The harsh polar wind surged through the streets, breathing mist from the river, and clawed through her flimsy windbreaker. She started shivering uncontrollably and I crowded her into the shallow recess of a doorway, trying to shield her with my coat and looking up and down the street for a better solution.

“What do you want to do?” I asked, feeling helpless.

“Let’s just go someplace else.” she responded through chattering teeth.

I searched up and down the street for a cab but none were in sight. What a bizarre moment. She was in real danger of hypothermia just a few paces from the head of the milling entrance line to MARS, a popular dance club on the lower west side of Manhattan, with the line stretching down the block. We had walked past the crowd to the head of the unmoving line to see what the situation was and noticed that only the “beautiful people” were getting past the knuckle-dragger in the tight suit and heavy overcoat at the door. He certainly wasn’t letting two underdressed oldsters in the door, anyway. The other less comely hopefuls huddled together in the long line, hugging the wall in a useless attempt to get out of the biting wind while they clamored to be granted entrance. Sadly, clubwear is not noted for its insulative qualities.

“There aren’t any cabs!” I announced the obvious.

“Let’s walk over to Tenth. There should be more traffic there.” she said, setting a quick pace for warmth, both of us hurrying through the darkness in silence feeling cold and vulnerable.

We had started the evening in sublime comfort in her room at the Waldorf Astoria where Mattel had put us up for Toy Fair. It was mid-January and we had only just arrived from our respective cities. There was never any time to do anything social once the work began, so we rushed to get in some NYC clubbing.

Alison had a dilemma. There had been no room in her suitcase for a proper winter coat. She’d packed for a long work stint, intending to layer for warmth, and then purchase whatever she might need additionally after she arrived. Her impulsive decision to bring the long fur coat was prompted both by the Denver winter and the promised prestige of the Waldorf, and so she wore the bulky thing on the plane.

“Where are we going tonight? What did you find?” I asked when I arrived, trusting her previous experience with the city.

“There’s this new place that got a great review called the World.”

“What’s it like?”

“I don’t know. Supposed to be Hip Hop and House tonight.” she replied. “The problem is it’s in Alphabet City and I don’t feel safe wearing the fur.” she said, holding up the calf- length fur on a hanger.

“Where’s that? Why, isn’t it safe?” I asked a little warily.

“Well, it’s on the lower east side, in the East Village, where the numbered streets change to the alphabet. Anyway, it’s a little iffy there.”

“What else do you have to wear?”

“Just this.” she lamented, holding up a bright lime green windbreaker in her other hand, weighing the two like a scale.

The only real option was the windbreaker. She wasn’t about to dance in the fur and leaving it unattended wasn’t realistic either. At least the windbreaker was long and stylish. Skimpily club-clad underneath, at least she did have the advantage of being a seasoned Coloradan, and so she figured we’d jump out of the cab and go right into the club before getting chilled. I, on the other hand, a seasoned Southern Californian, thought the choice a mad folly, and I was plumped out with several layers.

The doorman hurried to hold the door of the cab sitting at the front of the line as we emerged from the prestigious hotel and charged down Fifth Avenue, weaving our way through a traffic swarm, heading downtown. We arrived at our destination and opened the door to step out. As I paid the cab driver, we could hear loud gangsta rap coming from the club, saw the thug types lurking about, and decided not to stay, glad to not have lost the cab.

Alison knew of another popular place on the lower west side called MARS and so we made our way across town, grateful that the cab driver knew where all the clubs are. This time, however, we had lost the cab, leading to our predicament.

After a long, bracing walk, we lucked into another cab without too much trouble once we got to Tenth.

“Limelight!” she commanded as we tumbled shivering into the cab. The Limelight was a club we’d been to before, in a renovated old stone church on Sixth Avenue, only a block from where we were working. We scarcely had time to warm up before we pulled up in front of the brightly lit historic stone edifice, thumping from within. Alison dashed for the door while I paid for the cab. Standing at the door were two guys, one in a suit and one in muscles. As Alison made for the door, the thug opened it for her and she bounded by him, her long, curly hair bouncing behind her. The suit did a double take at me, then at her retreating hair, then back to me, stumbling to get the other guy’s attention.

“Here. Here. Give these guys tickets to the VIP lounge!” he ordered the other guy, who hastened to hand me two tickets and then held the door for me.

Stunned and perplexed, I thanked him and continued in after Alison. As I passed him, the suit coyly asked, “Say, did anyone ever tell you you look like Steven Spielberg?”

Bang! It hit me. Yes, I had been told that before, but this guy thought I was Steven Spielberg! From behind, Alison could have easily passed for Amy Irving at the time. Without skipping a beat I nodded, winked, and held my finger to my lips. He was beaming with pride, and probably had his tip hand out, as I dashed to find Alison to tell her the story. The VIP lounge was upstairs in the back in what had been a library and was quite posh. Score!

It’s all about attitude and comportment. People expect to see celebrities in places like that. They want to believe they are touching the stars. Why should I correct them? Especially if it gets me into the VIP club. Right?

As an avid dancer, I have deliberately sought out dance clubs wherever I go. Well, the term club is perhaps inadequate, as the venues are so diverse.

When I first turned 21, my regular hangout was a Scottish pub which had bagpipers, an Irish folk band, and traditional dancing…and lots and lots of beer. A favorite “clubbing” experience for us in those days was dancing at Disneyland, and then hopping the Monorail to the Disneyland Hotel, having cocktails at the station bar, and then going back to the park, feeling slightly naughty and ready to dance even more.

When the disco craze kicked in, perhaps the most popular club in LA was Studio One in West Hollywood. It was set in a spacious warehouse that was used for military manufacturing during WWI which had been renovated to house a large dance floor, a separate lounge, and an exceptional performance venue called The Backlot where celebrities came to dinner shows featuring an astonishing array of performers such as Grace Jones, Peggy Lee, Patti LaBelle, Liza Minelli, Rosie O’ Donnell, Bernadette Peters, Kathy Griffin, Sylvester, Thelma Houston, Eartha Kitt, Debbie Reynolds, The Village People, Sandra Bernhard, and Divine. The list goes on and on.

The dance floor was spacious, the sound system engulfing, and innovative, state-of-the-art light shows made the whole experience an exciting event. Unfortunately it was far enough from home and pricey enough that my times there were few, though memorable.

I was curious to compare what the center of the country was offering, and so my buddy, named Buddy, took me to some clubs in St. Louis when I went for a visit for a week around the New Year. I don’t remember the names of the places, but they were fun, crowded, and contemporary. Of course it was the holiday season. The thing I remember most was the peculiar tradition of driving to the next state when the bars closed at two AM. St. Louis is in Missouri but just across the Mississippi River is East St. Louis in Illinois and they stay open until Four! Every night, the bridge would get busy as everyone dashed to new venues in a crazy drunken migration across the river.

House music opened a whole new devotion to dancing for me. Around the turn of the century I went to Burning Man in Black Rock City, NV, and wandered into a towering disco dome tent pumping with exciting light shows and dance inducing music. I was hooked! I couldn’t get enough. I’d been waiting for this sound, this energy, since the sixties. Dancing in the fresh air and kicking up the dust under warm starry skies is incomparable.

Later, an extended stay in the Bay Area gave me the opportunity to explore the great house music scene there and dancing became a primary pastime, serving my recreational, social, and cardio-vascular needs, and I was going two or three times a week.

My primary base was The Endup, a world renowned after-hours club and San Francisco tradition for more than forty years, and host to some of the best DJs and House Music. I did some pro bono redecorating work for them which included some special metallic faux finishes and in gratitude they put me on their permanent guest list, helpful, considering the cover charge and my regularity. One of their long time events, and a favorite of mine, is the T-Dance, Sunday daytime event. The rock waterfall splashes onto the green mosses and dangling fuschia, music pulses, and the new deck under the tall trees is packed with happy partiers, many of whom are still at it from the night before.

My favorite times were the open air events. Sunset parties are a Bay Area tradition hosting picnic-in-the-park style events which attract multi-generational ravers with blankets, coolers, and children. Hula hoops, balloons, bubbles, and beach balls add to the festival atmosphere, all trembling in the persistent house music. Dancing at such events is spontaneous and not restricted to a dance floor. While the resemblance of these to the love-ins of my day is compelling, I think it touches a broader, human experience stretching to the beginnings of human society. We need these community experiences to bond and accept each other as “tribe”. There have been enough generations now for this to be an adaptive trait in our DNA. We need to socially interact. Our current social adaptation to technology hampers that, I think. Talk don’t text. Go outside and play, kids!

Though I have been to clubs in most major US cities, including a particularly memorable one in the private Founder’s Club at the top of Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas for my niece’s 21st birthday (a lucky set of connections won us that one), I am delighted also to have been to clubs in London, Paris, Amsterdam, Athens, Ios and Mykonos. While they don’t differ that much, there are some culturally influenced differences; in décor, lighting and music selection, for example.

Perhaps the loftiest club I’ve been to was Jimmy’z in Monte Carlo.

In the eighties, Mattel used to stage their International Toy Fair at the Lowes Monte Carlo Hotel (now named the Fairmont Monte Carlo) every year in November. We would stay in the same hotel where the show was to be held, and which was also where we were working, so we rarely left the premises except for the occasional necessary shopping trips for supplies. Of course, those were all day affairs as the nearest stores were in Nice,…in the next country! Talk about a schlep. You were careful with your shopping list because going back for the thing you forgot was no casual matter. One tended to overbuy, just to make sure you were covered; An unfortunate, shocking waste, as none of it could come back to the States with you and everything wound up in the dumpster at the end of the show.

A particularly memorable moment was an evening in a tiny Cliffside village in Eze, France, not far from Monaco. There is a wonderful little café accustomed to hosting groups and our crew along with a number of Mattel executives went, including the head of their European headquarters, and Mary Wilson of the Supremes, who had performed for an earlier banquet. She chose to hang out with our crew, being artistic and more fun, rather than the lecherous suits who wanted to monopolize her time. The place was elegant with massive live flower arrangements hanging from the ceiling and long bench tables extending into several rooms and alcoves.

Despite the exceptional fare and ambiance, the thing that set the place apart was the fancy dress party it devolved into at the end of the food service. Crazy hats, helmets and dresses were brought out, the music got wild, and before long, executives were literally dancing on the tables, at the management’s insistence, flouncing the skirts they had donned over their suits. I still have incriminating photos somewhere.

A short walking distance from our hotel, on Avenue Princesse Grace, which happens to be the most expensive street to live on in the world at about $70,000 per square foot, was Jimmy’z nightclub, located in the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. It was opened in 1971 by Regine Zylberberg, famous for turning the Whiskey a Go Go in Paris in 1953 into an exclusive property. Considered the originator of Discotheque, the self-dubbed “Queen of the Night” pioneered the use of two turntables, thus creating the seamless dance journey, added colored lights, and a linoleum dance floor. Within five years she was a celebrity, holding company with Europe’s royalty and elite, and, garnering the backing of the Rothschilds, she embarked on a wide range of ventures including fragrances, cafes, and a singing career. At one point she had 25 franchises on three continents and earned a half a billion a year.

Mme. Regine “invented” branding and exclusivity, attracting the world’s wealthy and elite by their snobbish avarice. Overcharge and only the very wealthy can participate. One of her tactics at the Whiskey a Go Go in Paris was to put out the velvet ropes on stanchions for weeks, pump up the music inside with no one there, and then lock the doors with a sign reading “Exclusive Party” or “Club at Capacity”. By the time she opened the doors for business for real, the demand was tremendous. Today, I understand a single cocktail at Jimmy’z costs $40.

I knew none of this, however, when I first went there. The first time, my crew was hosted by the VP over Creative Services so we were ushered in and the drinks were on his expense account. I was dazzled and couldn’t take it all in. Just the idea of it, clubbing in Monte Carlo! It wasn’t a large space nor was it very crowded but it reeked of wealth and class. The dancing was sparse and reserved, as I recall, but I had a good time.

The next time I went was to meet a couple of my associates after work for a drink in an adjacent lounge. I found them seated at a low cocktail/coffee table surrounded by a couch and some low, modern armchairs. There were several others seated with them who I didn’t know, including an exotic looking young woman in a chic turban. Music was playing and conversations were close and casual. The table was littered with champagne glasses and in the center stood an empty magnum bottle. A brief chat with a co-worker revealed that the woman was some kind of princess who was celebrating something and was wearing the turban as a result of recent chemotherapy for her cancer. (It strikes the lofty and humble alike.) After a short time, I decided to get a drink and went to the bar. In an insane moment of misguided generosity, I decided to bring back another bottle of champagne to share with the table.

Prudently ordering the smallest domestic bottle they had, (after all, French champagne IS domestic. It’s the California that’s the import.) I felt a little cheap as I knew it wouldn’t go very far at the table. Then he came back with it, showed me, (as though I knew the difference) and put it in a silver ice bucket. (and it probably was silver)

Then he handed me the bill.

$400 DOLLARS!!!!

That represented my per diem for the entire trip. The die was cast and I was too embarrassed to send it back so… Thank God they took Visa! (What’s the appropriate tip for a $400 bottle? Gulp.) I brought it back to the table stunned but determined to man up. Were I a gambler, I might have dropped that on one bet in the casino. Right?
There were a few surprised faces at the table, though I doubt that they realized the price tag, and it was poured around quickly.

So quickly, sadly, that I never even got a taste.

Oh, well. At least it makes for a good story.