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Schmoozin’ and Boozin in DC: Spring Reception at the National Portrait Gallery

April 28, 2009 by Sarah Harman

Case Study #2: Spring Reception at the National Portrait Gallery

Most people have hobbies: tennis, bass guitar, fly-fishing, low-carb cooking. Mine is receptions. As a connoisseur of catered events, I pride myself on possessing a broad knowledge of the type and style of receptions that exist: wedding, charity benefit, black-tie galas etc. Event the most thinly -veiled corporate booze-fests will have some sort of official justification. (Employee Appreciation Day, National Alcoholism Awareness Month) So it’s probably a bad sign that, even now, a few days after this “Spring Reception at the National Portrait Gallery”, I’m still trying to piece together exactly what this function WAS.

My confusion stems in part from that I was not “actually” invited. However, a well connected BYT-er (Thanks, Christina) alerted me to the event and rsvp’d me as her plus one.  I arrived at the Portrait Gallery on Wednesday evening, armed with the knowledge that the host was something called Bertelsmann, which I thought was probably a bank. Or a hedge fund. Or a European grocery store chain. I didn’t care, really, as long as they had good booze and diplomats.The woman at the registration seemed to have more important things to worry about than whether or not my name was not technically on the list,  and as she pointed me toward coat check , I uncrossed my fingers and let out a sigh of relief.

I was in.

I crossed the threshold into the atrium of the gallery, a covered outdoor space complete with white sofas and glass tables. Well -dressed waiters circulated with plates of ravioli, balls of chevre and tiny towers of strawberry- tuna hor d’ oeuvres . Nice. Whatever this party was celebrating, it was clearly not poverty. I grabbed some cheese and milled about and waited for everyone to get drunk so the schmoozing could start.

After about 20 minutes someone got up and made a speech in a language I thought I recognized as Swedish. Interesting, I thought. This must be a Swedish function. Maybe Bertelsmann is some sort of Ikea competitor. Maybe they make their furniture out of the bones of fish, or something even more low- cost than that pressboard crap holding together my Lack table. Hmm…

The speech was long, so I grabbed another glass of wine to pass the time. Towards the end I realized that if I listened very closely, I could actually understand what was being said. “Omg,” I thought, “I can understand Swedish! An image of my future career in public diplomacy flashed before my eyes: being introduced to guests of the embassy as “the girl who taught herself to understand Swedish in 12 minutes.”

This wine must be magic, I thought. As I looked around for another glass, the girl next to me rolled her eyes and muttered, “Wow, that guy’s German accent is so strong, it actually sounds like another language.”

Damn it.

Disappointed that my career in public diplomacy had came to such an abrupt end, I consoled myself with a glass of champagne and another cheese ball. The imposter Swede wrapped up his remarks and a woman from Unicef took the stage. She spoke perfect English, and thus my linguistic ineptitude offered little refuge from her guilt-inducing speech about how most of the world lives on $2 a day. The audience of suits glanced at each other, their teeming champagne glasses, and eyed the floor awkwardly. I struggled to find the right facial expression, one that would convey genuine concern without belying the inherent ridiculousness of gulping booze in a posh art gallery an effort to combat global poverty.

Fortunately the talk didn’t last long. A bit tipsy and still not sure what the point of this reception was, I resorted to my favorite Eurocrat party game, entitled “may I give you my business card.” The point is to collect as many business cards as you can from strangers and then pass them off to other strangers as your own card. It’s best played with a partner, but with Kamilla back in Russia for the weekend and lone my embassy contact with a job and reputation to protect, I was on my own.

I had already snatched up the card of Hill-staffer from Wisconsin and was working on French law student when I got a better offer.

“Want to take a walk with me outside?” a tall, blurry stranger asked.

“Sure,” I said, filled with dread at the thought that my unrequested presence had been discovered and that my ejection from the party was eminent.

You can imagine my delight when “the walk” turned out to be nothing more than an invitation to make- out on the steps, which I accepted out of sheer relief. After a few seconds I mumbled some excuse and went back inside for another drink.

Back inside, the remainder of the evening proceeded in its normal boozy, blurry fashion, until at some point I woke up in my coat and shoes on the floor of my apartment and dragged myself into bed, content that although never managed to figure out the point of the event, I did drink my weight in free champagne.

Final Tally

Drinks: vague; between 5-17?

Glam factor: 2 (yay for chevre on a stick!)

Business cards: 1

Number of calls received the next day for “Julie”: 3

Returned calls: 0

Previously on Schmoozin’ and Boozin in DC…

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