By Karen Rempel
Many girls dream of their wedding day. Not me! I dreamed of twirling in glamorous gowns and going to glittering galas with arm candy men. Every day after school I swooned at the thought of being Ginger, alone with Gilligan on his island. I was born just before the Summer of Love, and my heart thirsts for freedom, excitement, and finding out what’s around the next bend in the Alaskan Highway. This passion for discovery has whirled me on a football field full of merry-go-round romantic adventures.
In contrast, WestView News Publisher George Capsis was born in 1927, the year of the first talkie (The Jazz Singer) and of Charles Lindbergh’s historic flight across the Atlantic. His mom sent him to school with a quarter for lunch money, and he went to White Tower every day and got two burgers and a hot chocolate for fifteen cents. He had a few adventures himself, but settled down pretty young and was married for over five decades. Every time I tell George I have exciting news, he says, “You’re getting married?” He thinks this is the most exciting thing that can happen to a woman, and that I am a strange exotic creature because I don’t want to be tied to one person for life—not even for a decade! So he asked me to write a column about my romantic life (aka dating disasters), to help him understand why I prefer to remain single.
In my Karen’s Quirky Style column last month, I mentioned meeting a handsome architect after attending a gala in Joe Biden’s honor. So let’s start with Keith! I’ll call him this because he looked like a sexy amalgamation of Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair, tinged with salt, and a British accent that really ignited my spark plugs. A woman I met at the Biden gala invited me to a Wine and Design event near Rockefeller Center. I had the Ziggy Stardust haircut that you may recall from my early “Karen’s Quirky Style” columns, with carrots on top and teal at the back. I was wearing jeans, high black boots, and a multi-colored bolero jacket, sampling a pinot noir, when Keith strolled over, and said, “You look like an interesting person to know.” I thought, “You look pretty interesting too,” in his black jeans, gray shirt, black leather jacket, and that hair! We chatted a bit, and the sparks were shooting in all directions. Emboldened by the wine I had sampled at half a dozen display rooms, I said “Should we go for a drink?” “Yes, darling!” “How about Bar SixtyFive?” I was reaching for the stars—the next incarnation of the Rainbow Room—the epitome of New York romance.
As we tried to find the elevator up to Bar SixtyFive, we seemed to go through one revolving door after another at Rockefeller Center—whirling and twirling! As I went through the sixth whirligig, I said, “Rockefeller Center is nothing but revolving doors!” I was disconcerted that he didn’t come out the other side laughing. But I shrugged it off. We finally found the elevator and learned that Bar SixtyFive was closed for a private event. “How about Otto at One Fifth?” Keith suggested. “Sure, I live near there.” He hailed a cab, and soon we were seated side by side in the dimly lit bar, sparkling wine glasses in hand again, drenched in the magic of New York. (To be continued next month.)