A First-Class Hustle

At age twenty-one, I learned that if you asked boldly, followed through enthusiastically, and didn’t blink, you could live wildly above your means — at least for seven days at sea.

After a year of performing across Europe with a dance company, it was time to go home. The three of us were broke, optimistic, and blissfully unaware — a combination that made us desperately brave. When we marched into the offices of the Ile de France, we were full of unearned confidence. We offered to perform on the crossing in return for first class passage back to New York. To our disappointment, we were told that first class was booked solid.

But after an hour of congenial chitchat and gentle persuasion, we made an agreeable deal — discounted second class tickets, one performance in the Grand Salon and run of the ship. We could hardly believe our luck! The Ile de France was the largest luxury ocean liner of its era, and a magnet for the young, the rich, and the famous. It was a gilded playground dripping with Art Deco, and nearly as opulent as the Palais de Versailles.

After boarding, we settled into our cabin and unpacked for the seven-day voyage. Later that day, we went strolling in first-class. We acted as if we belonged, taking it all in — yet half expecting to be grabbed by the scruff of our necks and asked what we were doing there.

Music drifted through the corridors, laughter rose and fell, and whiffs of expensive perfume floated past us. And then, there it was — the first-class dining room, looming right in front of us. The polished doors looked formidable as we strode up toward them. Almost magically the doors opened, and the Maître d’ greeted us.

I cleared my throat – once, then twice – and finally managed to say, “Ahem! We’ve been given the run of the ship.”

Silence.

Seconds passed. Still nothing. And then we started to giggle, snickering like you do in church when you’re absolutely not supposed to.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Maître d’ said, “Well then, Mademoiselles, you must be Miss Barbara, Miss Marcy and Miss Lynn, joining us for dinner tonight. Welcome to the most excellent, most exquisite floating dining room in the world.”

I wanted to kiss him but settled for breathing again. He led us down the grand staircase to a splendid table with a centerpiece full of gardenias and white roses. The menu was in French. There were no prices. We had absolutely no idea whether dinner was included in our mysterious, run-of-the-ship arrangement, or whether we were about to bankrupt ourselves over onion soup. We looked at each other, trading glances that said, we’re already in so deep; what do we have to lose?

The dinner was extraordinary. Course followed course, each one more luscious than the last. After devouring the last of the petits fours, we stood up and groaned daintily, feeling like stuffed peacocks. No one asked us to pay anything, so we made our exit, and floated down to second class and bed.

The next morning after breakfast, we stretched out by the pool and addressed the small matter of how we were going to deliver the performance we had so confidently promised. We had no music, no costumes, and no choreography.

By chance, we overheard a passenger’s casual remark that part of Benny Goodman’s orchestra was on board, returning home after a grand tour of Europe. Our evening plan formed at once: find the musicians and persuade them to play for us.

First class had several bars, and we looked in every one of them. We found a group of men enjoying themselves in a small luxurious salon, neatly hidden behind the vintage merry-go-round. We sat down at the bar, attempting to look worldly and sophisticated. Before long, two of the men struck up a conversation with us.

We wasted no time. “Are you musicians?” we asked. And before we quite knew how it happened, their entire group was standing around us, amused and happily agreeing to help. “Of course we’ll play for you,” they said. “Our pleasure.”

Our performance finally happened on the last night of the voyage. The Grand Salon was brimming with guests dressed in their finery. We took our places on the stage, and the orchestra began. After a deep breath, we performed the choreography, pulled together the night before, wearing cocktail dresses we barely had time to redesign. When it ended, there was a beat of silence, and then applause, genuine, unmistakable applause. Astonished, we hugged one another, panting and laughing, knowing we had kept our promise.

After our bows, people gathered around us eager to talk. Out of nowhere, a waiter appeared with champagne and murmured, “Compliments of the Captain.” A heavily jeweled woman stepped up and was certain she’d seen our act in Seville, (though we’d never been there). A tuxedoed gentleman wanted to know if we knew Leslie Caron. The musicians clustered around us, chattering, and declaring what fun it had been. We thanked them all as we stood there, smiling, letting it all go to our heads.

As the sun came up, The Ile de France slipped into port as elegantly as she had carried us across the Atlantic. We stepped off the gang plank with our suitcases bumping behind us. The smell of the Hudson was in the air, and people rushed frantically around us. Taxi horns blared, cabbies shouted — the familiar New York chaos was everywhere. We didn’t hurry. We grabbed our bags and headed slowly into the noise, talking about what we’d try next, where we’d go and how we’d make it work.

We walked into customs, feeling lighter than our suitcases and steadier than we had any right to be. We had just crossed an ocean, outwitted a shipping line, and danced our way into first class. And for that moment — carried by luck, kindness, and a little reckless courage — it felt as if the world briefly bent toward us. And we were young enough to assume that’s how life worked.