Stories have abounded in the media in the past week about Gloria. I think she would say, “Enough already…start organizing!”

This is not one of those stories.

Back in late November 1979, my wife, Jeannette, and I were traveling to St. Maarten for a romantic long weekend. I pack a gourmet picnic for the trip, figuring that whatever airline we were flying on would have inedible food, if any. We arrive at JFK only to find the flight is delayed 2 hours (no internet texts announcing flight delays back then). Deciding that no time like the present, we sit on the floor of the departure gate and unpack our feast. Who should beeline across the crowded room but Gloria. “Hi Alex. Hi Jeannette.”  

“Hi Gloria,” I say feigning enthusiasm, knowing full well what is going to transpire.

“This is Stanley Pottinger,” she says introducing the man trailing behind her. “You going to St. Maarten? Where are you staying?”

We are all headed to the same hideaway resort hotel. Romance is in the air, and so is our picnic.

I see no way out of this one and invite them to join us. Gloria and Stan haven’t brought so much as a chicken sandwich between them. Gamely I offer to share our feast: caviar, blinis, crème fraiche and smoked salmon (we were still newlyweds). It was all gone before you could say, “Keep your belongings in sight at all times.” Let’s just say, Gloria was not watching her weight that afternoon. 

We separate at the hotel and are enjoying our romantic selves when on our final night after dinner in the hotel restaurant we encounter Gloria and Stan in the lobby. “We’re going into town to go dancing,” Gloria says. “Come join us.”

“Of course,” we say, and off we went in a taxi into the Caribbean night where Gloria found a nightclub that was open at the ungodly hour of 9pm with a DJ playing uninspiring fare while waiting for the hip late night revelers to appear. Unfazed, we had the floor to ourselves and danced and danced. That was Gloria – irrepressible, passionate, engaging, inspiring, fun. It was an honor to be alongside her on and off the dance floor.

P.S. Stan picked up the bill. We were even.