The Beginning and the End of Duncan

GRAND ALBERGO TIMEO  --Taormina, Sicily
(originally appeared in November 2012)

Duncan at the Timeo 1980

             Duncan was conceived at the Timeo Hotel.  At least that is the story he told. 

Americans of  means, his parents came to Europe on their honeymoon a year or so before the outbreak of the First World War.  They spent a season  in Taormina and established a lifelong affection with the Timeo.

The Timeo garden terrace today

 Duncan in 1980 had more than continued the tradition.  A hypochondriac and a perpetual depressive, he had pretty much given up on life and had been living in a room at the Timeo for several years when I met him.

An indiscreet hotel manager confided that Duncan was “not too keen for the ladies” and that his friend had left him several years previous, which had precipitated the permanent move into the Timeo.

He had once been a professional photographer, and had first come to Taormina in the late forties to photograph the majestic mountain and seascapes.

von Gloeden (google)

Taormina historically had an attraction for the gay community.  Before the turn of the 20^th century, the renowned German photographer Wilhem von Gloeden established a somewhat sulphurous reputation in Taormina, photographing local shepherd boys in the nude, often imitating the poses of Greek and Roman statues. 

Early Capote (google)

Oscar Wilde was one of the first British dandies to visit the hilltop town.     Shortly after the end of the Second World War, Truman Capote led a contingent of jet-setting artists there.  He spent over a year, which he wrote about in his essay “Fontana Vecchia.”   

Duncan first arrived at the Timeo at about this time.

All of the Anglo Saxons and most of the Italians staying at the hotel knew him.  He enjoyed telling guests how unhappy he was and how ineffectual was the lithium he took every morning.  Despite his seemingly permanent state of depression, he never left his room without jacket and tie.

  Taormina was no longer exclusively reserved for the happy few.  “Look at those dreadful tour groups”, he said one day, taking his daily stroll down the Corso.  “They all give me the creeps.”  The world was changing, and neither Duncan nor the Timeo wished to follow suit.

“When I wake up, I think ‘Oh, God, no, not another day, I cannot stand another day on this earth !”

Table with a View --Lunch at the Timeo 2015

The hotel’s concierge sent me a postcard a few months after my last trip there, reporting that the “grim reaper” had finally paid Duncan a visit. 

A Few Randon Timeo Faces

Anne

 Of all the many photos I seem to remember taking during my stays at the Timeo, only a few remain.  

Claudia

Urzio

Mario

A few years ago, I had the bright idea of getting rid of several boxes of old memorabilia, including clippings and notebooks ... and many photos.   At that time I hadn't looked at them in at least two decades, and I couldn't find a convincing reason to keep them. 

 I was a little obsessed with the memory of my mother on her deathbed, sifting through boxes of family photos, sorting things for different family members and friends to be dispatched after her death.  I couldn’t understand why she never seemed to finish, until I realized that those boxes of memorabilia were somehow the only thing keeping her alive. 

  Although there was nothing exactly negative about this, I did not wish to imagine myself in similar circumstances.  I had enough of an attachment for the memories that those miscellaneous papers documented that I somehow didn't like the idea of them being thrown away by someone else when I would no longer be around or in charge. 

So I chucked out a good part of my old souvenirs and held back a handful of photos for no specific reason.   They are pretty much all that remain of my Timeo-people memories.   Just a few little bits and pieces:  

Maria

 Maria was an English spinster, whose traveling companion (whom we never actually saw) was confined to her room with a sudden, serious illness.  She joined us for Christmas dinner, and I am thoroughly ashamed to say we were most unhappy when she continued to join us in the days that followed.

Pier Luigi

Pier Luigi and Suzanne

     Pier Luigi met his French friend Suzanne at the Timeo every year for a holiday vacation.  He was, according to Suzanne, recovering from a serious  nervous breakdown, though he always seemed in total control.

    





The Augers were an Anglo-American couple, regular returning guests at the Timeo.  Hugh, a rather bombastic retired army major,  was to our eyes --to Anne's and mine-- foolishly pompous.  Betty, despite a softer, warmer facade, bore a sometimes uncanny resemblance in her manner of being and flat American accent to Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor. 

    

The Augers

There was undoubtedly a story somewhere behind each of these faces.  However, the above jottings represent  the extent of my memories.  So the Timeo vignettes end today with Duncan.

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

 [Photos are mine unless otherwise credited]

Clementina, Still Lady of the Manor ...

GRAND ALBERGO TIMEO  --Taormina, Sicily

(This musing was originally posted in October 2012)

Clementina 1978

       When I met Clementina La Floresta, she  had already been at the Timeo for nearly seventy years.  She was closing in on ninety and her mind had begun to waver, but she was often alert and retained a sharp memory for the distant past. 

She was the Timeo’s owner, at least she had been.  Her adoring daughter and son-in-law had long since taken over the day-to-day management, but Clementina was usually there, seated regally in the lounge, ready to chat with guests, effortlessly diving in and out of a number of languages.

She had arrived in Sicily shortly after her eighteenth birthday to marry the owner of the esteemed Timeo, already a Taormina landmark after several decades of activity.

Portrait of Marcel Proust 1892

“I remember as if it were yesterday,” she once told me.  “My very first week in the hotel, I had the formidable task of having to escort Monsieur Marcel Proust into the dining room for dinner.  I was shaking like a leaf.”

She soon accustomed  herself to being the Timeo’s official hostess, and found herself charming the likes of Andre Gide and D.H. Lawrence (who is said to have written much of Lady Chatterly's Lover there); later Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni.  Not to mention the Vanderbilts, the Rothschilds and the Krupps.

At a time when world travel was reserved for the privileged, the Timeo was for connoisseurs.

In the ensuing years when I would return at Christmas, she was less chatty, but she always greeted each guest graciously with a smile, still very much the lady of the manor.

On my last visit in the early eighties, her daughter told me, with tears in her eyes,  the hotel was being sold.   It was a family tragedy, she said.  She and her sisters were born there; it had been created in 1873 by their grandfather..

Interior of the Timeo today (photo Orient Express)

There had been tensions between the siblings, and two other sisters, long since expatriated to Rome and Milan,  had preferred their part in cash.  The property was now worth much more than the hotel, itself.  It had its loyal following, but theirs had been an old- fashioned management, often wary of the modern world.    They hadn’t even wanted a pool, fearing it would attract a less desirable clientele.   

The sale had one important stipulation: Clementina and her family were to remain on the premises, and the old lady was never to be told the Timeo had been sold. 

In less than a year the hotel had closed down.  The buyer ended up in prison, though I never knew why.  It remained shut for many years thereafter, before being purchased by the Orient Express company.

I like to think that Clementina died in her own bed.    

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

  CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other Timeo postings

The Timeo was first featured in "Room Without Bath" in Sept. 2012; and "The Beginning and the End of Duncan" Nov. 2012 (to access, click on titles).

Living It Up On A Budget

HOTEL BRISTOL, Paris

Sunday afternoon at the Bristol

(Originally posted February 2013/the improved dollar has kept the price about the same)

Times are kind of hard, and some days we just have to face facts.    As I tell the grandchildren (which for some reason sends them into great gales of laughter):  “Money does not grow on trees!”

There haven’t been enough earnings lately finding their way into the coffers to justify much of a splurge.  Consequently, I figure I can count my blessings, savor  past memories (that’s what I’ve been doing these last months on “Hotel Musings”), and enjoy some of the cheaper deals out there.

Tea time

As high living goes, coffee at the Bristol must be the best value for money that Paris has to offer these days.  It is (relatively) cheap AND about as luxurious an afternoon’s outing as you could imagine.

  

Here’s the deal:  For just a tad over a ten-dollar bill (nine euros, to be exact), I invite you to enter the exquisite world of the rich and sometimes famous.

Fiona "at home" in lobby

Lorna on recent coffee tasting  expedition

The Bristol is arguably Paris' chic-est hotel address.  It reeks of understated elegance at its best, and is the home away from home of Robert de Niro, Angelina and Brad, Paul McCartney, to name but a few.  


A number of scenes from Woody Allen's popular "Midnight in Paris" were filmed here.

Originally a private mansion, it was already almost 200 years old when transformed into a luxury hotel in 1925.  It was named after the 4th Earl of Bristol, an Englishman  noted for his travels around Europe in the 18th century.

Brenda, a little touch-up

Former president Nicolas Sarkozy (as well as quite a few presidents before him) made the hotel's Epicure restaurant his canteen, stopping by regularly from his presidential offices across the street.

Nowadays, socialist president François Hollande would sooner be caught dead than publicly associated with such luxury, so there is little chance of running into him or any of his cabinet members.  It is said that key government members have been discouraged from patronizing the Bristol, and certainly are NEVER to be photographed there.

Coffee is served in the grand foyer-tea room-bar area, which is an extension of the main lobby.  If you wish to stay on budget, then it is mandatory to rigorously follow my instructions. 
 

The high-life version of a cup of coffee

Do not bother with the menu.  There is an abundance of tempting snacks, all sorts of mouth-watering desserts and an assortment of teas from the far corners of the globe.    Ignore all of the preceding. 

When the waiter arrives, just say:  “un café, s’il vous plait.”  [euuh  KAH-faye, SEEL voo play].  Naturally, you can say it in English, if you wish; but in that case, it is best to specify “an espresso coffee.”

In addition to a pretty heady environment of grand hotel aesthetics and celebrity comings and goings, here’s what you get:  one perfect Parisian espresso; one pretty little bottle of designer water; dainty old-fashioned, embroidered linen cocktail napkins; and --last but so not least--  an assortment of three, four or even six (depending on the mood of the day) delicious homemade chocolate candies.  All this to the accompaniment of discreet rippling chords from the resident harpist.

A tip is definitely not mandatory, as it is ostensibly always included in France.  However, you are not forbidden to leave the remaining one euro on the little silver dish.

Not bad as hotel lobbies go!

Mrs. X at the Gritti

The Gritti Palace, Venice

Room with a view  (From the balcony of N° 215)

Some hobbies, like my hotel passion, can get kind of lonely.  Unlike stamp collectors and film buffs and dog breeders, it’s unusual to meet anyone else with a very similar hobby.  Not only would most people never dream of going to some of “my” hotels, they would often find my extravagances peculiar if not objectionable.

So you can imagine that I was excited to receive a rather special email a number of years ago.  It was from Miranda, a lady from Beverly Hills, a part-time travel agent, no less, asking my hotel advice.   

I had posted a complimentary review on the Fodor’s travel site of my favorite Venetian hotel, the Gritti Palace.  

Breakfast for two on the Gritti's Grand Canal Terrace

Miranda was looking into the better Venice hotels in view of an upcoming trip, but had found the Gritti prices far steeper than any of the others.  “We read your posting, and found your critique most persuasive," she said. “Is it really worth the difference?  We cannot make up our minds, but would be extremely interested in anything you might have to say.  You seem so knowledgeable and enthusiastic."  
 

I don’t think anyone --certainly no one outside my circle of acquaintances-- had ever sought out to such an extent my hotel expertise. 

So I was thrilled with the potential assignment from the other side of the world from this woman whom I would undoubtedly never have the occasion to meet in person.  Ultimately I was able to help considerably.  

Miranda explained that my arguments had convinced her, if only they could somehow find a more appealing price.  After several emails --by which time I was thinking of her as pretty much an old friend-- I proposed telephoning, myself, to the Gritti’s then-reservations manager, Signor Mora, who had always been helpful in securing the best prices. 

 To make a long story shorter, Miranda gave every appearance of being just about blown away when I ultimately was able to report that Signor Mora had agreed to a price close to half of that originally mentioned.  He  had also noted “VIP treatment” on the internal reservations record, assuring an unexpected bonus, and he further promised  they would give the best accommodations possible to Mrs. X. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she wrote  “to think that we as travel agents couldn’t do better, and all you have done is just too marvelous.  I only hope to one day be able to return the favor for you.”  Her enthusiasm was already a sufficient reward, and I reveled in her satisfaction and vicariously savored her upcoming week at the Gritti.     

I explained that it would be in both our interests for her to ask to see Signor Mora and to express a special  thank-you to him upon arrival.  I also recommended she tell Gianni, the  head concierge, that I had urged her to avail herself of his talented services.

I was looking forward to a full report on the Venice trip, and she even promised to send photos of  her room upon  return to California.  I waited several weeks, then I couldn’t restrain myself from sending another email, asking how everything had gone, and to please send all the details!

Ultimately I felt quite foolish, because  I never, ever heard from her again.

Some months later, I had occasion to talk again with Signor Mora at the Gritti.  I was enquiring about room rates, both for me and for friends from North Carolina.  Suddenly, out of the blue, Signor Mora asked, “Will Mrs. X  be coming this time?”  His tone alarmed me. 

Gritti facade seen from the canal

 Mora was a warm and gentle person, but this time he persevered with a certain tense fervor.  “Because I believe Mrs. X was not entirely happy with us, I don’t expect that she would wish to return to the Gritti.   No, I’m quite sure that would not be a very good idea.”

I was appalled that everything had somehow gone so badly.  Mora had always bent over backwards to help, and I had been so pleased that he would be looking after my new internet friend.   I made a stab at finding out what exactly had transpired, but clearly Mora had said all he intended to.

 I would never know what had happened.  I do feel certain of one thing: that whatever problems or dramas may have occurred were of neither Signor Mora nor the Gritti’s doings.

Evening snack in room 313

-o-

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Gritti Palace was also featured in:  blog No. 10, "Danny Night Concièrge" Nov. 2, 2012; No. 13, "Those Silver Spooned Children" Nov. 23, 2012; and No. 19, "Hotel Staff's Best and Worst List" Dec. 19, 2012 (to access, go to "blog archives" on upper right hand side of this page).

The Paris Riots of 1968

HOTEL DE LILLE, Paris

(This musing originally appeared in June 2013)

Paris seriously heating up, May 1968 (AFP photo)

   
    I would be hard put to choose the absolute grandest hotel I have ever known, but I would have no problem whatsoever in discerning the least grand of them all:  the Hotel de Lille. 

      It was the first hotel I discovered in France when I came in May of 1968 on what was in essence my first adult vacation trip.  My Greensboro friend and erstwhile landlord Philip had spent most of the previous year in residence there writing a book on George Sand, and his recommendation had seemed to be one of great sophistication.  

      He had explained that it was a real Parisian’s hotel, with none of that private bathtub-toilet foolishness.

Greensboro, May 1968.  The week of my departure.

     My 1968 vacation coincided with the dramatic May riots which had pretty much brought the French government of Charles de Gaulle  to its knees and the country to a standstill. 

   It was towards the end of the disturbances, and my flight from New York was one of the first to resume service.  The Parisian airport was still shut down (as well as all public transport), so we landed a couple of hours from the city at a military base, then were bused to the capital.

  

I may have been country-bumpkin green, but I was very determined, and I had no problem in finishing the last mile or so of the journey to the Hotel de Lille on foot.  Never mind the large suitcase, and I'm pretty sure mine didn't have wheels in those days.

The Latin Quarter just around the corner from my hotel (Google)

     I've always had such a bad sense of direction, I can’t imagine how I found my way.  I know I had no map, but the bus driver must have told me which street to take, and when I try to mentally retrace my steps today, I can see how the walk would have been pretty straightforward.

Frances and Martha with my father
sometime in the 1960's

     Seen from the covers of just about all the international news magazines, it looked like Paris was burning down, and both my Aunts Frances and Martha had telephoned me in Greensboro to listen to reason and cancel the trip to France.  It never occurred to me to heed their counsel, and once there, I was thrilled to be one of Paris' rare tourists.

     Arriving at my hotel, I was met by its very stout patronne, literally with open arms.  She gave all appearances of being really delighted to finally see a client after weeks of empty rooms.

     Before checking in, I persisted in trying out my Berlitz phrase whereby I requested to view the room first.  Madame David spoke no English, but she understood my request, and was only too happy to oblige.  I still remember her expression of benign bemusement, as if she were wondering --seeing me arrive with my heavy luggage and covered in sweat--  where in the world else I thought I might be going.

On the steps of a deserted Sacre Coeur (photo by ?)

     In retrospect, it was a pretty dismal hotel, run down and not even special value for the price.  It was one of the rare small Parisian hotels at that time which didn't lock up after midnight; this contributed to its sulphurous reputation, as there were plenty of comings and goings throughout the night to which the owners turned a blind eye.

An unrecocnizably chic 40 rue de Lille today

    At the time, I saw none of the downsides.  I was convinced that it embodied the "real" Paris, and I never found it anything other than folkloric and charming.   I once saw it mentioned fleetingly in a James Ivory film situated in the Paris of the 1920's, which seemed surely to be a wink of the eye to a hotel Ivory, himself, must have graced with his presence in poorer days.

 

   I always stayed at the Lille when coming over from London in 1969, then resided there for almost a month when I moved to Paris the following year.  My residency ended when someone in the hotel employ relieved me of my money which I had thought cleverly hidden in a sewn up pocket of my one-suit jacket.   This made it essential to find an immediate, salaried job. 

  The Lille was sold in the late 1970's, and like so many other little holes in the wall of questionable hygiene of the day, it was gutted and tarted up into a boutique hotel, turned into something both comfortable and relatively expensive.   Today, only the name and the address remain the same.

Fast-foward to 2013.  A mini-lobby where there was none, including complimentary laptop.  It was my first trip back in 40 years when  I stopped by recently to take a few photos.  It was a little like stumbling into a time machine.  Who could have imagined such luxury back in 1968?

Stairway leading to breakfast room, unimaginable once upon a time (but then so was the rest of my life)!

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

INTERLUDE, Hotel restaurants in the 1980’s

      

INTERLUDE, Hotel restaurants in the 1980’s  

Busy Sunday lunchtime at the Hotel Negresco's Chantecler Restaurant, Nice

      I gravitated to hotel restaurants when I was alone, because they were obviously the places most accommodating and accustomed to single diners.  As I had a clear taste for both fine food and travel, and as I have lived much of my life with no immediate family, I decided early on that there was no reason to deprive myself of some of the things that gave me the most pleasure, just because I didn’t always have someone to share them with.

   Even so, it was not always so easy to enter some of those palatial, formal dining rooms all by myself.  In the beginning there were times when I felt all eyes upon me, and sometimes they really were.

Windsor

  In the same way that some actors are said to pretend the audience is naked in an effort to overcome stage fright, I invented a game with myself, whereby in the privacy of my mind, I became a kind of latter day Duke of Windsor (I would pretend the Duchess had been delayed).    For most people it wouldn’t have been necessary, but I lacked the self confidence for the single lifestyle I sometimes chose for myself, and my make-believe games seemed to work.

(I now wonder what games the real Windsor played to "be" the Duke of Windsor!)

Poster from the novel's film version

Some years ago I came across a particularly pertinent observation in the very entertaining French novel by Maurice Drouon, “Les Grandes Familles.”  It was something to the effect that no one --no matter how old or how successful-- ever feels totally within himself that he has become an adult.

Until I read that (and I was probably reaching the mid-century mark at the time), I had somehow thought that most people DID feel the confidence of their age, and that I was one of the odd ones who continued to feel the same insecurity of their childhood. 

I suddenly understood and accepted that I was not alone, that no one was really immune to multiple insecurities.  It was when I understood this that I no longer needed the games.

End of evening with Brenda at the Hotel Shangri-la's l'Abeille restaurant, Paris

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

Remembering Diana Dors

THE DRAYCOTT HOTEL, London, and the GEORGE V, Paris

(This musing originally appeared in April 2013)

Classic Diana Dors circa 1954 (RKO)

She was widely known as the British Marilyn Monroe.  I wonder how many people today even remember Diana Dors, the hugely popular movie star of the 1950’s.  

Before I begin, let me point out that I never officially met Diana Dors.  Our paths did cross, however, and on several occasions.  

A popular Dors at the Cannes Film Festival 1955 (Corbis photo)

I remember once seeing a photo which captured magnificently the 20^th century phenomenon of celebrity and paparazzi.  It was a black and white shot showing D.D. arriving at the Venice film festival.  She was riding in a gondola, wearing a mink bikini.  The photo showed hundreds of photographers hanging off buildings and in every conceivable location to capture the blonde actress during her 15 minutes of superstardom.

By 1969, D.D. was becoming decidedly blowsy, and her film stardom was pretty much in the past.  She had great resilience, however, and made a serious comeback that year on the London stage in a highly successful comedy-drama "Three Months Gone" at the pretigious Royal Court Theatre.

With husband Alan Lake 1968 (AP)

Happy couple

  She had recently married Alan Lake, a former truck driver and sometime-actor with a penchant for brawling which would on occasion land him in prison.  He was at least a dozen years her junior (her own age was never clearly established), and  bookmakers gave the marriage, her third, poor odds. 

I had requested an interview, and the theatre’s press person arranged a meeting at the Draycott Hotel around the corner from the Sloane Square theatre.  The interview was scheduled after the evening performance.  I had already seen the show, and had a few drinks with friends before heading for my rendez-vous.  I was thoroughly irresponsible in those days, and I arrived at the hotel’s little bar ten or fifteen minutes late.

 

The Draycott Hotel today (Draycott photo)

 Miss Dors had wasted no time hanging around, and rightly so, the interview consequently coming to nil.  The next morning the press lady called to see how the encounter had gone.  I told her the star had not appeared, neglecting to mention my own tardiness.  “That bitch,” she snapped.

Even then I felt guilty at my singular lack of honesty.

Early British poster (Hammer Films)

* * * * * * *

 More than a decade later, walking up the Champs-Elysées in Paris one Sunday afternoon, I noticed a seriously overweight woman attracting a lot of attention.  She was dressed in a tight, red dress with inappropriately plunging cleavage,  inappropriate for both her age and her weight.  Her shoulder-length hair was platinum white, and she was wearing full stage makeup and then some.  I suddenly realized it was Diana Dors.

She was accompanied by the same husband, and despite the poor odds, they still seemed  devoted to each other.

The later years... (google)

 They were window-shopping in one of those arcades for tourists.  A little crowd had gathered around, but it had nothing to do with Diana Dors, the movie star, who was by now quite forgotten … at least in Paris.   

Bystanders were staring because the old girl was so grotesquely over the top.  I felt deeply sad for her, although she seemed happy enough, and her husband looked at her as though she were still the glamour girl of bygone days.

They were on the way back to their hotel, the George V, (now a Four Seasons), which for most of the 20^th Century was -- like the Savoy in London -- the Parisian hotel most favored by actors.  I heard them discussing the route to take, as they may have been slightly lost.

The Four Seasons George V today

I was tempted to offer assistance.  I really wanted to tell her that I recognized her, that I had admired her work on the stage that time in 1969.  That I remembered the extraordinary photo of her in the mink bikini.  I know she would have liked the recognition, but regretfully I said nothing.

I watched them walk away, hand in hand, and then turn down Avenue George V towards the hotel.

Diana Dors died of cancer the following year.  She was still news back in England, and most of the papers carried her obituary on the front page.  The pundits had declared that the marriage would never last.  In truth, Alan Lake couldn’t live without her.  He put a bullet through his head soon after her funeral.

Arrival Cannes Film Festival with Ginger Rogers 1955 (Google)

      SIDEBAR:  The Royal Film Premiere of “Staircase”                           

 (the Taylor-Burtons, Princess Margaret, and another glimpse of Diana Dors)

"Staircase" poster.  It got a lot of attention, but the film flopped!

I did run into Diana Dors again, though only from afar.  It was the Spring of 1970, my last months in London, and I found myself at the Royal Premiere of Staircase, a  Stanley Donen  film starring Richard Burton and Rex Harrison.

Some top director at UPI had been invited to the formal reception preceding the film.  Indifferent, he had left the single invitation up for grabs in the newsroom ...  just in case someone might wish to go. 

The Burtons about the same time (Google)

 As no one else showed any interest, I was only too happy to rent the mandatory tuxedo, and set out for the Odeon Cinema off Piccadilly Circus.  I never expected the invitation to entitle me to anything other than admittance to the film, so I was astounded to find myself with a handful of VIPs in a tiny roped-off red carpet area alongside the Taylor-Burtons, Princess Margaret, the grand old stage actress Cathleen Nesbitt (who played Burton’s mother) and various cinema executives. 

I didn’t actually have any conversation with any of the aforementioned celebrities, but I thoroughly enjoyed sipping champagne while listening to them talk to each other. 

Princess Margaret (Corbis Image)

  Princess Margaret to Elizabeth Taylor:  “Is this the new diamond everyone’s talking about?”

E. Taylor to Princess M.:  “Oh, no, the new one is so much nicer, but the insurance people won’t let me wear it yet.”

Anonymous film executive to R. Burton:  “Will you be staying in London long?”

R. Burton to anonymous:  “We live here actually.  We’re keeping our apartment at the Dorchester, at least until the summer.”

The whole little pre-film reception shouldn’t have lasted more than 15 minutes, but as the Taylor-Burtons were delayed for about three quarters of an hour (they were driving in from Switzerland that day), I had the added bonus of listening to  various snide comments about their tardiness.  Princess Margaret waited in a private office until they made their entrance, but her husband, Lord Snowdon, made repeated, irritated enquiries about the stars’ whereabouts.

When the famous couple finally did arrive, Princess Margaret initially seemed frosty, but E. T. was so exquisitely beautiful and so supremely gracious that everyone seemed to melt before her charms.

During that time I saw a number of lesser celebrities herded behind a plexiglass barrier, up a stairway into the cinema.  One of these was Diana Dors, whom I vividly remember being pushed back away from the little VIP area.  She was laughing loudly and craning her neck, none too discreetly trying to get a glimpse of Liz and Richard and Margaret …. and me.

Liz and partial view of Richard ... and THE diamond (AP)

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The Taylor-Burtons were also featured in:  blog No. 20, "Decafeinated coffee ... in Hungarian?" Jan. 11, 2013 (to access, click on above title).