandwich I've ever had in my life" in the other. There's Steven, stretched out on the couch, with a dreamy look on his face saying, "I could live here someday…" And Gloria, peering up coyly at my handsome butler as he pops open that wine bottle.

What he didn't capture on film was the play's final moment, when I returned to my room after a nightcap at my downstairs bar, The King Cole (one of the best in the city). My butler had switched the music to a soft classical station, the lights were dimmed, slippers set by my bed… every trace of visitors had been swept away - there was not even so much as an indentation in a sofa cushion left.

It was as if I dreamed it, I thought… pulling the curtain and fading the lights to black.