You just go ahead

Hotel de Pontalba, Residence of the US Ambassador to France

The caller on the phone was emphatic.

“We would love to have you for a tour, but you must come right now!”

I conveyed the message through the bathroom door of our little boutique hotel room.

The shower stopped running and Hayden answered, “It’s going to take me at least 15 minutes, you go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Thus began an interesting morning in Paris, France, 1995. Memorable but hard to live down.

The National Archives was in the final months of Dr. Trudy Peterson’s tenure as Acting Archivist of the United States and we were waist deep in babysitters from the Clinton White House.

Maryann Smith, the first such liaison, was most helpful in my career, supporting my move into the role as fulltime Director of Congressional Affairs. However, as time wore on, the drama, intrigue, and interference of Maryann’s successors proved counterproductive to accomplishing our day-to-day mission.

One young guy was the exception. Wet behind the ears but truly trying to help, he was a horse holder for his senior White House colleagues.

He came into the Clinton Administration as a White House intern and had a network of friends who had arrived in his class of bright young rookies.

It was not a secret that Hayden and I were heading off to Paris for a short vacation and one day this gent stuck his head into my office with a very cool offer.

It seems that one of his pals was assigned to the American Embassy in Paris and was working on the staff of Ambassador Pamela Harriman. Would my wife and I be interested in a tour of the residence?

The answer of course was a resounding yes and names, phone numbers, and our Paris hotel information were provided.  In those pre-cell phone days (remember) connections were a bit tricky, but my colleague promised to get in touch with his pal and asked that I call the embassy as soon as we arrived in Paris.

I did so and left a message for our contact at the embassy with my return number at our hotel near Place de la Concorde in the eighth arrondissement at the eastern end of the Champs-Elysees.

When I hadn’t heard back, we discussed calling again, which I never did. (That’s on me).

So, the morning phone call on our last day in Paris came at an inopportune time. But the last words I remembered were Hayden graciously saying, “You go ahead.”

I had an address for the Ambassador’s residence and made a brief stop at the front desk to confirm directions. It was an eleven-minute walk or as it turned out, a nine-minute run. Down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Homme I flew, tie flapping over my shoulder in the breeze and my blue blazer spread like wings.

I cruised to a stop in front of the massive door to the Hotel de Pontalba.

There was a call box on the wall next to the door. I pushed the button and identified myself to the faceless voice. In heavily accented English, I was told that an escort would be right there. After a brief interval, a uniformed guard slowly opened the door. He asked for my identification and when I presented my passport, he stepped back with a Matre'd hand gesture to proceed.

Do you remember the scene from the Sound of Music when Maria looks through the gates at the Von Trappe Gutshaus for the first time. “Oh help.”

Made to impress at first sight, it was breathtaking.

The stunning “hotel particulier” (a free standing city estate house), was built in 1855 for Baroness de Pontalba and was sold to the Rothschild family upon her death in 1874. A cozy 60,000 square feet, during the Second World War the house was seized by the occupying Nazi army to serve as an officer’s club for Goering’s Luftwaffe. It was purchased by the American government in 1948.

I didn’t know at the time that I was gazing on an incredible example of French Second Empire architecture. My adjectives were more along the lines of huge, gray, and imposing.

Without conversation my escort and I traversed the massive cobblestone courtyard (cour d’honneur associated with these homes) and took the short set of stairs to the front door.

As I approached the door, it opened to reveal a rather tall, attractive young woman in her late 30’s. Her blonde hair was snatched back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a fancy white blouse and a long Breton style blue and white striped skirt. She greeted me with a welcoming smile and a warm handshake. I remember that she was surprised that I was not accompanied by Madame Constance, and I briefly explained why.

The grand foyer still had chairs set up for what had been a party the night before. The Academy Awards and the French equivalent Cesars had been the theme with Dustin Hoffman, Woody Allen, and other luminaries of the cinema in attendance. Workers were scurrying about removing chairs, decorations, and floral arrangements.

As we stood in the next hallway, I was introduced to a middle-aged couple who, as I recall, were better dressed than I or at least did not look as though they had run a 440 to get there. They were business and I was business very casual. The source of their connection to the Ambassador or the Clinton Administration was not revealed, but I had the feeling I was joining their tour which explained the late invitation.

Our hostess explained that she was a special assistant to the Ambassador who sent her regrets and had wanted to greet us personally. She was away on business but asked that we make ourselves at home.

We were shown the rez de chaussee (ground floor) which is used for entertaining. The ballroom, main dining room with a seating capacity of 120, glorious garden rooms overlooking the manicured gardens to the rear of the home, were just about all the eye could consume. And the art.

Ambassador Harriman was a collector of some renown as had been her late husband W. Averell Harriman, the former ambassador to the Soviet Union. Their personal collection included Roses by Vincent Van Gogh and Picasso’s Mother and Child which we saw along the way. Their priceless collection had been supplemented by offerings from the National Gallery of Art in Washington. When you are the American ambassador to France, art is an appropriate backdrop to the diplomatic dance.

After taking in the ground floor, we were offered the opportunity to mount the breathtaking grand staircase and tour the second floor where presidents, prime ministers, kings, and queens stay when visiting the embassy. Most of the massive doors were closed except for one.

Tagged the Lindberg Bedroom, it is the place where Charles Lindberg slept after he crossed the Atlantic Ocean in the Spirit of St. Louis in 1927. He was the guest of the Rothschilds that night and the bed that he slept in is still preserved in place. A life-size bust of Lindy sits atop one of the dressers. It’s origin, sculptor, age seems lost on the internet. You can stump Chat GPT.

Like Lindy, Ambassador Harriman had a fascinating biography filled with intrigue and controversy. Her first husband was Randolph Churchill, son of Winston Churchill, and her one and only son was named after his famous grandfather. Married three times, Pamela Harriman’s affairs in wartime London are too numerous to count. Her infamous quote about the Second World War has outlived her: “It was a terrible war, but if you were the right age, the right time and in the right place, it was spectacular.”

Her third husband Averell Harriman had died in 1987, leaving her a very wealthy woman.

After touring the second floor, we were led back downstairs to a large, beautiful salon and invited to have a seat and relax for some refreshments. One wall was dominated by a large Federal camelback sofa upholstered in a beautiful gold fabric. Above the sofa, our hostess pointed out Rendezvous in the Forest, a painting by French artist Henri Rousseau on loan from the National Gallery of Art in Washington.

After our guide bid us au revoir and the three of us settled into our seats, the doors to my left flew open and in marched three handsome Frenchmen in sparkling white jackets, each carrying a large silver tray. Beautiful croissants, petits fours, macarons, steaming coffee and tea were gracefully laid before us. Delicate embassy porcelain cups, saucers, and plates adorned with the Great Seal of the United States, were offered to each of us. As quickly as they had arrived, the wait staff disappeared, and we were again alone in this magnificent room.

As I sank into my chair and enjoyed the first sip of café americain, I was finally able to chat with my touring companions. Navigating a large, flaky croissant I asked them where they were from and found that they lived in Little Rock and that he was an attorney. Interesting.

As the food and conversation were coming to an end (we laughed about having the entire place to ourselves with no apparent schedule for our departure), I was handed a business card, and my eyes fell on the words Rose Law Firm.

My companion said with a smile, “Perhaps you’ve heard of us.”

Being a law partner with the First Lady should certainly get you a nice tour.

Postscript: Filled with a thousand images and fresh from an incredible experience from start to finish, I returned to the hotel to reunite with Hayden. She was displeased (to say the least) with the way the morning had unfolded. But I must say that both then and now 30 years later, she has been more gracious than I would have been.

I’d still be pouting.