Breakfast in the Ballroom

At seven the historic dining hall belongs to nobody. Cream vaults, chandeliers doing their slow glitter, thirty tables in white cloth and one guest: me, in the silk robe I pack instead of a dressing gown, camisole strap where gravity left it, hair making no promises. I had tea and toast under all that ceremony and photographed myself at arm's length as proof that the room and I met.

The staff, bless them, treated a rumpled woman in a robe with the exact courtesy they would give a delegation. This is the skill of old hotels: they have seen every possible guest and retained opinions about none of them. Somewhere off this hall is the parquet where the dance evenings ran, the Chairman taking his turns while the band played on past midnight. I walked its edge afterward, teacup in hand, and the floor creaked in a dialect all old dance floors share.

History does not require you to dress for it. It only requires you to show up and pay attention. I did both, one shoulder bare, and the chandeliers had no objection.