The Penthouse

I recently went to a going away party for a wonderful friend. The party was hosted by a lovely man that I don’t know, but who, it turns out, lives in the penthouse of a building in Boston.

The Penthouse.

I like to think that I have it going on, a sense of style, a certain level of sophistication. But there is something about going to a penthouse that makes me feel a bit like a kid. An absolute goofball.

Penthouse. It’s one of those words that doesn’t come up in my everyday life, so for weeks after the invitation came, I’d use it every chance I got. “Oh, is that the night we are going to the Penthouse?” and “Why don’t we just plan on meeting at the Penthouse?”

Distance wise, It’s not far from our house to The Penthouse. To get to there, I took the subway and then walked a few blocks in 90-degree weather. I ended up in the lobby of the building and could feel a sweat mustache coming on. The lovely doorman didn’t seem to mind, he greeted me warmly, saying “Good evening, are you here for Mr. H’s party?”

“Why yes, yes I am!” I replied.

“He’s in Penthouse number two.” The kind man told me.

“Oh, of course,” I said, but then I giggled, putting an end to any pretense of sophistication.

I got on the elevator and pushed the PH2 button. The Penthouse has its own button! I stood in the elevator and prepared myself for the fact that the elevator may open into the actual Penthouse, like it does in the movies. As I approached the floor, I prepared for my entrance. Alas, the doors just opened to an empty hallway, but I used my entrance posture anyway, and walked down the hallway to, yes, The Penthouse.

I walked in and was immediately swept up in this view before me. The people, the furniture, the artwork, the view of the city -- all gathered together in this surreal scene of loveliness. I gracefully greeted the host, then made my way across this living room, past the grand piano, the Oriental rug, and the display of Waterford crystal.

“Don’t spill and don’t break anything,” I kept repeating like a mantra in my head.

The bar was set up in the Library, of course. It was there that I found my husband, elegantly standing next to a globe. I glided over to him and said “Good evening, Darling,” which is a bit different from our usual greeting of “Hey!”

We moved into the dining room where caterers emerged from a hidden kitchen, the door of which was the same lovely blue fabric as the rest of the walls, hiding any sense of work or turmoil. I took a quick peak in the kitchen; it was small-ish, but glistened with lots of shiny stuff like marble and stainless steel. As one friend said, “You probably won’t be cooking Thanksgiving dinner in it.” No, this kitchen is more of a place to stand while calling the caterer. Or for take out.

My friend and I wandered around and found the master bath, the guest bath, and the guest’s guest bath. Three bathrooms. We then ventured up to the roof deck to watch the sun set in the west, sailboats sailing on the Charles River to the east, and the golden dome of the State House glistening in the north. The wind blew our hair and cooled us off. I looked at my friend and said “Well, cheers!’ Clink!

Visiting The Penthouse was like visiting a foreign country, giving me the chance to observe different rituals and habitats. It’s a view on a life that is so different from my own.

And as we returned home from the party, I looked around to see how true that was.

We have one bathroom, and you can usually find at least two of us in it at the same time, if you include the dog. The kitchen is the center of our house. There’s not much that’s shiny in it and it usually smells like garlic or whatever we cooked last night. Instead of confining our books to a library, we let them roam free in piles all over the house. Our view includes tall trees and the neighbor’s eclectic collection of, um, stuff. No doorman. No elevator. Lots of dog hair.

And while it was so nice dip my toe in the luxury of The Penthouse, it’s good to return to this happy, crowded and messy place that I love. It's home.

Plus, I don’t have to worry about spilling.