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The lobby is packed with people. It’s prom season and dozens of couples have appeared to pose for photos together, even though the dance is being held elsewhere. Their dresses are brightly colored: sunny yellows, crisp greens, rich pinks and deep purples – embellished with crystalline drops or lacy embroidery. The bubbly nature of youth is contagious, and all are smiling. Suddenly, appearing at the entrance to grand applause, is a woman in the grandest gown of all: a bodice of pure white, encrusted with pearls, and billowing skirt clutched in one hand while her other hand grips a bouquet of white and purple irises. Rightfully so, a bride has stolen the show.

To my left, at one of the lobby tables just outside the lounge area, an elegantly beautiful woman in a black dress and pearls sits captivated by the parade of dresses. I catch her eye and we start conversing about the various styles, about the young men whose arms sport garters a la 1920s gangsters, and about our own reminiscences of proms 30 held years apart. We discover that we share a common love for ballroom dance, but before we can talk much more, a handsome gentleman appears and whisks her away for dinner elsewhere.

I move on, making my way through the crowd.

As I’m about to pass the bride, she reaches out and grabs my arm – “Hey! You’re Stacie, right?” She points towards the sign that bears my name and a photo, “You’re the narrator person?” Still a little thrown by this new approach to the position, I respond, “Yes” but don’t get any further than that before the bride says, “You know Lauren *****!?” The name sounds vaguely familiar, but it doesn’t register. My face is blank, so she repeats, “Lauren *****! She says she knows you – you guys worked at a camp or something?” and it clicks – ah, yes! I do know this person! Four years ago we worked at an all-girls summer camp together. I then become quite excited. The bride tugs me over to a group of young women in matching purple dresses and – sure enough – there she is, this wonderful person with whom I’d lost touch several years ago. We embrace. It turns out that she’s up from Indiana to be a bridesmaid in her cousin’s wedding and recognized my picture. We catch up briefly before she takes off for the reception – promises are made to keep in touch.

Not more than a few minutes have gone by when I run into someone I recognize from my other job working for a local bookstore. Eyes get bright, and the question “What are you doing here?” is answered by both parties. She’s here with her sisters for a belated Christmas gift from one sister to the others: a weekend at the Pfister complete with massages at WellSpa (“Incredible! It was so relaxing I almost fell asleep, but I didn’t because I wanted to enjoy it.”), dinner at Mason Street Grill, and drinks at Blu. We chat for a few minutes, connecting on a more personal level than we previously had in our other world of knowing one another.

Both of these re-connections then remind me of earlier in the week when, in Racine for a sporting team practice, I discovered one of my teammates had been the person who won the Pfister diamond necklace, given away by the hotel, earlier in the year. Throw in the fact that an artist friend I had lunch with this same day happens to know Shelby Keefe well – and it was as if the fates were simply waiting around the Pfister, intent on placing people directly into my path.

Rainy Milwaukee Night

Rainy Wisconsin Ave

A little later into the evening, while eying up the miserable November-like weather outside, I practically run right into the couple I met earlier while watching the crowd of prom-goers. We pick up talking as though we’d all three gone to dinner together, then make our way up to Blu for a cocktail or two. Anybody watching would have thought we’d known each other for years. As it happens, the Pfister “Pfates” aren’t simply trying to re-connect me, they’re trying to simply connect me. After making new friends this evening, I can’t wait to see who gets put in my path next.

YOUR TURN: What connections or re-connections have you made at the Pfister?

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